Free The Golden Hour by Margaret Wurtele Page B

gave her a hollow, somewhat wasted air. As if to spite her name, her complexion was a sickly olive drab. Her waved, glossy coiffure might have been carved in marble, so consistent was its outline, so rarely a hair out of place. She wore a blue-and-white uniform starched to stiff perfection, and rubber-soled shoes that allowed her to approach without a sound, to come and go without interrupting whatever discussion or activity was happening around her.
    Her kitchen, larder, and cellars were immaculate, everything in its place—piled, stacked, stashed, and labeled so that not a square inch of space was wasted. Rosa knew to the ounce or teaspoon how much of anything she had; she anticipated the shelf life of every ingredient to the day, and she ensured their use well before they spoiled by rotating recipes. That was why I had avoided raiding our own kitchen for the first week’s supplies. Rosa would have noticed something missing the minute it disappeared. No, there was only one option now: I had to bring Rosa into my confidence, make her a partner in the enterprise.
    I tentatively poked my head around the corner of the first-floor kitchen when I arrived home. Rosa stood at the counter, her back to me, kneading a pile of flour and eggs into pasta dough for supper.
    “Rosa?” I was keenly aware of the value of her time. As children, we had learned to keep our distance, to respect her territory. She turned her head briskly, her white-powdered hands still hovering over the emerging dough. No answer. She turned back to her task.
    “Rosa, may I speak with you a moment?” I waited a beat. “It’s important.”
    “Not now, Giovanna.”
    I came up next to her, as if to examine the pasta dough, and stood there for a few minutes. I took a deep breath. “I’m in touch with Giorgio.”
    Her hands froze. I knew what was going on inside her. If Giorgio was alive, if he was safe, then maybe there was hope for Gigi as well. “Tell me.” She took up the kneading again, leaning her weight into it, turning and pressing the elastic mass.
    So I stood there next to her as she worked. In a low voice, barely looking at her, I brought her up-to-date. She took it all in, asking no questions, her face unmoving, her eyes trained on her task. Once she looked up. “Does your mother know?”
    “Oh, no, she mustn’t. She would tell Papa, and he might force me to reveal their location. No, this must be kept a secret between us. I just know I can trust you.” I didn’t tell her about Catarina being in on the secret.
    She mulled it over as she slowly turned the crank of the roller, feeding the long strip of flat dough carefully into the mouth of the hand-cranked machine. Minutes passed. I helped her catch the soft, pliable strips of dough, draping them over my arms, setting them aside to be cut into long noodles.
    At last she stopped working and turned toward me. Her face showed no emotion; her eyes seemed not to blink at all. “There are two rules.”
    I smiled. I couldn’t help it. I wanted to jump for joy.
    “You will never—ever—take anything I have not prepared for you.”
    “Of course not, Rosa.”
    “And you will not tell Giorgio or anyone else I am involved.”
    “If you like. I promise.” I knew better than to hug her or even take her hand. “You won’t regret it, Rosa. That much I know.”

Chapter Six

    R osa—dear, trusted, dour Rosa—became my touchstone, the axis around which my new world revolved. Every afternoon after working at the school, I would stop by and check in with her. I was never sure how she managed to spare such quantities of food, but one day she handed me a whole sack of dried beans, the next a dozen potatoes and a kilo or two of rice. There were onions from the garden, some garlic and shallots, and dried pasta in various shapes and sizes. We exchanged few words. I simply took the food, loaded it into the bag I carried daily, and then—either on the way to school the next morning or over the lunch