Francesca's Kitchen Page 9

  “This is all your fault!” she screamed at Leo, furious at the spectacle she was making of herself.

  Leo, who by now was wearing an expression that suggested that he was doing his best to not burst out laughing, threw open his door and stepped out into the street. For a fleeting moment, Francesca thought that he was so embarrassed that he meant to abandon her right there on the spot. How, she wondered in anguish, would she explain to her family and friends that her fiancé had called off the wedding because he didn’t want to be married to someone who couldn’t find first gear? This ridiculous notion vanished when she saw Leo gesturing to the surrounding motorists to just stay calm and be patient as he hurried around to her side of the car. He opened the door and nonchalantly advised her to move over. This heroic rescue made the situation all the more humiliating for Francesca.

  “We’ll practice some more tomorrow,” Leo promised her, giving her hand another quick kiss. Then, with insulting ease, he put the car in gear and cruised away from the intersection. He assumed a nice drive out into the country to look at the trees in all their autumn splendor would be just the thing to make her feel better. He was right, but several miles would pass before Francesca’s ire finally abated enough for her to see the humor in her first adventure behind the wheel.

  Now, so many years later, Francesca was not quite sure why the memory of that particular day should come to mind at just that moment. She sat there at the kitchen table and dwelled on it for a time after she hung up the telephone. The call from Loretta Simmons had taken her by surprise. It was a Thursday evening, and over a week without any word from the young woman had passed since their interview. Francesca had assumed, quite reasonably, that the position had gone to someone else. Not that she had expected things to be otherwise. Francesca and the woman had not exactly hit it off when they had first met. There was much Francesca had wanted to say about herself, and many questions she had wanted to ask about the mother and her children, but she had been afraid of being too nosy right off the bat. So, instead of prying, she had tried to answer the woman’s questions as succinctly and politely as possible without saying or asking too much. It had made for an awkward conversation, and afterward, Francesca knew that she had not come across very well.

  As the days went by and it became obvious that the woman must have chosen someone else to look after her children, Francesca had finally decided that perhaps it was all for the best. Peg and the others were right; she probably wasn’t ready for this sort of thing. Besides, she told herself, there were plenty of other things she could find to fill up her time. She would just have to accept things as they were and make the best of it. Something about coming to that resolution had made her feel better. Just that night, while she had sat at the table eating a bowl of minestrone, Francesca had decided to forget all about it, to put the whole matter out of her mind—and then the telephone had rung.

  To say that she had been caught off guard when the Simmons woman had asked her if she were still interested in the position would have been a great understatement. More startling, though, was when she had asked Francesca if she would be able to start Friday, the very next day! Asking for a day or two to prepare herself would have been a sensible idea, but Francesca had been so astonished by the whole turn of events and the woman’s request that she couldn’t bring herself to say no. Yes, of course she could come tomorrow, Francesca had told her.

  As Francesca mulled the whole thing over, she regretted replying so hastily. She ought to have said that she could not possibly start until Monday. At least that would have given her the weekend to get her thoughts together. An odd feeling of dread mixed with anticipation filled her as she stood to take her empty bowl to the sink. There was something familiar about it that puzzled Francesca, until she understood why the memory of that day in Leo’s car had come to mind. Thinking back on it, she realized that she was now filled with that same odd blend of nervous excitement as on that day when she had first gotten behind the wheel of the car. At the same time, though, she recognized that same feeling of helpless panic that had overtaken her when she had become stuck at the intersection and the car had begun to roll backward, that sinking feeling in her gut that she had gotten herself in way over her head. The difference this time was that she was all alone. There would be no one to rescue her if things went wrong.

  “What did I just get myself into, Leo?” she said aloud as she washed the bowl and deposited it into the dish drainer. “Am I crazy, or what?”

  With that thought in mind, she went upstairs to get an early night’s rest. A big day lay ahead of her, and she wanted to be ready. Francesca fretted about the whole thing while she changed into her pajamas, but when she finally put her head on the pillow, she was comforted by one thought: At least now her car was an automatic.

  CHAPTER 15

  Francesca found the key to the house tucked behind the mailbox, just where Loretta had said she would leave it. Standing in the cold outside the front door, she breathed a sigh of relief. There was much about this undertaking that made her uneasy, but for some reason, the one thing she had fretted most about all day was the fear that the key would not be there when she arrived. Her active imagination had conjured up a multitude of scenarios on how she would respond in such an event. The most extreme had her kicking in a basement window and climbing through. This particular contingency plan posed several problems, not the least of which would have been her lack of agility. Also to consider was the arduous removal of the snow piled up against the house outside the window. Lastly, her skulking about in this manner would have most likely invited the attention of the local police, who would no doubt be informed by the neighbors that a would-be elderly burglar was prowling about the outside of the Simmons home. Reason had mercifully returned to Francesca’s anxiety-filled mind when it had come time to drive across the city that afternoon. In the end, she had come to the sensible conclusion that, if the key were not there, she would simply sit in her car and wait for the children to come home.

