Page 76 of True North

ChapterNineteen

LOUISA

The bustle of the restaurant hums along. After an eight-hour shift on my feet, the last thing I wanted to do was be servin’ food again. But Mama was desperate, her two waitresses both called in sick, so I rested my weary feet for a beat and grabbed an apron. The pepper grinder gets heavier with every set of patrons I serve. By closing time, I’ll be dead on my feet for sure.

The space is illuminated by table lights, soft lamps hanging three-quarters of the way up each wall. The harsh light of the kitchen pours through the open doorway. No service porthole door for this place. Mama and Papa like to see their patrons enjoy their hard work. They consider each person who dines here family. It’s an amazing place. An amazing family to be part of.

Like a second home, almost.

The Mancinis created that. With every dish. Every gesture. Every conversation they have with the people who come through their doors. Tears prickle behind my eyes. It’s been so long since I felt this at ease in a place, this wanted. Cherished.

I promise to whoever is listening that this is what I will create one day for the people who find themselves in my life. In my home. Wherever I end up.

And I am caught in the overwhelming feeling of never wanting to leave.

The thought surprises me, snapping me from my reverie.

“Bambina, order up!” Mama calls through the pass. I finish the pepper for a couple I assume are on a date. He looks nervous, she looks bored. I suppress a chuckle.

“Is there anything else I can get you?” I ask.

“No, we’re good. Thanks.” The girl throws me a faint smile.

I turn on my heel, heading for the pass. Two bowls of Mama’s linguine wait, steam swirling up from the delicate pasta. It smells like heaven. What I wouldn’t do to slide to the floor somewhere out of the way, off my aching feet, and inhale a bowl of this creamy goodness.

Mama glances over, her hands still working on the meal she is preparing. “Table twenty, bambina.”

“Twenty, thanks.” I swipe the bowls from the space and head for the table by the window. Halfway across the room bustling with happy diners, I make out the occupants of table twenty.

With an internal eyeroll, I make my way over.

“Here you go, Mama’s special linguine. Did you want pepper? Extra parmesan?” I ask.

Brad’s awkward stare holds me for a millisecond before his date speaks up. “No, none for me, thanks. Bradley?” she asks, her voice light and sweet.

Bradley, indeed.

Hope she knows her date is a flake in every possible department.

He clears his throat, focus stuck on the food. “I’m good.”

Of course he is.

“Sure, holler if you need anything,” I say to the poor girl, giving her my best sympathy smile. She tucks a piece of dark hair behind her ear and returns the smile, albeit small.

Mama’s voice drifts over the crowd once more and I am heading for the pass for another round. The night passes quicker than I realize, and when the last patron crosses the threshold and onto the sidewalk, Mama leans against the doorway to the kitchen, tea towel in hand, something like curiosity in her eyes.

“What is it?” I ask.

She sighs. “Not much, bella. Just?—”

A crash rings out from inside the kitchen. We both hurry to the source of the noise to find Papa on his hands and knees, a full pot of spaghetti now spilled over the tiles, his shaking hands attempting to sweep it back into the colander it came from.

In this moment, they look so frail, so old.

This is their life’s work, but it is evident, more and more each day, they are getting too old for the pace and workload this restaurant demands. I hit the floor on my knees and help Papa usher the last unruly strands of pasta back into the colander. Dark brown eyes topped with bushy eyebrows find my own.

“I don’t know what happened. It slipped.”

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