by an upholstered ottoman with pearl buttons. The only color in the room was a large silver vase filled with blood red roses nestled in waxy green leaves.
The table in the alcove was set for dinner, with the hotel’s fine bone china, edged in silver, and sterling silver serving pieces. Water glasses were filled, and wineglasses were empty, ready for the Chianti.
“I am in heaven!” Enrico Caruso said from the foyer. “Sage! Garlic! Burro!”
“They’re early!” Laura said, stirring the sauce. “We have so much left to do!”
“Stay calm,” Enza told her.
“This better be good, Erri,” Geraldine said, throwing off her sweater and reaching into the pocket of her skirt for her cigarettes.
“I need a glass of wine,” Antonio Scotti said to the host, removing his hat. Scotti was of medium height, with classic southern Italian features—a nose that extended far like an alpine road, lovely lips, and small brown eyes like a bird’s.
“I’ll pour,” Caruso said, uncorking a bottle.
Caruso poured the wine, including a glass for himself, and joined the girls in the kitchen. Enza dropped the puffs of gnocchi into the boiling water.
“At last, I eat like the peasant I am!” Caruso said.
Antonio joined them. “Where did you find the cook?”
“At the sewing machine.”
“That doesn’t bode well,” Antonio said.
“Women have more than one skill, Antonio. And if you’re lucky, they have two. They can make both gnocchi . . . and meatballs.”
“Watch it, boys. You’re in the presence of a lady or three.” Gerry sipped her wine. “What are you making?”
“Gnocchi with sage,” Enza said.
Caruso dipped his fingers in the bowl of freshly shaved Parmesan cheese. “I travel with a wheel of my own cheese.”
“Better than a wife,” Geraldine said.
“Weighs more,” said Caruso. “My little Doro prefers to stay in Italy. She’s painting the villa.”
“We work, and your Doro redecorates.” Antonio shrugged.
“You need a wife, Antonio,” Caruso said.
“Never. I’ll paint my own villa.”
“Women give a life shape and purpose,” Caruso said.
“You should know. You’re never without one,” Antonio remarked.
Enza ladled the steaming puffs of pasta into a serving bowl, as Laura slowly stirred the sauce. Laura gave the spoon to Enza, who added a cup of cream to the pan, then wrapped the dish towel around the handle and ladled the sauce over the steaming gnocchi.
“Italians always wind up in the kitchen,” Antonio said. “It’s our destiny.”
The doorbell rang. “I’ll get it—it may be my true love calling,” Geraldine said as she pushed through the saloon style doors.
“Unlikely,” Antonio said drily. “He’s in Italy with his wife.”
Laura kept her head down, like a proper Irish scullery maid, and pretended not to take in the gossip as she tossed the salad.
“Please everyone, to the dining table,” said Enza.
Enza and Laura made fast work of grating fresh Parmesan cheese over the gnocchi, sprinkling it with lacy branches of browned sage.
“I’ll serve, you pick up the dishes,” Enza said.
“Happy to. But save some for us,” Laura whispered. “This smells heavenly!”
When Enrico Caruso had invited Enza to make him “a dish of macaroni,” Enza went to Serafina immediately. At first, Serafina had been against the idea. But when Caruso mentioned it to Serafina himself, she knew she had to allow Enza to prepare the meal. Caruso was never to be denied any request, great or small, by the staff of the Metropolitan Opera. Serafina reminded Enza to remember her place, to serve the maestro and his friends but not to join them at the table, or assume that to be Caruso’s intent.
Enza stopped short when she saw Vito Blazek sitting to Caruso’s right, across from Geraldine. Antonio sat at the head of the table, opposite Caruso. Vito looked up and winked at Enza. She blushed.
“Delizioso, Enza!” Caruso said, when Enza brought the salad plates to the server.
Enza quickly served the meal and went back into the kitchen. “Did you see?” She placed the dishes in the sink.
Laura peered out the door. “Vito Blazek. Publicity. He’s everywhere. But I guess that’s the point.”
“He’ll think I’m scullery,” Enza said, disappointed.
“You are scullery. And so am I, for that matter.”
“Is he dating Geraldine?” Enza asked.
“I doubt it. Signor Scotti said she had a lover in Italy. Don’t you listen?”
“I try not to.”
Laura poured Enza a glass of wine, and they listened to the conversation beyond the kitchen doors. Antonio talked about the changes in England since they’d entered the war, and how the audiences craved music now more than ever. Caruso said that war was good for nothing except the arts that flourished in bleak times.