Francesca's Kitchen Read Online Free Page B

neighborhood since she and Leo had first moved there years ago. The main avenue down which she was walking was lined with two-and three-decker tenements, where generations of predominately Irish and Italian families had once lived together. They had been proud people who had kept their properties immaculate. It grieved Francesca to see the dilapidated condition into which many of those beautiful old homes had descended since the old families had moved out. Not that it was the fault of the new Hispanic and Asian families that had taken their place. Francesca blamed the landlords from whom the new families rented the houses. Had they lost all their pride? She was heartened, though, by the new shops and little restaurants and other businesses she saw the newcomers opening here and there. The neighborhood, as she saw it, was in transition. In time, these renters would become owners, and then those houses would be restored to their proper states. It was inevitable. Nothing instilled pride in a person more than owning his own home.
    Francesca rounded the corner off the main road and walked up the street to her house. The street climbed a considerably steep hill, but her legs were more than equal to the task. Over the years, she’d made that climb more times than she could remember. When she finally made it to the house and through the front door, Francesca hurried straight to the kitchen, to put away her groceries. Her haste was not due to any great concern about the food spoiling. She kept the temperature so low inside that even if she left it all out on the counter, everything would probably stay fresh for days. Her real purpose in bustling so purposefully through the hallway to the kitchen was the reassuring noise that it created. It dispelled some of the quiet in the house and made her feel like less of a ghost rattling around within its walls.
    The little red light on the telephone answering machine was flashing when she came into the kitchen. She gave the button a tap and listened to the messages while she sorted out the groceries on the table. The first was from Alice: “Hi, Mom. It’s me. Just wanted to see how you were doing. I talked to Rosie yesterday. She said you guys had a good time together at her house. Hope you’re all settled back in, now that you’re home. We were watching the Weather Channel last night, and they said a big storm is heading your way. Looks like you might get a lot of snow. Make sure you stay inside. Don’t try to shovel the walk or clean the car by yourself. Get one of the neighborhood kids to do it. You don’t want to slip and fall. Anyway, no snow out here, just a lot of rain this week. So, that’s all. I just wanted to say hi. Hope to see you soon. Yesterday, Will and Charlie were wondering when you were going to come out to visit us again in Oregon. They miss your lasagna. Give me a call when you get a chance. Love you.”
    A beep, then the next message, this one from Rosanne: “Hi, Mom, It’s me. You home? What are you doing? Out gallivanting again, or are you just screening your calls? No? Not there? Okay, just wanted to see how you’re doing. I talked to Alice yesterday. Told her about your trip. Heard you guys might get a bunch of snow up there today, so I hope you get home soon before it starts. Call me.”
    A succession of beeps without messages followed, then: “Hello. This is the West End Public Library calling to let you know that some books you reserved have come in. We’ll hold them here for a week. Thank you.”
    Francesca hurriedly put the groceries away and picked up the telephone to call Alice in Oregon. She was a little concerned because, given the time difference, her daughter ought to have been at work. Was something wrong, something she hadn’t mentioned in her message? Francesca was always trying to read between the lines in this way, wondering how much her children didn’t tell her about what was going on