A Heart Most Worthy by Siri Mitchell Page B

handful of chopped garlic and oregano from the sideboard, and sprinkled it on top of Papa’s cheese.
    “I want the gravy. Parmigiana di melanzane has a gravy.”
    Mama shrugged. “I don’t have any tomatoes.”
    “And how do you make it without tomatoes?”
    “I make it with the garlic and the oregano.” She gestured to the plate.
    Papa frowned at her.
    “What? I’m not buying tomatoes from Maglione anymore. He’s cheated me for the last time.”
    Papa shook his head, put a fork to his plate. What was it to him if his wife didn’t buy tomatoes? He took up a piece of the eggplant. Tasted it. Disaster! That’s what it was. “You can’t make parmigiana di melanzane without tomatoes. There’s got to be someplace that sells good tomatoes. You could go . . . you could go up to Hull.”
    Mama Rossi sniffed. Took up her own forkful of parmigiana di melanzane without tomato gravy. “I’m not going to a Hull frutta e verdura when there’s a perfectly good greengrocer across the street.”
    “No wife of mine is going to cross the street for tomatoes.”
    She looked over at her husband, reproach molding her brow. “I wasn’t going to. I would never do that. You know I would never do that.”
    Papa looked up from his plate, suspicion sharpening his gaze. She wouldn’t? And when had she ever done as he had asked?
    She smiled at him.
    Well. Maybe things had changed. Maybe this time she was actually going to listen to him. “ Bene . Fine then. There will be no more talk of tomatoes.”
    Mama nodded. “I was going to have Annamaria do it.”

8
    Annamaria nearly choked on her food. Mama was going to have her do it? But –
    “It wouldn’t do to have Emilio Rossi’s wife buy tomatoes from a Sicilian, but if his daughter did it . . . you know how these young girls are since they’ve been living in America. They’ve gotten bold. They’ve forgotten the old ways.”
    Papa was staring at his wife in horror. “You want . . . ?”
    “Annamaria can do it.”
    Mama was going to make her do it? She was going to make her own daughter cross the street and deal with Sicilians? Annamaria had always done everything and anything that her mother had ever asked, but buying tomatoes from Sicilians? Surely not even Saint Zita, with all her pious ways, would ever have allowed herself to be used so poorly. It was one thing to know that your life was destined for servitude, but quite another to be told to grovel in the doing of it. “I don’t – ”
    Mama quelled Annamaria’s protest with one black look.
    Papa’s fist hit the table. “No one is going to buy tomatoes from that Sicilian. And I will have tomatoes in my parmigiana di melanzane! Am I clear?”
    Perfectly. And, surprisingly, Mama didn’t seem too upset by his decree.

    Julietta, on the other hand, was extremely put out by what she was observing. She walked into the third floor workroom the next morning, only to see Luciana pulling the pink and white messaline gown from Madame’s pile.
    Her messaline gown!
    The girl held it up to her shoulders and then stood on her toes, trying to get a look at herself in the mirror.
    “It doesn’t suit you.”
    Luciana started and spun around, clutching the gown to her waist.
    “You’re too pale.”
    In fact, Luciana was pale. Paler than Julietta, in any case. She held the gown out away from her and sighed. “I know. I just . . . it seemed . . . I don’t know what to do.”
    Julietta raised a brow. “You don’t know what to do? With what?”
    “With those.” Luciana swept her hand toward Madame’s pile. “With any of them.”
    “You’re to wear them. That’s what Madame said.” Julietta wanted to add, The sooner the better , but she didn’t. What was it to her if the new girl got in bad with Madame?
    “But first, don’t you think . . . I’d have to remake them.”
    Julietta nodded. Of course she’d have to remake them. Or risk being laughed at as she walked up and down Temple Place.
    Luciana raised her chin