Dolci di Love

The widows were not a happy bunch when Violetta hobbled down to meet them in the basement.

Thinking they were arguing about Lily and Alessandro, Violetta bit her lip and scuttled over to her sister, who was standing beneath the ginger supper knocking back a glass of vin santo.

“Fiorella brought a torta della nonna,” explained Luciana, pointing to the table where there was nothing but a few crumbs left on a crumpled paper plate.

“She brought a torta della nonna and it was extremely delicious, but it’s started something of a debate,” Luciana said.

“It’s not the pastry that makes a good torta della nonna anyway, it’s the filling!”

Violetta walked into the middle of this heated battle and silenced the lot of them with just one look, which ended on Fiorella sitting happily on a chair with pastry crumbs cascading down her cleavage.

“We do not have torta della nonna at meetings of the Secret League of Widowed Darners,” Violetta said coldly. “We have cantucci.”

The widow Mazzetti held the rule book up and shook it, although it had nearly killed her not to have a slice or two of such a good-looking torta.

Fiorella was not a woman used to female company, or company of any kind for that matter, and was getting the distinct impression that she wasn’t very good at it. “Right. Fine. Whatever you say.” She shrugged. “It’s only dolci. I just thought some of us could do with a bit of sweetening up.”

“Never mind that, are we really going to help out that stuck-up American ice princess?” the widow Ercolani asked, cutting to the chase. She was suffering from indigestion so hadn’t had any torta, although perhaps she could have done with some sweetening. “We’re asking for trouble involving an ‘outsider,’ if you ask me,” she added. “And who’s to say she won’t whisk Alessandro away once we’ve done our bit.”

The widow Benedicti hadn’t thought of this and turned, panicked, to Violetta for assurance.

The League was officially a democracy, so decisions were meant to be made based on a majority rule, but really, Violetta was the leader and always had been; it was a divine situation, a bit like the Dalai Lama, only in black.

And the truth was that Violetta had always felt she possessed a sixth sense when it came to matters of the heart, and was helped in this regard by Luciana, who possessed five-and-a-half.

Usually, she knew exactly what to do and who to do it to, but today no bells were ringing, no signs were flashing, her mind was as clear as minestrone. Was Alessandro really their calzino rotto? And could Lily truly be the woman to soothe his broken heart?

Where before she felt nothing but certainty, today she felt like the cornetto she’d had for breakfast was lodged in her chest and would never move. That was all.

“What about Roberto, the bus driver, from Cremona,” Luciana suggested, stepping helpfully into the breach. “Remember we set him up with Angelica from the language school? Bit of a bumpy start as I recall but they’ve got children now, and grandchildren.”

“Put your hand up if you have ever been to Cremona,” Violetta commanded, retrieving her wits and seizing the opportunity.

“Therefore I think we can safely say that America is no more foreign than Cremona.”

This seemed to satisfy the group at large but Fiorella felt moved to voice her own skepticism. “So, let me get this straight, this blonde turista is seen talking to old droopy drawers out in the valley and on those grounds you decide this is the love match?”

“This blonde turista is seen talking to old droopy drawers on one of Violetta’s special days,” the widow Benedicti stressed. “That’s the key. And by the way, he does not have droopy drawers.” That Alessandro fitted his drawers quite well had already been discussed on a number of occasions.

“Right. Good system,” drawled Fiorella, rolling her eyes, something she did with practiced skill.

On any other occasion Violetta might have shut her up with a vicious stare or got the widow Mazzetti to refer again to the rule book for statutes regarding ethnicity, but the events of the day had unsettled her too badly and still there was that sharp pain in her chest, poking at her from the inside like an evil finger.

In the past she had found that a sticky issue could sometimes be resolved by pulling a bit of darning-related wisdom out of her pocket, and given the circumstances, she decided to try this again.

“Might I remind you,” she told the assembled widows, “that our job is not to judge the sock by its color or even the quality of its wool, but to simply fix the hole, be it in the toe or the heel.”

Her pronouncement was met with silence at first, then a couple of heads nodded, and a couple more, and eventually the whole room was full of nodding heads.