  With that fear now dispelled, Francesca hesitated at the front door. There was, she fully realized, no one home, but just the same, she wanted to present herself well when she stepped inside. It might have seemed a silly notion to others, but she wanted to make a good impression entering the house by herself for the first time. Francesca had always believed that every home has a personality all its own, its own soul almost, something that radiated its own energy apart from the people who inhabited it. It was more than just the style of the windows facing the world outside or that of the furnishings inside. Some houses, she often noticed, made her feel welcome the moment she walked in regardless of how well kept or decorated they might be. Then there were others that seemed to give off a more forbidding air, something that made them feel more standoffish, almost aloof, as if they would have preferred it if you simply went away and didn’t bother to come in at all. As she inserted the key and turned it, Francesca sensed an air of shyness and uncertainty in this home, something that gave the impression that this was a place still not quite sure of itself. That being the case, she chose to enter slowly and respectfully, giving it time to grow accustomed to her presence.

  Francesca stepped inside and closed the door behind her. She stood there for a time, surveying the interior of the home while she removed her coat and hat. Little had changed since her initial visit to the house, when she had first interviewed for the position. It was not dirty by any means, but the place had the look of organized disarray, which one would expect in a house presided over by a working mother raising two children on her own.

  Francesca removed her boots and slipped on her house shoes before stepping into the living room, where she cast a trained eye upon the surroundings. Though almost the end of January, holiday decorations still adorned the windows, and an artificial Christmas tree still stood in the corner with an assortment of toys and games scattered about on the floor around it. The pillows on the couch were tossed helter-skelter, and several days’ worth of what looked to be
unread newspapers were strewn across the coffee table. Some of these had slipped off onto the floor and been kicked underneath, where they were trying to hide along with a stack of magazines.

  Francesca turned her gaze to the end table by the arm of the couch. There she spied a small pile of crumbs, evidence that someone recently had been munching on a snack while watching the television. The couch’s stained arm cover indicated that this was a popular dining spot, most likely for one or both of the children. She leaned closer and observed that the remote control for the television had slipped down between the cushions. Her first instinct was to extract it and place it in plain view, but she decided that, for the time being, it would probably be better if she just left everything as it was.

  The kitchen was a disaster. When she walked in, Francesca found the counters littered with school papers, mail, and a variety of other clutter, leaving little room for food preparation. The table was in much the same state, though it appeared some effort had been made to push some of the mess out of the way. The sink was piled with dirty dishes, cups, and utensils from the previous day, but no pots or pans. This puzzled Francesca, until she noted that the top of the stove was covered with paraphernalia. From the looks of things, it was rarely used. She clicked her tongue and shook her head.

  Francesca gave only a passing glance at the downstairs bathroom as she made her way out of the kitchen to the back hall, where she found a washer and dryer surrounded by baskets of clothes, some dirty, others clean but in need of folding. She came back to the front and looked up the staircase.

  The first few steps presented a narrow passage, as there were pairs of shoes, hairbrushes, books, and other items piled there. Though curious to go upstairs to see the rest of the house, Francesca decided against the idea. She didn’t want to risk tripping over anything to do it, and in any case, she had explored enough for the first day. Besides, she had already seen enough to understand what this mother and her children were up against. With nothing else to do, Francesca went back to the living room, where she sat down on the couch and settled back to wait for the children to come home.

  CHAPTER 16

  Francesca jumped up when she heard the sound of children’s voices outside the front door. In the process, she knocked several sections of newspaper off the coffee table. It had suddenly occurred to her that she wasn’t sure of what she should be doing when the children came in. First impressions meant a lot, and she wanted the one she made to be a good one. With no time to waste picking up the papers from the floor, she kicked them under the table with the others. Given the state of things, she doubted anyone would ever notice.

  As the doorknob began to turn, Francesca started toward the door, but then decided that she didn’t want to appear to be accosting the boy and girl the moment they stepped inside. It would probably frighten them. Instead, she went to sit back down, but then thought better of it; she didn’t want them to think that she was lazy. By the time the door swung open and the two youngsters stepped inside, Francesca had finally settled on a position by the end of the couch. There she stood like a lady in waiting, her hands curled into one another in a gesture of respectful anticipation.

  The boy and girl eyed her warily as they stood in the front hall, peeling off their coats and hats.

  For her part, Francesca’s heart melted the moment she first beheld the two children. They were adorable! The girl, she could see, was just on the cusp of adolescence. With her long, dark hair and slender features, she was destined to be a beautiful young lady someday, but for now, she was still very much a child. The boy was considerably smaller than his big sister. His hair was equally dark, but full of delightful curls, which rolled and tumbled over his forehead. His big, inquisitive eyes peered at her through the wire-rimmed eyeglasses he wore, and he looked for all the world like a professor of entomology who had just come across a rather interesting-looking bug. Gazing at them both, it was all Francesca could do to keep from taking them in her arms and squeezing them for all she was worth.

