Audrey Hepburn's Pearls: Part I

Chapter 16.2: 1994, Georgina

The sound of her breathing in the smell gives me pause. It reminds me of Frankie so much. I come out of the pause and make my way to the door. Unlocking the chain, I smooth my dress down with my other hand. Its a casual light pink slip of a thing, silken and to the floor. The top is a criss-cross with sleeves that go three quarter length down my arms. 

The girl looks at me happily when I open the door. She is holding something in a white bakery bag. "They're cookies," she tells me, "for the tea."

Damn. 

"I didn't put the tea kettle on," I admit shamefully. Her mouth opens a little, but then she smiles. 

"That's okay. We can enjoy them on their own," she assures, coming in and setting the cookies on the coffee table. "What is that smell? I could smell it from the hallway. It smells like something Miss Paula liked to make."

Paulie. Of course he cooked for her. Did Paulie ever make her something like manicotti?

"Its manicotti. Its got ricotta, mozzerella. Its good," I say, already taking her plate to the kitchenette to get some.

"Manicotti? I've never had that before." She sounds impressed. "You cook, Georgina?"

"Oh yes, I cook. I used to cook all the time," I say, sprinkling a little parmesan on top of her shells.

"Used to?"

I smile at her, but inside I'm kicking myself. I don't really want to talk about this, how I stopped cooking after Frankie died. How to avoid it? 

"Well, it doesn't matter. Tell me about this outfit you have on. That's not from an Audrey Hepburn film." Success.

Her red gloved hand goes to her chest. "This is Ambrose's 'Lady Red' costume. The theme tonight for the contest is red. I didn't have anything the judges haven't seen before in red, so Ambrose dressed me in this tonight. It was too big on me, though. There's safety pins in the back, but maybe my wig will cover that. Is it covering that?" She turns around, her long red ringlets in a high ponytail which cascades down her back to her waist swaying as she turns. I can see the safety pins as she turns, but I don't want to tell her so.

"Make sure you don't turn too quickly, I could see them peeking when you did," I tell her gently.

“Dios mio, gracias,” she breathes. “If you hadn’t told me I would have done that. I need the prize money. But I guess I always do.”

Money?

I want to offer her money if she needs it, but I decide its best not to. I wonder how much she needs, despite. I decide if she brings up needing money again I will offer. She’s doing me a favor anyway. I may as well return it.

We settle down to eat, and she carefully peels off her long red gloves. She sets them on her lap, and takes the cloth napkin and tucks it into the cleavage of her costume. Its a good idea, because if any of the sauce or cheese got on her costume it would be a disaster. I didn’t even think of the possiblity and I feel guilty.

Upon first bite, her eyes shoot open wide and she looks down at the shells on her plate. Her fork lowers.

Shit.

“Is there something wrong?” I ask delicately. Did I do something wrong?

“Oh no, Georgina. Its just...the sauce is sweet. I didn’t know tomato sauce could be sweet. Miss Paula’s was always spicy.”

Oh god of course. Paulie. Of course he would have made the sauce spicy, like he always did. It seems so obvious, yet I missed it. 

“Do you prefer it to be spicy?” I ask, the guilt bubbling in my core. I don’t even know why I feel guilty. Its not a big deal, and yet...

“No, this is really good,” she smiles. 

Thank goodness. Even if she’s just being polite. Bless her if she's just being polite. We continue eating quietly together. Its so silent I can hear the clock above the fridge ticking away the minutes. 

Suddenly she speaks again, making me jump slightly.

“You know, this reminds me of enchiladas. Funny, isn’t it? Enchiladas are just like this, even with the cheese on top but this and enchiladas are from different countries. I wonder why?” She gives a little laugh from her nose, and continues eating.

I don’t know what to say, because what the heck is an enchilada?

“I’m sorry, I don’t know what an enchilada is,” I admit, looking at her. I feel shy, child-like in my not knowing.

“Oh, Miss,” she grins, “I’ll make some for you. You made me this, so nice of you. I’ll make some and bring it next time.” She continues smiling as she eats, but then her face drops. “Oh but...” she begins, looking worried.

“What’s wrong?” I ask, feeling worried myself.

“But enchiladas are spicy. Especially the sauce. Can you take the spicy?” 

And now its my turn to grin. Spicy. Of course.

“I love spicy,” I beam. Then she starts to beam. 

“Then have I got a treat for you, Georgina,” she says excitedly, wiggling in her chair. 

I start to laugh at her wiggling and we’re laughing together. I wanted to teach her something tonight, but she’s the one who ended up teaching me something. Funny how life is. 

After we eat, she has to go. We didn’t talk very much, but that’s okay. Her company was enough. Seeing her eat what I made happily was enough, too. She has the rest of manicotti wrapped in tin foil in the bakery bag. I bid her farewell at the door. 

“Arrivederci,” I tell her.

“What language is that?” she gasps, surprised.

Oh shoot. What did I say? My eyes go wide. “What?” I ask.

“You said ‘arrived’-something,” she says in awe. 

Oh gosh. “That was Italian, I’m sorry. My brain must be somewhere else,” I apologize sincerely.

“Wow, you speak Italian, Georgina?” she gasps again. 

“A little,” I lie.

“Amazing,” she says, her face turning into sunshine. I feel my face blushing.

“You should go, you have your contest. The train,” I say quickly, trying to cover up my mistake. 

“Si, si, well good night, Georgina,” she says, still smiling at me. 

“Good night,” I tell her sincerely. 

When I close the door and hear the sounds of her heels going down the stairs, I sigh deeply and sink into the couch with the pink rose pattern on it. The couch Avi found in the furniture store that made him cry, reminding him so much of Frankie. The couch that made me cry, too, when the mover people brought it into my apartment, embarrassing me in front of those two burly men. 

“Arrivederci, il mio amore,” I whisper into my empty apartment. I’ll be honest. I know why I said arrivederci to her. Its because she reminds me of Frankie so much. My mind slipped and said what I used to say to Frankie when he had to leave. 

Suddenly I feel so alone. The apartment is so silent. The sound of that clock ticking is getting to me, so forlorn it sounds. So lonely. Without knowing what I’m doing, I’m on my feet again. My feet bring me to the record player, and my fingers tick away on top of my records. Finally they find the one my heart desires and the record goes on the player. 

As the sweet sounds of Nat King Cole fill the apartment, another of Frankie's favorites, my heart is filled with satisfaction. My loneliness ebbs away as the faint smell of the manicotti goes away, both being erased as the duration of the sounds of the smooth voice go on and on. Both go away as sad memories become washed out, replaced instead by the idea of dancing, of Frankie's dear hands on mine, sweeping me away in joy. My belly is full, and I just think about happy things. 

Its so different from usual. It fills me with joy. No sadness, but joy. How strange that a simple visit with a friend can change your entire mood. Instead of feeling sad right now as I often would with these memories of Frankie, I feel happy. I suppose that is a good thing, and I settle back and smile, so different but so good.