“Yes, this happens all the time. I’m sure the recipient will be grateful,” my aunt replied. “Sometimes, lost things find their way, but they need a little help. The world is full of wonders. You just need to trust in it.”
“Easy to say for someone who is clairvoyant.”
She gave me a playful swat on the arm. “Go now before we head out for dinner. I’ll finish up downstairs at the shop.”
I placed my plate and cutlery in the sink, grabbed my purse, and headed out the door.
* * *
* * *
Late afternoon sun reflected off the buildings as I walked the block and a half to the post office. With thousands of shoppers and tourists visiting the area, I was sure some end up mailing items back home. The modern post office was on the ground floor of an old seven-story building with a bright navy-blue door.
I slipped inside and felt at home stepping in line with the American tourists. I waited with three couples ahead of me. An elderly couple at the counter were negotiating to send three items to upstate New York.
“The antiques were pricey,” the husband in front of me drawled in a midwestern accent. “I can’t believe how much you paid for that clock.”
“It’s worth it,” his wife retorted. “I would have paid more if I bought it back home. It’s too bad that tea shop with the blue butterfly on the sign wasn’t open. I loved the design. We might have found a teapot for Sue.”
My aunt’s tea shop was closed, but people were already paying attention.
He lowered his voice. “The tour director mentioned it was a Chinese triad front.”
My hands curled into fists. Ignorant lies. I dealt with this kind of ignorance and racism back home, but somehow didn’t expect it here.
“Excuse me,” I said, “but whomever you’re getting your information from is wrong.”
A deep flush crept from his neck to his face. His wife placed her hand on his arm and turned to me. “I’m sorry, dear. It’s what the director told us. We’ll talk to him.”
“Thank you, I’d appreciate that.” I kept my voice even, but my hands didn’t uncurl until I reached the counter.
Eleven
As we dined at a nearby Italian bistro, I recounted the incident at the post office to my aunt.
She twirled her fork into her cacio e pepe. “We deal with this all the time, Vanessa. Sadly, it’s everywhere. We will be fine. No one can deny what we have to offer. My shipments have arrived, and I’m on schedule.”
I was more upset about the exchange than she. Aunt Evelyn was from the previous generation: they bore the societal injustices of misogyny and racism. But they raised their daughters to not accept the world’s limitations. They fought for us and taught us to fight. These were women I wanted to be. As a pack, my aunties could conquer a small country.
“I heard from Michael,” my aunt continued, placing a considerable heap of her pasta onto my plate, while plucking two slices off my arugula and prosciutto thin-crust pizza. “He hopes to visit within the next couple of weeks. Your mother also called. You missed your twelve-hour check-in.”
Absorbed in my walk with Marc, I had missed the buzz of my phone. Ma would appreciate my spending time with him rather than taking her call and killing the mood. I’d return her call after dinner.
“Where are you headed tomorrow?” my aunt asked.
“Marc mentioned Versailles. Monet’s garden at Giverny the day after.”
My aunt opened her mouth, but I stopped her.
“I don’t want any spoilers, Auntie.”
She winked, and pressed her finger against her lips.
“Today was fun, but I can’t get too excited. It can’t mean anything. A prophecy will eventually ambush me and that will be the end.”
Wanting something I couldn’t have was a form of self-torture—one I had inflicted for years.
“There isn’t anything wrong with knowing that something will expire. It focuses you: treasure the time you have together.” She paused and then changed subjects. “What do you think of the pasta?”
Cacio e pepe contains three main ingredients: noodles, cheese, and pepper. The chef’s execution elevated the elements into a delicious blend of cheeses (in this case, pecorino and Grana Padano) with a spicy bite from the cracked peppercorns. The tagliolini was made fresh in the kitchen.
“As amazing as the pizza,” I replied.
Aunt Evelyn nodded.
The arugula and prosciutto pizza had a simple yet tasty tomato sauce as the first layer on the crispy crust. Strips of translucent Italian ham interlaced with