Chapter Three

NAN FLUNG OPEN her refrigerator, hoping to find anything edible inside. A piece of cheese, a bottle of Prosecco (that counted as nourishment), leftover anything, a jar of pickles even. It would have been a small miracle if any food had been there because she had not grocery shopped since she’d moved in. She was naked, finding her new apartment in Pinetree to be way overheated; the temperature was controlled from downstairs where her landlords, Joe and Immaculata Fortunato, lived.

Why did they keep the heat turned up so very high? Maybe because Joe and Immaculata were as old as Rome.

Joe was a sweetheart—Nan could already tell—a short courtly guy with a shy smile and brown eyes that shone like a happy puppy’s. But that Immaculata, she was a handful—she of the port-wine birthmark of raised bumps and ridges that covered half of her face, she of the sharp eyes and rounded body, she of the housedress du jour. Many of Immaculata’s housedresses had a Florida theme for some reason, with oversized grapefruits, lemons, and oranges adorning her large breasts and buttocks. Nan felt as if she was living in Immaculata’s tropical paradise.

Every day when Nan got home, she took off her clothes and opened her windows for relief. No one could see her anyway, in this second-floor apartment on top of a farmhouse. All she could see were fields and woods from her windows, no one in nearby houses to spy on her.

She had jumped at the chance to rent the apartment after one of the board members suggested it, with its two bedrooms, full bathroom, and its own outside entrance in the back on top of wooden stairs. After her studio apartment in Philly, it seemed immense, the whole top floor of a house. It was close enough to walk to work, on a quiet farm road a mile from the center of town, and was completely furnished. It was easy. All she had to do was move her clothes in.

The teal farmhouse reminded her of the dollhouse she’d shared with her sisters, with all those windows like wide-open eyes and the front porch with rockers that moved in the wind as if ghosts were sitting in them reading.

The furniture in her apartment cracked her up—the 1950s kitchenette with red vinyl chairs that made a little sigh when she sat on them; the blocky vintage TV in the living room, facing a black faux leather recliner that Nan despised the look of but lounged in every night with relief, her feet propped up and her head flung back; the disturbingly ornate white French provincial bedroom set with a bed so high Nan felt like she was trapped in “The Princess and the Pea” fairy tale when she climbed up on it.

She had abandoned her own furniture in Philadelphia. It had been the perfect time to ditch reminders of all the exes she’d acquired it with, forget all the times she’d moved with it in high hopes of one relationship or another lasting past six months. So this weird furniture mix would have to do for now.

The rent was very low, affordable with her tiny salary, and Immaculata even waived the security deposit because Nan was the Town Librarian and therefore constitutionally unable to be a bad tenant, evidently.

No matter how long she stared into the refrigerator, food did not appear. She had forgotten to bring a sandwich home, dammit. She sighed, trying to imagine the effort of putting all her clothes back on and going to get takeout from one of the Italian delis where she’d been buying her lunches. No one delivered in this town, and she still couldn’t wrap her brain around that.

The inner door that led from her kitchen down to the first floor rattled alarmingly. What the hell was that? Nan heard strange sounds, thumping bumping murmuring, boots tramping up and down. That must be Joe. He always wore work boots.

“Open up,” Immaculata called out. “We got stuff for you.”

“I’m naked,” Nan shouted back, unnerved.

It sounded like Joe ran down the stairs.

“Nothing I haven’t seen before.” Immaculata laughed.

What had Nan gotten herself into here? She’d always lived in high-rise city apartments, with neighbors who kept their eyes down as they passed in the halls and ignored one another in the elevators.

“I’ll wait,” Immaculata said finally.

Nan stood frozen, unsure of what was worse, antagonizing her landlady who lived inches away or allowing this invasion of her privacy in what clearly would not be a one-time incursion.

She was ragingly hungry though. What if Immaculata was bringing food? She had often been tantalized by the smells wafting up from below. Nan pulled on shorts and her favorite T-shirt that read Nobody Knows I’m a Lesbian and let Immaculata in.

“Hold the door open,” Immaculata ordered. With two hands, she delivered a huge jug of deep red wine. She put it under the table as if that was its designated place.

“Joe makes this,” she said. “He don’t even drink. It messes with his head, and that’s not too good in the first place.”

Suddenly Nan liked Immaculata a whole lot more. Homemade red wine often had an alcohol content that was double that of wine bought in liquor stores, and it had to taste way better than the cheap box wine that was all she could afford.

Then Immaculata lifted platters and bowls to the table, pointing out stuffed mushrooms, peppers and eggs, meatballs and ravioli, and an entire carrot cake. Had she forgotten Nan was living all by herself? This was enough food for a family of ten. But Immaculata wasn’t done. She heaved bags full of what Nan thought of as ingredients—potatoes, broccoli crowns, tomatoes, cabbage, onions, and lemons. Nan didn’t cook; what the hell was she going to do with this?

“We went to the market today, figured you could use a few things.” Immaculata settled herself at the kitchen table without being asked. “Get some glasses out.”

Nan opened cabinets until she found some, while Immaculata pretended she didn’t know exactly where the glasses were. Of course, she did. Everything here was hers. Immaculata hoisted the jug up to pour Nan a big glass of wine and herself a shot-sized one.

I have no willpower against good food and wine. That’s a fact. I’ll deal with setting boundaries with Immaculata later.

Nan sat down and dug in, as eager as a pig to a trough.

“So who does your hair?” Immaculata rolled her eyes.

I take it you don’t approve.

“Did your hairdresser get interrupted in the middle of working on you? She left one side shaved and one side long,” Immaculata said.

“I love my hair. Everyone loves my hair.” Nan wasn’t happy about this turn in the conversation, but she didn’t put her fork down. These were actual homemade ravioli.

“What’s with all those crazy streaks? Was she using up all her leftover colors or what? You got pink. You got green. You got purple.” Immaculata laughed so hard her bosom bobbed up and down.

Could it be that Immaculata actually liked her? Was joking around her love language? Nan chose to respond with a friendly overture. She did not want to get on bad terms with a woman who had the power to make her life miserable, that was for sure.

“These meatballs are incredible,” she said with her mouth full.

Immaculata nodded as if to say, Of course they are; I made them.

They sat companionably for a few minutes, Immaculata sipping her wine and Nan moaning over the stuffed mushrooms.

“So you read a lot? Aren’t you worried your eyeballs will fall out from all that reading?” Immaculata asked.

“They do fall out once in a while. I just pop them right back in.”

When Immaculata guffawed, Nan was so relieved. She wanted to keep the flow of this gorgeous food coming forever. She’d play nice to make that happen.