Chapter Fifty

JUNE 1948

Celia had never eaten pasta, let alone made it. She was pretty sure that was true for nearly every citizen in No Creek, but Joe was convinced that every mouth watered for Nonni’s recipe and that a party would bring them all together.

Celia remembered the party Miss Lill and her grandaunt, Hyacinth Belvidere, had hosted to celebrate the opening of the library at Garden’s Gate. When they’d said the library was for everybody, Celia had taken them at their word and invited the entire colored congregation from Saints Delight. Miz Hyacinth had made everyone welcome and a part of the day, but half the white congregation from Shady Grove church had up and left, and the “coming together” had set the tone for tensions that erupted in cross burnings and a barn burning down the road. Still, Celia understood Joe’s heart, and she loved that heart.

With Miss Lill’s blessing, Joe spent every free evening in the barn at Garden’s Gate, building things that looked like tiny clothes-drying racks, each about twelve inches tall. When he’d made ten, he set to work on something he called la chitarra: a strange rectangular box with wires strung in small groups across the length —very close together on one side, a little farther apart on the other —and tied to screws on each end.

“Like a guitar —it has strings, but they’re used to cut the pasta. Very thin, like spaghetti or angel hair, or wider, like fettuccini.”

“Whoever thought of such a thing?” Celia had meant it rhetorically, but Joe loved the question.

“These were first made in the Abruzzo region —east of Rome, sort of in the middle of the country —but caught on very quickly. Nonni had one she’d brought from Italy and used nearly every day.”

“You ate noodles every day?”

Joe straightened. “They’re not noodles.”

Celia could tell she’d offended him but wasn’t sure why. She knew she wouldn’t want to eat noodles every day, and as near as she could tell, even if they were different widths or different shapes, they were made from the same ingredients.

The next week Joe took the train to Winston-Salem and returned with half a case of red wine, three huge bottles of olive oil —which Celia had never heard of outside the Bible —and a roll of white fabric intended to be used as tablecloths.

Friday night, Joe toted a twenty-pound bag of flour from the general store along with two dozen taper candles, the purchase of which appeased Ida Mae just a little, then carried up twenty jars of canned tomatoes from the root cellar. Joe and Celia spent hours fashioning meatballs, browning them, then layering them on platters in the icebox.

It was dawn on Saturday morning when Celia set the coffeepot on the stove and scrubbed every counter and table space in Garden’s Gate’s kitchen.

The first thing Joe did was mix dough for Italian bread, the recipe memorized from years of helping his grandmother in the kitchen. Celia was no stranger to dealing with yeast and rising loaves of bread, so that felt pretty normal. She volunteered to collect and wash greens and make the salad when it was time. There was no shortage of lettuce or spinach, radishes, spring peas and things early from the garden to pull that together.

Once the bread began to rise, Joe browned even more meat —Celia hadn’t seen so much pork and beef in one place since before the war began. Onions, garlic, half a dozen chopped herbs, tomato paste, red wine, and olive oil simmered and reduced until the meats rejoined the pot.

“You sure you know what you’re doing? I mean, have you ever made a meal this size?” Celia knew she hadn’t. “We don’t even know if they’ll come.”

“Faith.” Joe grinned. “We’ve got to have faith —isn’t that what you’re always telling me? Sharing a good time and good food always helps. It sets the stage for harmony. You’ll see.”

What Celia had never seen was Joe so happy. A kitchen towel wrapped around his waist, his sleeves rolled up, and humming to beat the band. She was glad of that, but how it would all lead to Rhoan Wishon giving up his land, she couldn’t see.

Joe’s numerous big pots of simmering sauce —the ones he kept tossing herbs into and tasting, until he was satisfied —were Celia’s main concern until he dumped a dozen piles of flour, three and a half cups each, on the kitchen table and counters.

“See, we make a well with high sides here. Hand me the eggs, will you?”

Celia nearly choked as Joe cracked egg after egg into the wells of flour —three whole eggs plus two yolks into each well. She’d have enough whites left over to make meringue for a year, and there’d be no eggs to sell to the general store.

He broke up the yolks with a fork, then worked one well at a time in assembly-line fashion, pouring into the center olive oil, salt, and water, the measurements all “in the eye.”

“See, you work in the flour, a little at a time, pulling it in with the fork until you form a dough, then work it with your hands. Fold it over and over, just so.” He looked up. Celia did her best to smile confidently, while mostly catching running eggs from her well before they spilled across the table and onto the floor. Joe, she saw, did his best not to smile.

