The Tender Vine (Diamond of the Rockies #3)(118)

Caught between Quillan and her papa, Carina had felt like a fox between two hounds. They were both too stubborn to give the other any ground. So Papa accepted her marriage. Could he not extend some courtesy to Quillan? And Quillan, couldn’t he go a little way toward showing gratitude and forgiveness?

She felt him slip into sleep under her gentle massage and slowly removed her hands. Let him sleep now, and perhaps he would wake in better humor. She brushed a kiss across his forehead and left. Mamma was in the kitchen, working garlic pulp into the focaccia. She could have a Chinese cook like Gelsomina did, but Mamma loved the feel of the dough beneath her palms, the steam of the savory sauces on the stove, the heat of the oven as she removed the crisply browned fishes and roasts.

Carina understood.

“How is he?” Mamma asked without looking up, making the best of that to which she must resign herself. She had stopped harping when she read Father Antoine’s letter. No matter how heartbreaking the match, it was done.

“He is cross. He wants more than broth, and it frets him to be so helpless.”

Mamma smiled. She couldn’t help it, though she hid it at once. “How long does Papa say before he can eat?”

Carina shrugged. “Papa is equally cross. He doesn’t say.”

Now Mamma glanced up. “Like two bears, are they?”

“In springtime.”

Again Mamma smiled. “It won’t hurt your papa to reach a little.”

Carina cocked her head. Could Mamma mean that? Did she see it was mostly Papa’s pride that had muddled things?

“Eh, soon enough I’ll bake him a lasagne with fresh ricotta and spinach from the garden.”

Of course Mamma didn’t mean Papa; she was thinking of Quillan.

Carina’s mouth watered, and she knew Quillan would succumb at the first bite. If anything could make peace between them all, it was Mamma’s lasagne, dripping cheese and rich tomato sauce.

“I wish he could have it now.”

“Your papa knows best.” Mamma turned the dough and dimpled it with her fingers.

Carina reached for the cruet and drizzled olive oil over the garlicky circle her Mamma formed. She had to admit Papa was tending Quillan as carefully as she would herself.

Mamma lifted the dough onto the cornmeal-sprinkled baking stone and slid it into the oven. “I have fresh prawns for supper.”

Carina looked at the bowl of large gray prawns, their legs like stunted tentacles gathered in the curl of their bodies. “Shall I devein them?” She reached for the small sharp knife when Mamma nodded. What would Quillan think of prawns? Fried with butter and oregano and lemon until they turned pink and firm, their edges crisp and golden. She closed her eyes and pictured his expression as he filled his mouth with a new flavor.

“What is it?” Mamma touched her hand.

Carina opened her eyes, picked up a thin-shelled prawn. “I was thinking how Quillan would look when he tried it for the first time.”

“Has he had no shrimp?” Mamma swabbed the marble counter with a hot cloth.

Carina shrugged. “He never saw a crab until San Francisco.”

“What did he think of it?”

“He thought it tasted better than it looked.” She dangled the prawn from her fingers. “He has a point.”

Mamma laughed. “That’s why we don’t allow men in the kitchen.

It’s better they don’t know.”

Carina sliced the blade down the back side of the prawn, splitting the shell and cutting shallowly into the translucent flesh beneath. With the tip of the knife she lifted out the thin blue vein that was really the animal’s intestine. Why was it a woman could deal with that thought, but Tony and others grew pale, contending they would never touch a prawn again—until, of course, a plate of them was set sizzling before them in savory buttery sauce.

“Quillan would try anything I make. He loves to watch me cook.”

“You’ve let him in your kitchen?” Mamma slapped the cloth onto the counter with a soft plop.

Carina pictured Mae’s kitchen with the long board table where she had served Quillan that first meal of cannelloni, how he had lingered over each bite. What would Mamma think that she had fed him right there at the table where she prepared it? And then the time he had watched her make the ravioli, mixing the pasta with her fingers, the intensity in his eyes as he watched.

She smiled. “Yes, Mamma. Quillan is welcome in my kitchen.”

Mamma stared at her a long moment. “Then where can you be separate?”

Carina considered that. She knew what Mamma was asking. Where was her woman’s place, her refuge from a husband’s expectations, her place to control, to rule. She picked up a second prawn. “I don’t want to be separate. I want to be one.” She looked up into Mamma’s face. She had no doubt Mamma loved Papa, but she had never fought for that love as Carina had. Could she understand?

Brows raised, Mamma lifted the cloth and squeezed the excess water into the washbowl. “You are na?ve, Carina.” She smiled. “But maybe . . .

not so much, eh?”

Carina laughed. “You should see him, Mamma. He watches me as though I speak the lasagne into being. He says it’s magic. He thinks my fingers are magic.”

Again Mamma paused. “Is it possible—could it be I’ve missed something all these years?” She looked around the room where the women had always gathered to prepare meal after meal, their world.