“The sauce. You can stir the marinara sauce. Aprons are in that bottom drawer. I wouldn’t want you to stain your pretty blouse.”
Relieved to finally have a task, however mindless, Maura tied on an apron embroidered with Cucina Angela and gave the marinara a stir.
“You know, I really was hoping he’d come tonight,” said Angela. “Your friend.”
Friend. A euphemism for the man who shared Maura’s bed.
“Daniel wanted to,” said Maura. “But there was a death and he needed to be with their family tonight.”
“I guess it comes with his job, doesn’t it? You never know when people will need you.”
His job. Another euphemism, another way of talking around the uncomfortable reality of Daniel’s calling. Maura said nothing as she stirred the marinara.
“Life is complicated, isn’t it?” Angela said. “All the twists and turns. You never know who you’re going to fall in love with.”
Maura kept stirring the sauce, the steam bathing her face.
“I was raised a good Catholic girl. Look at me now,” said Angela. “I’m about to get a divorce. I’m shacked up with my boyfriend.” She sighed. “I just want to say I understand, Maura. I understand completely.”
At last Maura turned to face her. They had never spoken about her and Daniel, and this conversation among all the simmering pots took her by surprise. Angela’s face was flushed from the hot kitchen and the steam had frizzed her hair, but her gaze was direct and steady. And kind.
“We love who we love,” said Maura.
“Ain’t that the truth? Now let me refill your glass of wine.”
“Ma?” a voice yelled from the front door. “We’re all here!”
Footsteps pattered into the house and four-year-old Regina came charging into the kitchen. “Nonna!” she shrieked and threw herself into Angela’s arms.
“Hey, hey, hey!” called out Barry Frost as he walked into the kitchen, carrying a six-pack of beer. “Looks like this is where the action is!”
Everyone invaded the tiny kitchen. Gabriel walked in carrying two bottles of wine. Frost’s wife, Alice, brought in a bouquet of roses and wasted no time rummaging under the sink for a vase. That was classic Alice, getting straight to business. The kitchen was now so crowded there was scarcely room for Angela to work, but she looked delighted by the chaos. She had raised three children in this house, cooked thousands of meals in this kitchen, and she beamed as wine corks popped and steam curled up from the pots on the stove.
“Wow, Mrs. R,” said Frost. “You’ve cooked up a feast!”
And a feast it certainly was: salads and pasta, roast lamb and garlicky green beans. When all the dishes were on the table and they’d settled into chairs, Angela regarded her guests with a weary but happy smile.
“Oh my, but I’ve missed doing this,” she said.
“What, Ma?” said Jane. “Slaving all day in the kitchen?”
“Having my family here.”
Though they were not really family, thought Maura, tonight it felt like they were. She looked around the table at people she’d known for years, people who knew about her imperfections and her sometimes unfortunate choices, yet accepted her anyway. In all the ways that mattered, they were her family.
Well, all but one of them.
“I hear you’re a featured soloist,” said Alice Frost as she passed the salad to Maura. “Barry and I are looking forward to the concert.”
“You’re coming?”
“Oh yes. Didn’t he tell you how much I love classical music?”
“I hope he also told you we’re a strictly amateur orchestra, so I hope you’re not expecting Carnegie Hall. We’re just doctors who love playing music together.”
“Don’t you find those two skills reinforce each other? Higher education and musical ability? I believe it’s all about enhancing brain development. When I was in law school, we had our own orchestra. I played the flute. We were amateurs, but we were pretty darn good.”
The bowl of pasta, cloaked in marinara sauce, moved around the table. As the bowl reached Alice, she frowned and slid it straight to Maura. The snub wasn’t missed by Angela, whose lip twitched in irritation. Maura deliberately served herself a generous swirl of pasta.
“This meal is perfect, Mrs. Rizzoli,” said Frost.
“I do appreciate a guest with a hearty appetite, Barry,” Angela said, casting a not-so-subtle side-eye at Alice, who was fussily picking out the croutons, as if they were bugs infesting her salad.