“How long do we do this?”

“Maybe fifteen minutes —until there are no creases in the dough.”

The muscles in Celia’s arms began to feel it after the first ten. The sight of five more wells on the table and more on the counter didn’t help.

By the time they’d each finished two more batches and set them beneath bowls to rest, Joe was ready to return to the first batch.

“We flour this, cut it into cubes, let it rest a bit, then roll it out, nice and flat, very thin.” He dumped another mound of flour onto the table’s surface and patted it out, covering at least two feet, nearly three, and half as wide. “You have a rolling pin? A short one is best.”

Celia dug one out. Ancient, long used, well loved. There was something about a seasoned rolling pin that made Celia feel at home, though she’d only ever used one to roll pie shells or dough for cookie cutouts. Celia floured the pin and handed it to Joe.

“The key is to roll quickly and very thin. You don’t want to break the dough, but it needs to be as thin as possible to make a nice pasta.”

Celia rolled.

“Thinner,” Joe warned.

She rolled again. “Okay?”

Joe tilted his head, considering. “Let me show you.” He came around the table and stood behind her, taking the pin she held in his hands, his breath on the back of her neck. He rolled the dough until it was nearly three feet by eight or ten inches, so long and thin she could see through it, then stood back. Celia was no longer thinking about pasta or community or anything she could rationally put into words. All she could think about was how near he was, how thick the hair on his forearms was, and how large and strong his hands looked. She tried to breathe as if she didn’t notice any of those things, and knew she failed.

“I see,” she croaked, then tried again. “Yes, I see what you mean.”

“Good.” He stood behind her, so close she was sure she heard his heart beating . . . or was it her own?

The kitchen door opened, and Marshall and Miss Lill stopped, frozen to the spot. “My goodness, this is quite the operation.” Miss Lill visibly swallowed.

Celia closed her eyes, mortified —a word she understood full well.

Joe stepped back, flustered. Marshall grinned from ear to ear.

“We were just wondering if you needed an extra hand,” Miss Lill asked, keeping her smile mild, as if the scene before her were nothing out of the ordinary. For that, Celia was grateful.

“The more the merrier,” Joe said, but Celia didn’t hear truth in his voice, and that made her smile. Knowing he wanted to be alone with her was nearly as good as being alone.

By midafternoon all the dough had been worked, rested, rolled, laid out to dry, then each long piece folded back and forth like a fan. The party was set for six o’clock. It didn’t look to Celia as if they’d be nearly ready, but Joe remained confident.

“Now comes the fun part.”

Miss Lill, weary around the eyes, looked up. “More fun?”

Joe grinned. “I’ll show you ladies how to use the chitarra. Marshall, maybe you and Reverend Willard can set up the tables.”

“Will do.” Marshall tipped his fingers to his forehead and went in search of Reverend Willard.

Joe spread flour across the wires of the chitarra, letting more fall into the box beneath.

“See, we open the dough fan we rolled and lay it the length of the chitarra. Then we take the rolling pin, also floured, and roll it evenly across the wires.”

Celia’s eyes widened. “Look! It cuts the dough into long strings.” She’d never seen anything like it.

“Well, I never!” Miss Lill smiled.

“You’ve never seen capellini or spaghetti?” Joe looked incredulous.

“I have —in Philadelphia. I’ve eaten it there, but never saw it made. I wondered how the noodles could be cut so thin and uniformly.”

Celia spoke with authority. “They’re not noodles, they’re pasta —macaroni, in Italy.”

Joe smiled his approval, and Celia, retrieving the long strings of pasta from the belly of the chitarra, hung them over Joe’s racks to dry, all the while basking in the glory of knowing.

In the late afternoon, Celia watched through the kitchen window as Miss Lill rolled out yards and yards of the white fabric Joe had purchased as tablecloths over the long tables the men had fashioned from wooden sawhorses and boards. Celia’s mama, who’d made every effort to stay out of the kitchen that day, set out mason jars half full of mixed garden blooms and wildflowers with candles peeking out the top and all the china, good and everyday, they could find, beg, or borrow. The tables looked grand.

Daylight in the second half of June ran long. Evenings in the foothills cooled just enough to run pleasantly warm. As long rays of sun spread across the tables, Celia set out trays of sliced Italian bread and fresh butter. Joe nixed the butter and replaced it with little saucers of fragrant dried and chopped herbs, swimming in pools of olive oil.

