Romano's Revenge. Sandra Marton
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detergent into the sink and turned on the hot water.
“The poor soul only came here five, six months ago. She knows nothing of our ways. As for money, well, you know how expensive it is in this city, Joseph, especially for someone new. And she is not young, which makes it even more difficult to start over.”
Joe sank down in the chair, turned his eyes to the ceiling and huffed out a breath. A little old immigrant lady, probably with no more than a dozen words of English, alone and adrift in the complex seas of San Francisco…
“Not to worry, Joseph.” Nonna cast a sad smile over her shoulder. “I’ll tell her I made a mistake, offering her a job with you. I’m sure she can convince her landlord to permit her to stay on in her apartment another month. Not even he would be so cruel as to put her out on the street.”
“Her landlord,” Joe muttered, and shook his head.
“Yes. He wants her out by Monday, so she was thrilled when I said she could have that extra room in your house.”
Joe blinked. “Now wait just a minute—”
“Hand me that pot, would you? The one on the back burner.”
Slowly, like a man holding an impossibly heavy weight on his shoulders, Joe got to his feet, handed his grandmother the pot and reached for a dish towel.
“Ah, Joseph, just look at you.” Nonna put her hand on his. “I’ve taken the smile from your handsome face.”
“Yeah,” he said gruffly. “Well, I hate to think of some little old lady out on the street.”
“That’s because you have a kind heart.” Nonna sighed. “But, truly, this is not your problem. I was wrong to tell the signorina you would employ her, I know that now. Not to worry, bambino. We have so many wonderful things here in America. Soup kitchens. Welfare offices—”
“I suppose I could let her work for me for a little while,” Joe said slowly.
He’d expected his grandmother to say it wasn’t necessary, to argue just a little. Instead she swung towards him, beaming.
“You are a good boy, Joseph! I knew you would do this for her.”
“I’m doing it for you. And I won’t do it for long.”
“No. Certainly not.” Nonna’s smile broadened. “Two months, three—”
“Two weeks,” Joe corrected. “Three, max. By then, I’ll expect the signora to have found herself a real job and a real place to live.”
“Signorina.” Nonna made a face. “Not that it matters,” she said, plunging her hands into the soapy water. “The poor woman.”
“What?” Joe frowned. “Is there something else I should know about her?”
“Honesty compels me to point out that the signorina is not at all attractive.”
Joe thought back to the widow and that eyebrow.
“No?”
“No. The signorina is very pale. And very thin. She is shapeless, like a boy.” Nonna made curving motions over her own ample bosom. “She has no—no—”
“I get the message,” Joe said quickly. He arched an eyebrow. “You sure she’s Italian?”
Nonna chuckled. “Of course. She learned to cook in Fiorenze.” Her smile dimmed and she heaved a huge sigh as she opened the drain, then wiped her hands on her apron. “She is, how do you say, over the hill. Not young, Joseph. Not young.”
A pasty-faced, skinny crone who spoke no English. Talk about good deeds…Joe sighed. People had told him he was born to be hung, but at this rate he’d end up in heaven, after all.
“Well,” he said kindly, “as long as she can cook, that’s okay.”
Nonna turned and faced him. “And, just in case you are still worried, I can assure you that she will not bother you with her attentions. This, I promise.”
And a good thing, too, Joe thought. The last thing he needed was to find himself fending off an old lady.
“I know how the women fall all over you, Joey.”
“Uh, yeah.” He tried for a modest smile. “Some of them seem to, I guess.”
“But the signorina will not do so.”
“Yeah, well, considering her age…”
“She does not like men.”
“Fine.”
“No, Joseph. What I mean is…” His grandmother leaned closer. “She does not like men.”
The words dripped with significance. Joe stared at her.
“You mean…?” No. He couldn’t say the word, not to his nonna. “You mean,” he finished inanely, “she really doesn’t like men?”
“Exactly.” Nonna put her hands on her hips. “You see? It’s perfect. She will never be a bother to you, nor you to her. And I can go to my grave in peace, knowing you are eating properly.”
Joseph’s eyes narrowed. “You’re not going anywhere, you old reprobate. Not for a very long time.”
“I am not whatever it is you call me,” Nonna said sweetly. “I am simply a doting grandmother, giving her favorite grandson a gift.”
“Some gift,” Joe said, but he smiled, tossed the towel aside and put his arms around her waist. “You’re precisely what I called you, which is why I’d never play poker with you, or sit across from you at a boardroom table.”
“Flatterer.” Nonna batted her lashes and smiled up at him. “You’re much too clever for an old lady like me.”
“Yeah,” Joe said, and grinned, “I’ll bet.”
“Now,” Nonna said briskly, “how about more espresso?”
Joe shook his head. “I wish I could, sweetheart, but I’m going to have to run.”
“So soon?”
“I have an appointment. One of the guys I play racquetball with is…” Getting married, he’d almost said, but the last thing he wanted to do was bring up that subject again. “He’s having a party at his place on Nob Hill. I promised I’d be there.”
“Ah.” Nonna smiled, framed Joe’s face in her hands, drew it down to her and kissed him on each cheek. “How nice. Would you like to take along some food? I can put a little of everything into some Tupperware…”
“No,” Joe said quickly, “uh, really, it would just upset the, uh, the caterer.”
“Oh. Of course. I didn’t think of that.” Nonna stuffed her hands into her apron pockets. “Well, you have a good time, Joey.”
“I’ll try.” Joe reached for his suit jacket. He put his arm around his grandmother and they walked together to the door. “I love you, Nonna.”
“And I love you.” Nonna lifted her face for his kiss. “Remember now. Your new cook will be at your door tomorrow morning, bright and early.”
“Oh. Oh, yeah.” For a minute there he’d almost forgotten that he’d agreed to this crazy plan. Well, it wouldn’t kill him to let the woman cook a few meals for him before he found her another job. The city had to be full of people who’d want the services of a talented Italian cook, even if she was old, ugly, and a lesbian. “I’m looking forward to meeting her. What was her name again?”
“Luciana. Luciana Bari.”
“Right. Luciana Bari, formerly of Florence, Italy.” He grinned as he stepped onto the porch. “She sounds perfect.”
“She is perfect,” Nonna Romano said,