Lake Como by Anita Hughes Read Free Book Online Page B

going. She couldn’t face Peter back at the apartment. She couldn’t go to her grandmother’s. Constance thought the world of Peter. It would break her heart to see chinks in his armor. Hallie checked the money in her purse. She flagged a cab and gave the driver her mother’s address.
    Hallie buzzed Francesca’s apartment and waited. Francesca was probably at the bakery. She shared a commercial kitchen with another baker and rarely came home before ten o’clock. Other single women relaxed with an episode of CSI and a bowl of popcorn. Francesca’s idea of fun was making buttercream rosettes.
    Hallie let herself in and climbed the three floors to her mother’s apartment. The living room had wood floors and plaster walls. A floral sofa faced a bookshelf lined with cookbooks. The oak dining table was heaped with bills. A coffee cup was left on the table, making a ring on the wood. Hallie took it into the kitchen, depositing it in the sink.
    Hallie sat on a stool, gazing at the brightly colored jars and containers. The counters were crammed with ingredients: brown sugar, honey, cinnamon, molasses. There were baskets of fresh peaches and bowls of strawberries. Everything in the kitchen would eventually end up in a cake. Francesca stockpiled ingredients like a squirrel hoarding nuts. She wore jeans and sneakers and splurged on imported vanilla extract.
    Hallie finally let the tears come. They rolled down her cheeks, falling on the counter. She rocked back and forth, hugging her chest. She cried until her body felt like it would fold up like a pack of cards. Exhausted, she got up and walked into the living room.
    Hallie and Francesca moved into the apartment when Hallie was in high school. Hallie had loved jogging on the green, watching the boats in the marina, but she missed the glittering rooms of Constance’s house. Hallie found tables and chairs at garage sales and brightened them up with tablecloths and pillows. She painted the walls eggshell yellow and sewed lace curtains for the windows.
    Francesca had acted more like a sister than a mother. On Friday nights, if Hallie didn’t have a date, they painted each other’s toenails. On Sundays they put on matching aprons and prepared dinner. Hallie tossed spinach salad and Francesca baked German chocolate cake.
    Hallie wished for a moment she had a mother who would smooth her hair and promise her everything would be all right. She wanted a father who would hold her and tell her Peter wasn’t worth crying about.
    Hallie never knew her father. When she was nine years old, Francesca had found Hallie in Constance’s kitchen, piling brownies on a plate.
    “What are you doing?” Francesca had asked, frowning.
    Hallie had stood on a stepstool, straining to reach the top shelf in the fridge. “Jenny’s mother said I’m illegitimate and I’m going to burn in hell. I’m going to bring God some brownies so he forgives me.”
    “Sit down.” Francesca had motioned for Hallie to sit at the kitchen table.
    “What does illegitimate mean? Didn’t you get a receipt for me at the hospital?”
    “Illegitimate means you were more loved and wanted than any baby in the world.”
    “Jenny said illegitimate means I don’t know who my father is. She says my father must be a pirate or a pop star.” Hallie had inspected her nails. She had bitten her fingernails to the quick and covered them with bright pink nail polish.
    “Your father was a student named Phillip Elliot.” Francesca had nibbled a brownie. She had dark brown hair and large brown eyes. Her hair was cut short to frame her face and she had thick, curly eyelashes. The only features she shared with Hallie were a small nose and a round, rosebud mouth.
    “That’s my last name!” Hallie had chimed in.
    “We met in Rome, when I was returning to America. I was very sad because I had to leave Portia and Marcus, and I spent a whole day crying at the Trevi Fountain.”
    Hallie had chewed her fingernail, waiting expectantly for