“Dipping sauce for the bread,” Joe instructed.

Celia wasn’t sure anybody’d know what to do with that, but she wasn’t about to say so.

Celia’s mama poured glass after glass of sweet tea and set pitchers on the tables. Joe’s tomato and meat sauce —what he called red gravy —had simmered for hours. At six o’clock, he ladled the first batches of spaghetti into boiling, salted water.

“Joe,” Celia whispered, as if whispering made it not sound so bad, “nobody’s come.”

Joe winked at her. “They will.” He drew a deep, satisfying breath. “Smell that.”

“It does smell great. It’s just —I don’t want you to be disappointed if —”

“Set that colander in the sink, will you? We’ll need it soon. Mustn’t cook long. We want it al dente.”

“Al dente. Right.” Whatever that is. Celia did as she was told, praying and doubting all the while. How is it those two so often go together?

Just then the strains of a fiddle entered by the front gate and danced round the side of the house. Celia looked out the kitchen window again. Joe Earl and his fiddle waltzed into sight. Children and couples and little groups of two or three and families followed Joe Earl through the garden and to the tables, oohing and aahing.

“I don’t believe it!” Celia whispered. “Joe, do you see?”

“I don’t have time to see. I told you they’d come. I asked Joe Earl to fiddle folks here. Most folks can’t let go of the promise of music, dance, good food, and natural curiosity.”

Celia looked at him. How he knew that after spending so little time in No Creek flabbergasted her. But that was Joe, through and through. He studied people and helped them. Maybe this would work out after all —not, she imagined, with Rhoan Wishon, but maybe a start as a community get-together.

Less than a minute later she heard humming, the singular harmony of the Saints Delight choir, announcing their arrival. She stepped out onto the porch to welcome Reverend Pierce and lead the group around back to join the others. But Reverend Willard and Miss Lill had gotten there first, which was all the better, and walked with the group. The moment the back garden was filled, voices died down and Joe Earl stopped fiddling. Celia could feel the tension in the air.

“Play, Joe Earl, play for all you’re worth!” Joleen, his wife, urged, and Joe took up “Turkey in the Straw,” a local favorite. Celia had to give the woman credit: she sprouted hair a vibrant orange color that could only have come out of a bottle, but she could keep a party going.

“Take your seats, friends, and let’s thank the Lord for this fine meal prepared by our new doctors and their helpers!” Reverend Willard, smiling, bellowed above the music. Before anybody could speak, Joleen laid a steadying hand on her husband’s bowing arm and Reverend Willard prayed, “Lord, we come to You this evening as a community of friends and neighbors, hungry for Your blessing and the delicious food that will be spread before us. We thank You for this bounty lovingly prepared and for the new doctors brought to No Creek to train with Doctor Vishnevsky for all our benefit and blessing. Guide their work, Lord. Open our hearts and minds to one another and to You. Through Jesus Christ our Lord and Savior, amen.”

Joe, with Marshall and Celia behind him, made his entrance from the back kitchen porch, raising high the first bowls of spaghetti and red gravy. “Buon appetito!” Joe cried and Celia echoed, “That means good appetite, everybody —eat up!”

Gladys and Miss Lill followed with bowls of fresh salad, chatting and welcoming folks as they divided the bowls among the tables. Smiles and thanks abounded until the food was set before them, and then a deafening silence.

Six-year-old Cecilly McHone broke the spell. “Mama, how do I eat this? It’s so slippery.” Charlene McHone opened her mouth to speak, but closed it again, looking to Dr. Vishnevsky to answer.

Doc Vishy stood, fork in hand. “Dr. Rossetti, you’ve introduced us to your grandmother’s fragrant cooking, for which we give you many thanks. Now give us a lesson in how to eat this fine meal!”

Everybody laughed, looking to Joe, who looked around, stunned, then quickly joined the laughter. “My pleasure, Doctor!” Celia handed him a plate of pasta. With a flair Celia didn’t know he possessed, Joe spooned meatballs onto the pasta and poured red gravy over all of it. Then he stepped up on a chair to be seen by all. “Hold the plate for me, Celia,” he whispered, then proceeded to capture a few strands of the slippery food with his fork and, holding it high, twirled it against the bowl of his spoon, making what looked to Celia like thick thread run round and round a spool, before popping it in his mouth and moaning in pleasure.

