The Shoemaker's Wife(96)

“It’s the booze cart,” Colin called out happily as Laura peered adoringly at him through the pantry doors.

“You’re in love,” Enza said with a smile.

“Falling like a sack of buttons,” Laura said dreamily.

“I’m not going to need a single at the Milbank House, am I? When is he going to introduce you to his sons?”

“Hopefully soon, but don’t go roommate-shopping just yet.”

Enza rolled the last of the gnocchi, cut it into pieces, and made an impression with the fork in each doughy puff, while Laura washed and sorted the fresh greens in the sink.

Enza prepared the sauce, cleaning the sage and placing it on the stove in a pan with olive oil and garlic. She turned on a low flame and slowly added butter to the mixture. The suite filled with the scent of an Italian farmhouse at suppertime.

“You girls all right?” Colin asked.

“We have everything, I think,” Laura said, looking around the kitchen, taking a quick inventory.

“I’m going to blow,” Colin said.

“Thank you,” Enza said. “You were a big help.”

“My pleasure.” He winked at Laura, took his hat, and went.

“That man is not going to fit in with my family in New Jersey. He went to boarding school at Phillips Exeter, graduated from Amherst, and he’s captained a ship in a regatta somewhere off the coast of Rhode Island. His mother descended from people that have been here so long, they had mailboxes at the Jamestown settlement. I am out of my league. I am in over my head. And I am completely besotted. Trust me, when he meets my family and finds out we brew our own beer, he’ll never ask me out again.”

“So bring them to Manhattan to meet him.”

“All seventy thousand of them? I’ll need a barge, not a ferry. No, thank you, I’m keeping my family under wraps. If he gets a load of them, he’ll run.”

“The entire population of Ireland won’t bother him if he loves you.”

“That’s where you’re naive,” Laura sighed. “When it comes to high society, the only things they mix are their drinks.”

The door to the suite blew open, bringing the best voices of the Metropolitan Opera into the room.

The suite was decorated in white damask silk with accents of black velvet, a color scheme borrowed from Caruso’s sheet music. The furniture had sleek lines and curves, like musical instruments. A pair of deep-cushioned English sofas in white chenille faced one another, separated by an upholstered ottoman with pearl buttons. The only color in the room was a large silver vase filled with blood red roses nestled in waxy green leaves.

The table in the alcove was set for dinner, with the hotel’s fine bone china, edged in silver, and sterling silver serving pieces. Water glasses were filled, and wineglasses were empty, ready for the Chianti.

“I am in heaven!” Enrico Caruso said from the foyer. “Sage! Garlic! Burro!”

“They’re early!” Laura said, stirring the sauce. “We have so much left to do!”

“Stay calm,” Enza told her.

“This better be good, Erri,” Geraldine said, throwing off her sweater and reaching into the pocket of her skirt for her cigarettes.

“I need a glass of wine,” Antonio Scotti said to the host, removing his hat. Scotti was of medium height, with classic southern Italian features—a nose that extended far like an alpine road, lovely lips, and small brown eyes like a bird’s.

“I’ll pour,” Caruso said, uncorking a bottle.

Caruso poured the wine, including a glass for himself, and joined the girls in the kitchen. Enza dropped the puffs of gnocchi into the boiling water.

“At last, I eat like the peasant I am!” Caruso said.

Antonio joined them. “Where did you find the cook?”

“At the sewing machine.”

“That doesn’t bode well,” Antonio said.

“Women have more than one skill, Antonio. And if you’re lucky, they have two. They can make both gnocchi . . . and meatballs.”

“Watch it, boys. You’re in the presence of a lady or three.” Gerry sipped her wine. “What are you making?”

“Gnocchi with sage,” Enza said.

Caruso dipped his fingers in the bowl of freshly shaved Parmesan cheese. “I travel with a wheel of my own cheese.”

“Better than a wife,” Geraldine said.

“Weighs more,” said Caruso. “My little Doro prefers to stay in Italy. She’s painting the villa.”

“We work, and your Doro redecorates.” Antonio shrugged.

“You need a wife, Antonio,” Caruso said.

“Never. I’ll paint my own villa.”

“Women give a life shape and purpose,” Caruso said.

“You should know. You’re never without one,” Antonio remarked.

Enza ladled the steaming puffs of pasta into a serving bowl, as Laura slowly stirred the sauce. Laura gave the spoon to Enza, who added a cup of cream to the pan, then wrapped the dish towel around the handle and ladled the sauce over the steaming gnocchi.

“Italians always wind up in the kitchen,” Antonio said. “It’s our destiny.”

The doorbell rang. “I’ll get it—it may be my true love calling,” Geraldine said as she pushed through the saloon style doors.