  “Hello, children,” she said in a hesitant voice. “My name is Mrs. Campanile, your new babysitter.”

  The girl gave her a haughty stare. “My name is Penny,” she replied with a tone of youthful defiance, “and I’m not a baby, so I do not need a babysitter.”

  “Penny,” the boy whispered harshly, “be nice. Remember what Mom said.”

  “Oh, that’s quite all right,” Francesca assured the boy. “My mistake. It’s just that the two of you are so much more grown up than I had anticipated.” This remark seemed to put his sister a bit more at ease. “I suppose your sister is right,” she went on. “We’ll have to come up with something else to call me besides your babysitter.” This she said while moving ever so slightly toward the front of the coffee table, to block their view of the manual on babysitting sticking out of the bag of books she had brought along to keep her occupied while she waited alone. To her relief, neither seemed to notice.

  “And what is your name, young man?” Francesca asked the boy, even though she already knew.

  “I’m Will,” he said.

  “Well, how nice,” she told him. “I have a grandson named Will who’s just your age. It’s a pleasure to meet you both.”

  “Yeah, I guess,” said Penny, walking past her to the kitchen. Will followed close behind, giving Francesca a quick glance over his shoulder as he passed.

  “If there’s anything you need…” Francesca called after them, but neither of them replied.

  Not wanting to interfere in their after-school routines, Francesca simply watched them go. She stayed there in the living room, listening to them exchange whispers as they rummaged through the refrigerator and cupboards. She smiled, for it was a scene, she well knew, that was being played out at that hour in homes all around. Many things had changed since Francesca was a young mother raising her own family, but one thing had remained a constant: children always come home hungry from school.

  A few minutes later, Will and Penny reemerged from the kitchen. To Francesca’s dismay, Penny carried with her a bag of potato chips, and Will a bowl of ice cream. There was nothing wrong in having an afternoon snack, but she wanted with all her heart to tell them to have something more wholesome. She understood, however, that it was not her place to do so. Besides, who was to say that there was anything more wholesome to be had in the kitchen at that moment. In any case, the two children paraded by her again and, without a word to her, marched directly upstairs to their rooms.

  Not sure of what to do next, Francesca returned to the couch, took a seat once more, and pulled out the book on babysitting. She had always considered herself an old hand at taking care of children, but her first encounter with Will and Penny had left her with the impression that perhaps there might be something new that she needed to learn.

  

  “Sorry I’m getting home a little late,” said Loretta when she bustled through the front door, clutching a grocery bag in one arm and a cloth bag containing her work shoes and purse under the other. She dropped the cloth bag onto the floor, kicked the door shut behind her, and hurried toward the kitchen.

  The clock on the mantel read five forty-five. Loretta was fifteen minutes late, but Francesca didn’t mind. In truth, she had become engrossed in one of the books she had brought along—the babysitting manual had held her attention only briefly—and the time had gone by quickly.

  “The market was such a zoo!” the younger woman lamented as she hurried past Francesca with the grocery bag.

  “Eh, Friday night. What did you expect?” said Francesca, strolling over to the kitchen door. She peeked in, curious to get a look at what Loretta had brought home. “Planning to cook for the family tonight?” she asked.

  “Oh, no,” said Loretta with a laugh. “Who has time to cook? Besides, I can just about boil water.”

  “It’s not so hard to learn,” said Francesca.

  “Maybe someday, when I have the time. But for now, why bother? They have some really nice prepared food a
t the markets these days. It’s so convenient. You just bring it home, toss it in the microwave to warm it up, and dinner’s served. No mess. No fuss. No pots and pans to clean up. Can’t beat that.”

  “I suppose,” said Francesca with a doubtful look as she watched the young mother take the plastic containers out of the bag and put them on the table. “What did you decide to get?”

  “Meat loaf,” said Loretta, opening one of the containers to show her. “Plus some mashed potatoes and vegetables. It’s really good.”

  “That’s nice,” said Francesca, knowing full well that the expression on her face conveyed a different opinion. “Well, I’m sure you and the children will enjoy it,” she added before turning back to the living room to collect her things. By the time Loretta came out of the kitchen, Francesca had already pulled on her boots and overcoat.

  “I hope they weren’t any trouble for you,” said Loretta, rummaging through her pocketbook while the older woman tugged a hat over her ears.

  “Oh, no,” said Francesca, giving her a smile. “They were perfect. We had a nice chat when they came home, and then they went straight upstairs to…well, I guess to do their homework.” She started for the door.

  “Oh, don’t go yet,” said Loretta, still searching through her pocketbook.

  “Why not?”

  “Because I haven’t paid you for today,” she said. “Where is that checkbook?”

  “Please, don’t worry about it,” Francesca told her. “Today was a chance to introduce ourselves. This one’s on me.”