Folks looked on in awe until little Cecilly piped up, “Let me try!”

Her mama laughed and said, “We’ll give it a go, Joe!”

The rhyme and Cecilly set everybody off, and one after another, Celia witnessed what she’d never imagined. The staid and frivolous, the young and old, the colored and white of No Creek all struggled together to learn something new. Laughter abounded as noodles slipped and slid, as meatballs rolled off plates, and the pristine white tablecloths took on splotches and spills of red gravy. Still racially divided at tables, at least they met in the same backyard to share a meal, and it looked to Celia as if they were having a really good time.

Joe Earl lamented that a little ’shine would go a long way. Reverend Willard gave a warning shake of his head.

“Back home we’d share a bottle of red wine with this meal,” Joe acknowledged.

“Sweet tea goes just fine.” Gladys Percy gave a warning glare, and Celia caught the start in Joe’s eyes.

Just as quickly he agreed, “I’m sure you’re right, Mrs. Percy. I’ll refill the pitchers.”

But Joe Earl grabbed the two from his table and insisted on carrying them to the kitchen. “You go on and meet the folks, Joe. They’re here to get to know you. Joleen and I’ll take care of the tea.”

Celia thought that uncommonly good of Joe Earl. He wasn’t one to offer to help outside of fiddling.

Dusk fell, the air cooled, and candles glowed, casting soft reflections into more mellow faces. Joe Earl took up his fiddle again, this time less lively, thanks to Joleen’s eyes mooning up at him. Pitcher after pitcher of tea was passed up and down the tables, as folks seemed thirstier than ever.

Ida Mae and her daughters helped pass out strawberry shortcake with bowls of whipped cream —a concession Joe had made to No Creek’s seasonal favorite and because the cannoli and biscotti or gelati he raved about would take too long to make. Coffeepots came out by twos. Still, the men preferred tea —so much so that Celia began to wonder if Joe Earl hadn’t slipped something forbidden into those pitchers when he’d generously filled them.

Gradually, as the meal ended, Joe Earl picked up the pace, playing old favorites. A few started singing, and once the folks from Saints Delight joined in, the night seemed to swell into something bigger, grander. A couple waltzed in the garden’s moonlight. Celia couldn’t put her finger on exactly what made the difference, but her heart expanded, and it seemed in that moment that different as they all were, things might work out in No Creek.

Everything seemed to be going pretty smoothly when Reverend Willard tapped Rhoan Wishon on the shoulder. “Rhoan, do you have a minute?”

Celia knew that anytime the preacher asked that, he had something particular in mind. It even made her nervous, much as she loved Reverend Willard and Miss Lill.

Rhoan looked from Reverend Willard to Miss Lill, standing beside her husband. “I reckon.” He wiped his mouth and said to his grandson, Kenny, seated between him and Ruby Lynne, “I won’t be long. You finish your supper and we’ll get Joe Earl to play some clogging music. Time you learned.” He winked, and Celia thought there might be hope. Rhoan was a different man around Ruby Lynne and his grandson. Maybe that “different man” would see things in a new light, once presented with the facts.

Reverend Willard motioned for Celia to follow and the four of them walked inside, to the library desk.

“What’s she doing here?” Rhoan lifted his chin to Celia.

“It was Celia’s discovery we wanted to talk with you about.” Reverend Willard took the lead and Celia knew that was best. Rhoan wasn’t likely to give her or Miss Lill the time of day, let alone the benefit of the doubt. “Lilliana and I were in England the spring of ’44 when a big windstorm tore through here. You recollect that?”

Rhoan nodded. “Middle of March. Near ripped off my barn roof.”

“Well, it brought that old oak down on the house here.”

“Crashed right through the roof into the attic!” Celia was into the story now, but Reverend Willard gave her a warning eye.

“When that happened, it opened up a room in the attic that had been sealed off for some long time. I don’t believe even Miz Hyacinth knew about it.”

Rhoan was listening, but wary. “What’s that got to do with me?”

“Celia, I see you’re aching to tell and you’re the one that was here, so why don’t you tell Rhoan what you found.”

Celia licked her lips. “It was a narrow room —a hidey-hole, near as we could tell. There were trunks full of old clothes and books.”

Rhoan looked as if he was growing impatient. Laughter from outside, a little more raucous, drew his eyes and attention.

