Free Apricot Kisses by Claudia Winter

at me with murder in its eyes. “Bloodthirsty” might be an exaggeration, but I had a traumatic fowl experience as a kid. I step to the side cautiously. To my complete horror, the chicken puffs its white breast, waves its little wings, and makes a terrible sound. A screech, really.
    My reaction is predictable. I let go of the mail, and letters scatter across the driveway and flutter into its puddles. The chicken hops onto the dirt road outside the gate, blocking my escape to the village. I dive to my knees to gather up the letters within reach—abandoning envelopes that landed too close to the beast’s beak and claws—and then run up the cypress-lined driveway.
    Soon I’m standing in front of the stately stone manor house, next to the covered parking spots. I don’t have to read the plaque out front to know what it says: Trattoria Tre Camini. And I thought I’d never come back. Wrong again.
    Not sure what to do, I put down my suitcase, which suffered damage on the long dash: one of the wheels broke, and the expensive exterior is full of dirt. I slide the urn into its huge side pocket, wipe my face, and look at the trattoria. Maybe it’s the weather—or is it my aversion that dims my view? It looks shabbier than last time. Rain runs down its flaking plaster. There are holes in the masonry, as if someone came along and picked stones out of the wall. Puddles fill the front yard, and moss covers the planters flanking the door. The palms in them look as bedraggled as I feel. The rain has managed to soak through my clothes, and now a small brook runs down between my breasts. My shoes squeak as I step forward and then back again. Is God doing this on purpose?
    “All right, I made a mess of things,” I say aloud. “But does that mean I have to throw the champagne out with the cork?” As expected, there’s no answer from above.
    Instead I hear Claire speak from my conscience’s headquarters. “Ooh, Hanna. Why do you look like that?”
    Just be quiet, I tell her. You’re the one who got me into this mess.
    “No, no, chérie. You can thank yourself. Don’t chicken out now! You can try to pretend it wouldn’t be that bad to lose your job, but it would be bad. So show some backbone!”
    My stomach flutters as if I just swallowed a little bird. I can’t. I just can’t.
    “Coward,” Claire says.
    I raise my chin defiantly into the rain. It’s true. I’m a coward, and you are far away. So I will sneak around the back and stash this ugly porcelain vase on one of the windowsills. That will show, at least partly, that I’m sorry. And then I’ll write a letter of apology to this Signor Camini, and I’ll write it far away from this unsightly place—somewhere with my feet in warm sand, somewhere where Italy delivers what it promises in its brochures.
     
    Fabrizio
     
    “I can’t stand this any longer.”
    Lucia’s Parmesan shredder clunks onto the counter. My sister-in-law leans against the sink and crosses her arms. I stir the ragù one last time and put the lid on the pot.
    “Could I have a dish towel?” I ask evenly. Lucia throws the rag at my feet.
    “I’m going to have a coffee in the bar,” Rosa-Maria announces, taking off her apron. She smooths her skirt, and I reach for the rag with a sigh.
    “Fine, Rosa-Maria,” I say. Just disappear and leave me alone with the little witch. When the door slams shut behind Rosa-Maria’s generous behind, Lucia’s eyes flash licorice-colored sparks at me. Intimidating sparks. “What can’t you take any more, Lucia?”
    She must have expected more resistance, but her surprise lasts only seconds. She straightens her shoulders, trudges over to me in her slippers, and drills her finger into my shoulder blade.
    “You aren’t the only one who’s mourning in this house,” she says.
    “I know that.”
    “Then why are you behaving like a rabid dog, Fabrizio?”
    “Weren’t you listening when the notary read Nonna’s testament?”
    “So that’s what all this is