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She climbed the few steps to the front door and paused. A menu was posted behind glass on the wall. Spaghetti with meatballs was $7. 95. A lasagna dinner, including bread and salad, was $6. 95.
No wonder they were losing money.
Prices
Menu
She opened the door. A bell tinkled overhead. The pungent aromas of garlic, thyme, simmering tomatoes, and baking bread filled the air.
She was drawn back in time. Not a thing had changed in twenty years. The dimly lit room, the round tables draped in red-and-white-checked fabric, the pictures of Italy on the wall. She expected to see Papa come around the corner, grinning, wiping his hands on his apron, saying, Bella Angelina, youre home.
"Well. Well. Youre really here. I was afraid youd fallen down the cabin stairs and couldnt get up. "
Angie blinked and wiped her eyes.
Livvy stood by the hostess table, wearing a pair of tight black jeans, a black off-the-shoulder blouse, and Barbie mules. Tension came off Livvy in waves. It was as if they were kids again, teenagers fighting over who got to use the Baby Soft spray first.
"I came to help," Angie said.
"Unfortunately, you cant cook and you havent worked at the restaurant since you got your braces off. No. Wait. You never worked here. "
"I dont want us to fight, Livvy. "
Livvy sighed. "I know. I dont mean to be a bitch. Im just tired of all the crap. This place is bleeding money and all Mama does is make more pans of lasagna. Mira bitches at me but when I ask for help, she says she doesnt understand business, only cooking. And who does finally offer a hand? You. Daddys princess. I dont know whether to laugh or cry. " She pulled a lighter out of her pocket and lit a cigarette.
"You arent going to smoke in here, are you?"
Livvy paused. "You sound like Papa. " She dropped the cigarette into a half full glass of water. "Im going outside for a smoke. You tell me when youve figured out how to save the day. "
Angie watched her sister leave, then she headed into the kitchen where Mama was busy layering lasagna into big metal baking pans. Mira was right next to her, arranging meatballs on a metal tray that was only slightly smaller than a twin bed. At Angies entrance, Mira looked up and smiled. "Hey there. "
"Angie!" Mama wiped her cheek, leaving a red tomato trail behind. Sweat beaded her brow. "Are you ready to learn how to cook?"
"Ill hardly save the restaurant by cooking, Mama. Im making notes. "
Mamas smile fell a fraction. She shot a worried look at Mira, who merely shrugged. "Notes?"
"On things I think might improve the business. "
"And youre starting in my kitchen? Your Papa--God rest his soul--loved--"
"Relax, Mama. Im just checking things out. "
"Mrs. Martin says youve read every restaurant reference book in the library," Mira said.
"Remind me not to rent any X-rated movies in this town," Angie said, smiling.
Mama snorted. "People watch out for each other here, Angela. Thats a good thing. "
"Dont get started, Mama. I was joking. "
"I should hope so. " Mama pushed her heavy glasses higher on her nose and peered at Angie through owl-sized brown eyes. "If you want to help, learn to cook. "
"Papa couldnt cook. "
Mama blinked, sniffed, then went back to layering the ricotta-parsley mixture over noodles.
Mira and Angie exchanged a look.