“Inside one of the trunks there was a false bottom, and beneath that was a portfolio of documents —manumission papers for slaves the Belvideres freed and a deed for land they’d awarded, and a diary belonging to Minnie Belvidere —the older sister of Grayson Belvidere, Miz Hyacinth’s father.”

Now Rhoan stepped back, a knowing look in his eye. Reverend Willard jumped in.

“The man who sold your father that plot of tobacco land.”

“I know who Grayson Belvidere was —a Confederate patriot, blood brother to my daddy. But all that was years ago. Got nothing to do with me.”

Celia could barely contain herself, but it was Miss Lill who spoke up. “It does, because that land already belonged to the Tate family. Grayson Belvidere, my great-grandfather, had no right to sell it.”

“The Tate family? They never owned more’n that cabin and the few acres it sits on. They wouldn’t own that if your aunt hadn’t taken pity on ’em before she died and signed it —”

“I can’t be certain if Aunt Hyacinth knew about the original deed or not, but we can show you. It was a perfectly legal deed.”

“If it was perfectly legal, how is it old Grayson Belvidere sold that land to my daddy at auction?”

“We can’t and shouldn’t speculate on his motives,” Reverend Willard began, “but we can —”

“Right about that. We can’t.” Rhoan shoved his hat on his head.

“Celia, pull out the deed.” Miss Lill unrolled a group of papers held together by a leather string. “Just take a look at it, Mr. Wishon, that’s all I’m asking for now.”

Celia pulled the document from the others. “You can see here, there’s the date, and the signatures of Horace and Elliott Belvidere.”

“Never heard of them.”

“Horace was the father of Minnie —Minerva —and Elliott and Grayson. Grayson was the youngest, the only one left when he sold that land, but Elliott was the heir at the time they signed. The deed was filed at the courthouse.” Celia tried to make eye contact with Rhoan, but he refused, simply staring at the document.

“Can’t be.”

“I’m afraid it’s so, Rhoan.” Reverend Willard sounded sympathetic.

“Then how’d he sell it to my daddy?”

“The courthouse was burned —probably by Grayson himself, and his friends, from what the diary said. All the files were destroyed.” Celia held her breath, hoping, praying Rhoan would see.

“Daddy?” Ruby Lynne stood in the library doorway. “What’s going on?”

“Nothin’ you need worry about, Ruby Lynne. You go back out and enjoy yourself. We’re goin’ home soon. I’m thinkin’ this ‘party’ is more a plot than good will.”

“That’s not true, Mr. Wishon. It’s a true celebration. We wanted to welcome our doctors and introduce them to the community, and we’re so glad Ruby Lynne is home.” Miss Lill was never one to back down from Rhoan Wishon. “Ruby Lynne, you look wonderful. We’re all so proud of you.”

Ruby Lynne blushed but smiled. Celia wondered how a person could so change from the frightened, beaten, pregnant girl who’d left No Creek years before.

Rhoan eased off but didn’t back down. “If the papers burned, then this is just a copy. Don’t mean nothin’.”

“Yes, it is a copy in that it was not registered,” Miss Lill agreed. “But it shows intent, and it’s signed by the Belvideres, who owned the land at the time.”

“You show this to a lawyer?”

Miss Lill hesitated, but Reverend Willard spoke up. “We did.”

“What did he say?”

“He said that it was so long ago and that your family’s held the land for so long that there can’t be a legal claim for the Tates now —more a moral obligation for you to do the right thing, let the truth come out.”

“Well, the truth is my daddy paid good money for that land.”

“We understand,” Miss Lill took up the cause again. “That’s why I’d like to buy it back from you, so you and your family don’t stand out of that money.”

Rhoan looked at Miss Lill as if she was crazy. “You gonna give that land to Olney Tate —who never did a thing to earn it?”

“I’m going to right a wrong committed by a member of my family.”

Rhoan huffed. “Not with my land, you’re not!” He shoved his hat back on his head, took his daughter by the arm, and turned to go.

“Wait a minute, Daddy. That’s the land that belonged to Uncle Troy. If it was really sold to the Tates —”

“Not sold —they’re sayin’ given, near as I can tell. And like the lawyer said, they don’t have a legal leg to stand on. Come on, now, it’s time we went home. Where’s Kenny?”

“He’s out with the Chatham kids, playing somewhere. But, Daddy, that land —”

“Billy Chatham? That boy’s trouble. You ought not —”

“They’re boys, just playing in the barn. What harm can —”

But then came the alarm. “Fire! Fire in the barn!”