Beatrice’s neighborhood. Located in an older section of the island called
Palmetto Place, I quickly pinpointed the midsized stuccoed dwelling that looked like it might have been transplanted from Tuscany. The house was the only one on
the street painted the same pink color as the restaurant,
with Mediterranean arches across the front facade. The
mailbox also had the name SANTINI printed in large
letters.
I wasn’t an investigative reporter for nothing.
After parking Rusty, I made for the front door. But I
didn’t even have a chance to knock before Beatrice appeared and let me in. As I entered, I noted that the large
living room had a very similar decor to the restaurant:
murals with Italian scenes, dark leather furniture, and several wine racks. The same aroma of bread and olive
oil even wafted in from the kitchen off to the left.
My mouth watered. It was way past lunchtime.
Beatrice quietly shut the door behind me and offered
to take my coat. As I gave it to her, I noted her face appeared blotchy from crying.
“How are you doing?” I asked, instantly feeling guilty
that food was uppermost on my mind from the moment
I stepped inside the house.
“I’m okay, I guess.” Her eyes welled up, and she
brushed away the tears with the back of her hand. “My
older brother is driving down from Jacksonville, so he’s
going to help with the funeral arrangements. I still can’t
believe what happened at the restaurant yesterday. Dad
was standing there cooking one moment and then choking to death the next-” She broke off, a fresh wave of
tears gushing down her cheeks. “It’s just a nightmare,
especially after losing Uncle C-Carlos two days ago.”
“I’m so sorry.” I gave her a brief hug. Her thin shoulders felt so delicate, as if they could snap under the weight
of her grief.
“The paramedics did everything they could, didn’t
they?”
“Yes, they did,” I assured her.
“It … must’ve been fate.” She glanced at a giltframed religious picture on the wall and crossed herself,
murmuring something under her breath. “Uncle Carlos
always said, `Que sera, sera’ What will be, will be. And I guess he was right.” She sniffed and shoved her hair
back with a resolute hand.
“Guess so.”
“Would you like a cup of coffee?” At my eager nod,
she motioned me to follow her into the kitchen, which
turned out to be a chef’s delight: granite countertops,
stainless steel double ovens, and a massive glass-fronted
refrigerator.
“Amazing.” A far cry from my Airstream’s minuscule
cooking area. “This is an incredible space.”
“Dad designed it. He wanted the kitchen to look like
the one in the house where he grew up in Tuscany.” Her
voice sounded wistful. “When I was a little girl, I would
stand on a chair while I learned to make homemade pasta
with Mom, Dad, and Uncle Carlos. They were all good
friends then.”
“What happened?”
She paused, coffee scoop in hand. “I don’t know. When
I was about ten, I came home early from school one day
and heard Dad yelling in Italian to Uncle Carlos. I couldn’t
understand what he was saying. But after that, my uncle
didn’t hang out with us anymore. My mother never told
me what they’d argued about, but I sensed that she knew.”
“Your mother was Delores Santini?”
“Uh-huh.” Beatrice clicked on the BREW button and
then faced me, her delicate features shadowed by even
more sadness. “She kept her married name, even though
she and my dad divorced years ago.”
“And she moved to town after the divorce?”
Her eyes widened in surprise. “Where did you hear
that?”
“My landlady at the Twin Palms is Wanda Sue.”
“‘Nuff said.” A ghost of a smile raised the corners of
Beatrice’s mouth. “She was BFFs with my mother; they’d
meet at Uncle Carlos’ ice cream store for a banana split
every Sunday-even after Mom moved to town.”
“Interesting.” Odd that Wanda Sue had omitted
Palmetto Place, I quickly pinpointed the midsized stuccoed dwelling that looked like it might have been transplanted from Tuscany. The house was the only one on
the street painted the same pink color as the restaurant,
with Mediterranean arches across the front facade. The
mailbox also had the name SANTINI printed in large
letters.
I wasn’t an investigative reporter for nothing.
After parking Rusty, I made for the front door. But I
didn’t even have a chance to knock before Beatrice appeared and let me in. As I entered, I noted that the large
living room had a very similar decor to the restaurant:
murals with Italian scenes, dark leather furniture, and several wine racks. The same aroma of bread and olive
oil even wafted in from the kitchen off to the left.
My mouth watered. It was way past lunchtime.
Beatrice quietly shut the door behind me and offered
to take my coat. As I gave it to her, I noted her face appeared blotchy from crying.
“How are you doing?” I asked, instantly feeling guilty
that food was uppermost on my mind from the moment
I stepped inside the house.
“I’m okay, I guess.” Her eyes welled up, and she
brushed away the tears with the back of her hand. “My
older brother is driving down from Jacksonville, so he’s
going to help with the funeral arrangements. I still can’t
believe what happened at the restaurant yesterday. Dad
was standing there cooking one moment and then choking to death the next-” She broke off, a fresh wave of
tears gushing down her cheeks. “It’s just a nightmare,
especially after losing Uncle C-Carlos two days ago.”
“I’m so sorry.” I gave her a brief hug. Her thin shoulders felt so delicate, as if they could snap under the weight
of her grief.
“The paramedics did everything they could, didn’t
they?”
“Yes, they did,” I assured her.
“It … must’ve been fate.” She glanced at a giltframed religious picture on the wall and crossed herself,
murmuring something under her breath. “Uncle Carlos
always said, `Que sera, sera’ What will be, will be. And I guess he was right.” She sniffed and shoved her hair
back with a resolute hand.
“Guess so.”
“Would you like a cup of coffee?” At my eager nod,
she motioned me to follow her into the kitchen, which
turned out to be a chef’s delight: granite countertops,
stainless steel double ovens, and a massive glass-fronted
refrigerator.
“Amazing.” A far cry from my Airstream’s minuscule
cooking area. “This is an incredible space.”
“Dad designed it. He wanted the kitchen to look like
the one in the house where he grew up in Tuscany.” Her
voice sounded wistful. “When I was a little girl, I would
stand on a chair while I learned to make homemade pasta
with Mom, Dad, and Uncle Carlos. They were all good
friends then.”
“What happened?”
She paused, coffee scoop in hand. “I don’t know. When
I was about ten, I came home early from school one day
and heard Dad yelling in Italian to Uncle Carlos. I couldn’t
understand what he was saying. But after that, my uncle
didn’t hang out with us anymore. My mother never told
me what they’d argued about, but I sensed that she knew.”
“Your mother was Delores Santini?”
“Uh-huh.” Beatrice clicked on the BREW button and
then faced me, her delicate features shadowed by even
more sadness. “She kept her married name, even though
she and my dad divorced years ago.”
“And she moved to town after the divorce?”
Her eyes widened in surprise. “Where did you hear
that?”
“My landlady at the Twin Palms is Wanda Sue.”
“‘Nuff said.” A ghost of a smile raised the corners of
Beatrice’s mouth. “She was BFFs with my mother; they’d
meet at Uncle Carlos’ ice cream store for a banana split
every Sunday-even after Mom moved to town.”
“Interesting.” Odd that Wanda Sue had omitted
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