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Seven
Jenna was still thinkingabout Farrell’s question as she trailed Angel through the market. It was crowded with people preparing for the upcoming holiday, the air of celebration palpable, the scent of oranges and spice heavy as they made their way from stall tostall.
The market was a food lover’s nirvana, the stalls set up in an old building near Circus Maximus, arched factory windows letting in blue light from the overcast Romeday.
Angel had told her on the ride in from the compound that the market had a Kilometer-Zero policy, which meant that everything was as local as possible, recently trucked in from the surrounding fields, sometimes harvested that verymorning.
Letting her eyes travel over the displays, Jenna believed it. There were rosy apples and turnips still attached to their tops, crimson tomatoes and slender stalks ofasparagus.
The meats were freshly cured, whole pigs laid out on butcher blocks, carved in front of their eyes. Jenna couldn’t help admiring the old-world techniques of the butchers, many of whom advertised a family business of a hundred years or more, even as her stomach turned, her morning sickness protesting theimage.
While Angel waited for thick slabs of bacon and newly plucked chickens from local farms, Jenna moved on to the tins of freshly ground cinnamon and nutmeg, basil dried from the leaves of the trees that grew all around thecity.
We’re happy, aren’twe?
Why had Farrell asked the question? She had been laying in his arms, still flush with their lovemaking, and on the verge of telling him about her pregnancy when he’dspoken.
All at once, her insecurity had come rushingback.
Why would he ask unless he wasn’t sure? Was it his way of expressing dissatisfaction with their life together? Was it as she’d feared — that he’d grown bored with domestic life? That loving Jenna and Lily wasn’t enough for him afterall?
“These look lovely,” Angel said, looking over the spices as she rejoined Jenna. She carried a market bag, the meat safely out of sight and wrapped in butcher paper next to the produce she’d added along theway.
“Don’t they, though?” Jenna lifted her hand to the man behind the table as he finished with a customer. “Uno canella e noce moscata, per favore. E ribes e uva passa.” That took care of cinnamon and nutmeg, currants, and raisins. She looked over the display, her eyes lighting on dried cherries in a tin, searching for the word she needed to denote “candied”. “E canditociliegie.”
She couldn’t help feeling satisfied. Lily would be so proud of herItalian.
“Nicely done,” Angel said as the man set to work wrapping thepurchase.
“Grazie.” Jenna bowed and laughed. “I’m fairly hopeless at Italian, but I keeptrying.”
“I think you’re doing wonderfully,” Angelsaid.
The man set her purchase on the table between them. “Eccoti qui,signora.”
She handed over enough euros to cover everything, then picked up the bag. “Grazie,senore.”
She and Angel continued down the row of stalls, scanning for anything else they mightneed.
Angel had navigated the market easily, indicating that she was a frequent customer. Judging from her overflowing bag, they were either about finished or they were going to have to make a trip to the car waiting for them outside to drop off the purchases they’d made sofar.
Jenna was thinking about her mother’s Christmas Cake recipe, hoping she remembered it, when Angel slipped her arm inJenna’s.
“So,” she said conspiratorially, “does anyone know, or is it only Farrell who’s in thedark?”
Jenna looked over at her. “What do youmean?”
But Jennaknew.
“About the baby,” Angel said. “Does anyoneknow?”
Jenna smiled and shook her head. “What makes you think I’mpregnant?”
“Well, that smile confirms it, for one,” Angel laughed. “But I know the signs — sipping little bits of coffee, the wine.” She eyed Jenna’s chest. “Not to mention that you’re looking pretty stacked thesedays.”
Jenna covered her face with her free hand. “Oh, my god, Angel! You’reimpossible!”
“We’re friends,” she said. “Aren’t I supposed to notice thesethings?”
