could come check on Aunt Rosie. I was in Louisiana for work and about to head back to L.A., so I drove down here first thing this morning and took over so she could go home.” Corinne shrugs and sighs.
I wince. “Is she taking Wally’s death hard?”
“Yes and no,” she responds. “Do you want coffee?”
“Ah, sure. Large vanilla latte, please.”
“Of course.” She picks a coffee cup up. “I don’t think his death has sunk in yet. She was pretty much working on, like, autopilot when I showed up. I basically forced her home and she didn’t even fight me.”
Wow. That isn’t like Rosie at all. The woman will be delivering baked goods to her own funeral, I’m pretty sure.
“I’m so sorry,” I say. “I’ll stop by and see her later on or tomorrow if she’s feeling up to seeing anyone.”
“I’m sure she’d love it. Mom is flying in tomorrow night to be here for her, but until then, it’s just me.” Corinne puts the coffee cup in front of me. “Is that everything?”
“Can I have two slices of cherry pie, please? In separate containers?”
“Sure.” She pulls the pie out and cuts it, the look on her face screaming, Carbs! The devils! Carbs! Take them away! while I’m pretty sure my expression is a love note to the very things she looks scared of.
I love carbs. Carbs are life. Mmm, carbs.
When the containers are in front of me, I swipe my card on the machine and reiterate my intentions to stop by and see Rosie. Then, halfway out the door, something occurs to me.
“Hey, Corinne?” I turn back to her.
“Yep?”
“This might sound strange and insensitive, but why is Rosie so upset about Wally? I know they had a thing once, but that was, like, fifteen years ago, right?”
“Right—their first fling. Then she got married, but after Uncle Ste died, she rebounded on Wally. They’ve been on and off pretty much ever since, but from what my mom told me when she called, they were very much on until, well, he was killed.”
Interesting. “Thanks. I just wondered.”
“No worries. I’ll let her know you’re going to visit with her.”
I don’t respond, instead continuing my journey outside and back to my car a couple of feet down the street. So Rosie and Wally were in a relationship that ended only when his life did… But he was also seeing Gianna.
That doesn’t exactly help Gianna out in the motive stakes, does it?
Shit.
“Nonna, you cannot just take over my kitchen like this.”
“Why-a not-a? I have-a a key!”
“In case of emergencies!” I slap my hand against my forehead. “Not to cook because you and Mom had another fight.”
“Pah!” She bangs her fist into the middle of the doughy ball in the center of my kitchen table. “She-a always fight-a with-a me!”
“I’m sure it’s all her fault.” I roll my eyes and move toward the fridge, dumping my purse on the counter to avoid Nonna’s flour, which is currently giving my dining set a makeover. “Why would it be your fault?”
“You-a just-a like-a her!”
“Oh, please. You’re insane.” I pull the wine bottle out. “But that doesn’t excuse you. You can’t just barge into my house and take over my kitchen.”
“I will-a clean-a up.” She furiously kneads the dough. “You won’t-a know-a I was-a here.”
“If only the mental scars could be cleared,” I say under my breath. I should just skip the wine glass and go straight from the bottle. Clearly that’s the flavor of the—actually, wait.
I put the bottle back into the rack and reach to the top of the back shelf. My hand connects with cardboard, and aha.
Boxed wine. How classy, stressed ladies get drunk.
“You-a drink-a too much.” Nonna tuts, dumps the dough into a large mixing bowl, then covers it with plastic wrap.
“You talk too much.” I put the box back in the fridge and grab the cold, full glass of wine. “And that’s why I drink too much.”
She rolls her dark eyes and pushes a wisp of hair from her eyes, smearing
I wince. “Is she taking Wally’s death hard?”
“Yes and no,” she responds. “Do you want coffee?”
“Ah, sure. Large vanilla latte, please.”
“Of course.” She picks a coffee cup up. “I don’t think his death has sunk in yet. She was pretty much working on, like, autopilot when I showed up. I basically forced her home and she didn’t even fight me.”
Wow. That isn’t like Rosie at all. The woman will be delivering baked goods to her own funeral, I’m pretty sure.
“I’m so sorry,” I say. “I’ll stop by and see her later on or tomorrow if she’s feeling up to seeing anyone.”
“I’m sure she’d love it. Mom is flying in tomorrow night to be here for her, but until then, it’s just me.” Corinne puts the coffee cup in front of me. “Is that everything?”
“Can I have two slices of cherry pie, please? In separate containers?”
“Sure.” She pulls the pie out and cuts it, the look on her face screaming, Carbs! The devils! Carbs! Take them away! while I’m pretty sure my expression is a love note to the very things she looks scared of.
I love carbs. Carbs are life. Mmm, carbs.
When the containers are in front of me, I swipe my card on the machine and reiterate my intentions to stop by and see Rosie. Then, halfway out the door, something occurs to me.
“Hey, Corinne?” I turn back to her.
“Yep?”
“This might sound strange and insensitive, but why is Rosie so upset about Wally? I know they had a thing once, but that was, like, fifteen years ago, right?”
“Right—their first fling. Then she got married, but after Uncle Ste died, she rebounded on Wally. They’ve been on and off pretty much ever since, but from what my mom told me when she called, they were very much on until, well, he was killed.”
Interesting. “Thanks. I just wondered.”
“No worries. I’ll let her know you’re going to visit with her.”
I don’t respond, instead continuing my journey outside and back to my car a couple of feet down the street. So Rosie and Wally were in a relationship that ended only when his life did… But he was also seeing Gianna.
That doesn’t exactly help Gianna out in the motive stakes, does it?
Shit.
“Nonna, you cannot just take over my kitchen like this.”
“Why-a not-a? I have-a a key!”
“In case of emergencies!” I slap my hand against my forehead. “Not to cook because you and Mom had another fight.”
“Pah!” She bangs her fist into the middle of the doughy ball in the center of my kitchen table. “She-a always fight-a with-a me!”
“I’m sure it’s all her fault.” I roll my eyes and move toward the fridge, dumping my purse on the counter to avoid Nonna’s flour, which is currently giving my dining set a makeover. “Why would it be your fault?”
“You-a just-a like-a her!”
“Oh, please. You’re insane.” I pull the wine bottle out. “But that doesn’t excuse you. You can’t just barge into my house and take over my kitchen.”
“I will-a clean-a up.” She furiously kneads the dough. “You won’t-a know-a I was-a here.”
“If only the mental scars could be cleared,” I say under my breath. I should just skip the wine glass and go straight from the bottle. Clearly that’s the flavor of the—actually, wait.
I put the bottle back into the rack and reach to the top of the back shelf. My hand connects with cardboard, and aha.
Boxed wine. How classy, stressed ladies get drunk.
“You-a drink-a too much.” Nonna tuts, dumps the dough into a large mixing bowl, then covers it with plastic wrap.
“You talk too much.” I put the box back in the fridge and grab the cold, full glass of wine. “And that’s why I drink too much.”
She rolls her dark eyes and pushes a wisp of hair from her eyes, smearing
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