Delicious! (14 page)

“I wonder if he wrote back?”

“Judging by the date,” Sammy was holding up the next letter, “he must have answered by return post.”

“Green tomato mincemeat does not strike me as particularly toothsome.” Sammy put the letter back in the folder.

“Thrifty, though,” I said. “And it was nice of him to send those pamphlets.”

“He did more than that.” Sammy held up another letter and then slowly lowered himself to the floor. “What is the point of remaining
upright when being seated is so much more agreeable?” He patted the floor beside him and I sat down toọ.

Sammy was laughing softly. “Who on earth could say no to this child? Certainly not James Beard. And from what I have heard, he was extraordinarily generous to his fans.” He was rooting through the file. “Here is another one!” He triumphantly held up a crinkled yellow sheet of paper.

Sammy looked down at me. “A girl after your own heart!” he said. “In my experience it is a rare female who can say, ‘It’s only clothes,’ and mean it.” His face grew pensive. “You know, my mother used to say that when the war came, you discovered who you really were. Women changed. Children grew up overnight. I wonder what happened to this one.” He opened the folder, thumbing through the pages until he found another letter from Lulu.

I knew how it felt to wish life could go back to the way it used to be. Was it different during wartime, when it was happening to everyone at the same time? Was it easier when you didn’t feel so alone?

“What do you remember about the war?” I asked Sammy.

“How decrepit do you think I am?” he snapped. “I will have you know that the war drew to a close long before I entered this world.”

I could feel my face get hot. “Not to worry.” Sammy patted my hand. “I brought that upon myself, nattering on about what Mother used to say about the war. But I believe those were the happiest years of her life.”

“Wait, she was happy your father was gone?”

He leaned back against the wall. It was cozy in here, sitting on the floor in the murky light of the room, Sammy next to me and all that paper rustling around us. “On the contrary. But during the war she managed a gas station, and she adored everything about it—mucking about with the engines, changing oil, pumping fuel, washing windows. She was rather miserable when the war ended and she was obliged to resume the housewife’s role; I remember her banging furiously around the kitchen, heaving pots and pans about. She said the house felt like a prison, closing in around her.” Sammy stopped himself. “I am making my mother sound like a gorgon, which she was not. But she was not destined to do housework.” He looked down at the folder, eager to end this conversation. “Let us hope for another letter.”

“Are you crying?” asked Sammy.

“Of course not.” I was grateful the room was so dark. Picturing Lulu alone in her kitchen had made something twist inside me. “Do you think her father ever got the cookies?” I asked. “I wonder if he survived.”

Sammy held up the next piece of stationery. The handwriting was not Lulu Swan’s.

“Aren’t we going to find out what happened to her father?”

Sammy pointed to the shelves. “Thousands of letters are filed away up there, and I would wager good money that there are more from Lulu. That girl is not a quitter.”

“But how’re we ever going to find them?” I looked at the fat folders, with their acres of crumbling pages.

“You are a resourceful young woman,” he said briskly. “I am certain that you will think of something.” He was silent for a moment and then, as if the words were coming to him as he spoke, he said, “ ‘Dear James Beard’ would make a lovely article. If there are enough letters, it could even be a book.”

“You knew about the letters, didn’t you?” It hit me that he’d lured me up here to provide me with a project.

“I beg your pardon?” Sammy looked so genuinely astonished that I knew I’d been wrong. “I am sorry to disabuse you of this remarkable notion, but I am flabbergasted by this find.”

“Flabbergasted! What a wonderful word.”

“Please consider writing the article. It is an excellent notion.”

“I will. I’ll think about it.”

“Well, do not cogitate for a protracted period. The Timbers Mansion is worth a king’s ransom, and in due course Young Arthur will attempt to sell it. The market is in momentary decline, but that will surely change. If you want to unearth Lulu’s letters, you had best do so with celerity. And that, my dear, is the end of the speech.” He unfolded himself from the floor. “I need to perambulate and get my blood flowing.”

Sammy held out his hand and pulled me to my feet. We ducked through the door, pushed the bookcase back in place, and made our way through the golden light to the library door.

As it closed behind us, the stench of the building attacked us anew, stronger than before. But it didn’t bother me much. Something had shifted. Lulu was in the library, sharing the Timbers Mansion. I was no longer alone.

“
W
HAT’S WRONG WITH YOU?”
SAL GRUMBLED THE SECOND TIME I
gave a customer the wrong cheese. “Your head’s somewhere else.” Brow furrowed, he took my hand and led me into the back kitchen. “What’s going on?”

“I was thinking about the war.”

“Vietnam? Korea?”

“No, the big one. World War Two. Do you know what it was like during rationing?”

“Pop used to talk about how hard it had been. They couldn’t get anything from Europe after the shipping lanes closed. Cheese wasn’t rationed, but the only products they could get were made in America. Why do you ask?”

I’d been trying to imagine what it was like to live with the constant fear of death. The men you loved could die at any minute; they might, in fact, already be dead. How did Lulu bear that knowledge? How did anyone?

I was telling Sal about the letters when Rosalie came charging into the back kitchen. “Theresa and I could use a little help out there,” she said, tugging at my sleeve. “It’s Sunday.”

I looked at my watch: almost two o’clock, which was when Mr. Complainer always showed up. “C’mon, Rosalie, you know that man has zero interest in me.”

“You never know,” she said, herding me back into the shop. “Have you ever thought about contact lenses? Your eyes are so pretty.”

Right on cue, Mr. Complainer walked through the door. Today, however, he was not alone.

“Oh, she’s much too thin.” Rosalie watched disapprovingly as he steered a blonde in a shearling coat toward the counter.

He pointed out various Fontanari landmarks: the towering wheels of Parmigiano, the chilies dangling from the ceiling, the cans of wood-roasted coffee on the shelves. She looked fascinated, laughing up at him, holding his arm. He introduced her to Jane, who took her hand and smiled indulgently, and I could almost hear her saying what a treat it was to see young lovers in the shop.

“That’s a lot of makeup for a trip to the grocery store,” Rosalie remarked.

“She’s very pretty,” I said.

“Too thin,” Rosalie repeated, pushing me forward as their number came up. Mr. Complainer shot a disappointed glance toward the end of the counter.

“That”—he nodded toward Sal, who’d just started serving the guys from the local firehouse—“is the legendary Sal Fontanari, and since he’s with his favorite customers, it’s bound to take at least an hour. Meanwhile, we will be in the very capable hands of Wilhelmina. She’s the first outsider Sal’s ever permitted behind the counter of Fontanari’s. We’re all convinced she has magical powers. And this”—he turned to me—“is Amy, who hails from deepest New Jersey, where there are no shops like Fontanari’s.”

“Nice to meet you,” said Amy primly. I hated her.

“What can I do for you?” I asked.

“We’re having a party.” Mr. Complainer took over.