“Certo! Everything is better when you start from scratch. Si? Mi dispiace, but I forget sometimes. Mio marito—I mean, my husband—and I spoke Italian most of the time.” She sighed.
I ventured into uncharted territory. “You must miss him.”
Her eyes moistened. “You can’t imagine if you’ve never been married. At first I resented him, but I grew to love and depend on him over the years.”
“I’m sorry for your loss.” Although heartbroken myself, I couldn’t relate to her depth of sorrow.
That night I tossed in a sea of uncertainty, dreaming and wishing Jake would return. Knowing he shouldn’t. Hoping to hear Heath’s barking to be let in the main house. But nothing.
When would God answer my prayers? I’d prayed Jake wouldn’t be incarcerated, and he hadn’t been. I’d prayed his father wouldn’t die, and so far, so good—although I dreaded seeing the semicomatose man. But my prayers for a happily-ever-after life floated out of my grasp like bubbles in the millpond where I played as a child.
The next morning I dragged myself to the café to find Beatrice already preparing the soup and singing along to what must be an Italian aria on the radio. “O mio babbino caro …”
“Good morning,” I said as I entered the kitchen. “You have a beautiful voice.”
“You’re too kind. I don’t do Puccini justice.” She turned off the radio. “The greatest composers were Italian.” It occurred to me that her favorite music was the opposite of what we sang in church services. Fortunately, singings allowed voices to frolic up and down the octaves. I wondered if I could still sing as I did in school.
“A fine good morning to you, Eva. Or buon giorno, as they say in Italy.”
I didn’t resent her cheerfulness one bit. In fact, I was grateful she’d already warmed the chicken broth and chopped the vegetables, and was sautéing them in olive oil. Heavy on the garlic.
I peered around Beatrice and noticed a can of kidney beans. “Where did you learn to cook so well?” I asked.
“From mia nona—my grandmother.” She turned to me and grinned, catching me off guard. “But maybe I’ll write this down for you to put in your recipe book.”
“I don’t have one.”
“Not even copies of your mama’s favorite recipes?”
“No.”
“Then I’ll get you started. You’ll need a cookbook and your favorites when you marry a good man. Not that Jake fellow.”
“He’s not so bad.”
“No? Then why did he up and leave his family?”
“But he’s back now.”
“For how long? I must get over to his parents’ house to see Amos and Ruth after Mass tomorrow. I’ll ask Stephen to drive me.”
I couldn’t imagine a more awkward situation than arriving at the Millers’ the same time Beatrice and Stephen did.
“You’d better make the coffee, Eva. You know how dark I like mine. The customers wouldn’t like it.”
“Yours was gut at dinner, but yah, okay.” I started the coffee brewing—enough to fill the carafe and then some. I’d need all the caffeine I could get to perk myself up.
Sadie arrived in time to hear me say, “The whole dinner was appeditlich. Absolutely delicious.”
“And the company? You’re a fool if you don’t snap up Mark before he loses interest. Although some men want what they can’t have.”
“Hello, Sadie.” I heightened my volume to alter the trajectory of the conversation. Poor girl.
She produced a meager smile. “Hi, Evie and Beatrice.” She inhaled. “It smells great in here.”
“All Beatrice’s doing.”
Stephen sauntered in from the front door minutes later. “I wanted to let you know I’ll be out for a while. Wayne called to say there’s a dog running loose. He told me animal control is on the lookout. I may stop by that sheep farmer’s again. Wayne said his name is Bill Hastings.”
“Do you want me to go with you?” I asked.
“What? Who’s going to run the café?” Beatrice clucked. “I think Stephen can handle this.”
“You’re right.” But I worried about another altercation with the sheep farmer. “Maybe you should ride with Wayne,” I told him.
His brows lowered, hooding his eyes. “Glenn called and said he’ll come home early if Heath isn’t found within the next twenty-four hours. But he doesn’t want to leave his wife and baby. Not with his father-in-law so sick.”
“What’s wrong with him?”
“It’s his heart. Surgery is scheduled for Monday.”
TWENTY
A melancholy Saturday followed despite our many customers raving about the minestrone soup. Beatrice was delighted but took no credit.
Stephen finally returned. “False alarm.” His shoulders slumped. “The dog running loose was a poodle mix. Fortunately, its owner caught up with it just as I got there. I helped her get the dog into her car.”
“The poor woman must have been scared sick.” Beatrice patted his back. “That was very kind of you.”
He shrugged off her compliment. “So now we wait. I have a bad feeling about this.”
He turned to me. “Be sure to lock the doors tonight.”
“I have been.”
“Well, fine, but give them one final tug to make sure.”
He held me responsible for the break-in? I wanted to defend myself, but I clamped my lips together.
When I left for the day, I double-checked the back door and secured the front.
That night I heard an owl’s hooting and the rustling of the tree branches in the breeze. And a branch snap. Jake had returned? I slipped into my coat, covered my head, grabbed my flashlight, and went out to investigate.
“Jake?” I whispered. No reply. The air was still, and the sky as black as a never-ending tunnel.
I considered rapping on the big house’s back door to ask Beatrice for help, but she was most likely asleep. I imagined her coming to the door in her bathrobe and shaking her head at my cowardly reaction. Too many times I had succumbed to my fears, but not anymore. I’d prove to everyone, including myself, that I was brave.
Almost at the café, I saw a swoop of light in the interior through one glass wall. I tried the front door
