Page 2 of Road to Rosalee

Melody quickly checked the time. She was barely running five minutes late. Far out. She gritted her teeth and groaned. No ‘hope you’re okay’ or ‘how is your mum?’ No, even though she didn’t really want to hear it but it was the principle that he’d clearly forgotten again, ‘happy birthday’. Antonio Calabrese could be so damn selfish. The man she knew now was a far cry from the one she’d fallen for as an eighteen-year-old. Young love was so hopeful, so heedless. So naïve.

Strutting faster now, she shoved her mobile back into the seemingly endless pit of her handbag. Stuff him, she wasn’t writing back. She was only minutes away and trying to walk and text would only slow her down anyway.

Her boots feeling as heavy as the eyelids she was fighting to keep open, she jiggled on the spot while waiting for a crossing to give the green go-ahead. After a sleepless night spent by her mother’s bedside, she really didn’t want to be doing this today, but she didn’t have a choice. Her share in the café was the only thing keeping her sane, as if life could somehow continue on through the hardest of times. She needed the distraction of it to ground her. As her beautiful mother would say, you got this, my darling.

But did she?

Her hurried footsteps echoing off the sidewalk, she took the corner, barely avoiding a head-on with an equally frazzled-looking man. She was about to apologise when he glared at her. Argh! Stuff him too. His fault as much as hers. She resisted giving him a piece of her mind as she stormed away. Whatever happened to common decency, compassion, empathy? To make matters worse, half a block from her workplace, the heavens opened up like god was emptying his bathtub. The rain lashed down by the bucketful, instantly soaking the ill-prepared through to the skin. People ran this way and that, hands and newspapers overhead, as if the water would somehow make them shrink. Her umbrella was swiftly overhead, and her somewhat rainproof jacket was pulled in tighter; Melody had always been taught to be prepared for anything. But she sure as hell hadn’t been prepared for the devastating news delivered by the family doctor, and definitely wasn’t ready to say her final goodbyes. No twenty-three-year-old should be. Cancer is an absolute bitch.

Reaching her destination, she breathed a sigh of relief. She’d made it – one hurdle down – and now she had to try to get through the day without crying or losing her already very thin patience with Antonio. Glancing to the stone plaque beautifully etched with Café Amore, she pulled her brolly down and shook the droplets of water off. With floor-to-ceiling glass walls and a deck that was used in the summer months, the eatery had stellar views of Sydney Harbour and the iconic Opera House. Not that she got to enjoy the view much. Her place was at the back of house, pouring her passion into the dishes – cooking was her way of escaping from everyday life, and boy oh boy, she needed that right now.

She heaved the door open, the tinkle of the bell lost amidst the chatter of the breakfast customers and the drone of traffic behind her. The scent of strong Italian coffee lingered, and she breathed it in – she couldn’t wait to enjoy a double-shot latte. Making a beeline for the back, she avoided Antonio, weaving his way through the tables, collecting plates and schmoozing the clientele – he was a master at winning people over, especially women.

Tucking wisps of hair that had escaped her plait behind her ears, Melody headed into the heart of the hip eatery – the kitchen. A huge pot bubbled on the stove, the scent of her famous oxtail and pork-mince bolognese sending her tastebuds dancing, an impressive feat when she couldn’t recall the last time she’d had an appetite. She and Marianna had spent countless hours perfecting the recipe, and now it was close to perfect. Grabbing the wooden spoon, she gave it a stir, the bubbles of rich tomato goodness still not dark enough in colour, nor thick enough – it would be another hour before it was ready to be cooled, the oxtail plucked from the bones, and then served over freshly made pasta for the lunch rush. She was in the mood to make pappardelle today. The thick egg pasta would be perfect slathered in the rich sauce and topped off with some freshly grated pecorino, possibly a little chilli oil, depending on the diner’s palate.

‘Thank god you’re here, Melody.’ Appearing out of nowhere, Antonio dumped a tray of dirty plates and cups into the sink then spun to face her – clearly they were extremely busy because he rarely got his hands dirty. ‘Oh, man, you look like death warmed up.’ He bustled over, leaning in to kiss her. ‘Did you get any sleep at all last night?’

‘Gee whizz, Antonio, don’t go sugar-coating anything, will you.’ Rolling her eyes at his lack of tact, Melody turned her cheek to his inbound lips, deflecting his kiss to somewhere more platonic. ‘Unless you count a couple of hours with your eyes closed as sleeping, no, I didn’t.’

Sighing, he rested against the bench, his dark eyes on hers. ‘So how is she?’

‘Not good, but you know Mum. She refuses to have me sitting at her bedside all day long, waiting for her to die.’ She half shrugged and smiled sadly. ‘Her words, not mine.’

Antonio shook his head. ‘I don’t know how you do it, sitting with her most of the night then coming in here six days a week.’

‘I do what I have to.’ The shattering image of Antonio lip-to-lip with some girl from his gym flashed through her mind and she blinked back the threat of tears. She wasn’t going to break down at work again. She’d done that too many times lately, and she’d made a promise to herself not to. Besides, he didn’t deserve any more of her heartbreak. ‘As you know.’ She shot him a look.

‘Come on, Melody. When are you going to stop being so pissed at me for my stuff-up?’

She and Antonio had been having this same conversation over and over since she’d caught him red-handed three weeks earlier, making out with some buxom blonde with lips bigger than hot-air balloons and boobs to match. It made her wonder how many times he hadn’t been caught. Melody was relieved of the need to reply as Marianna Calabrese bustled into the kitchen.

‘Oh bella!’ Marianna said in her sweet, singsong voice, thick with an Italian accent. ‘You made it, my precious daughter-in-law.’ Her long dark hair, threaded with streaks of grey and tied back into a tight ponytail, swung to land over her shoulder when she skidded to a stop. ‘And the happiest of birthdays to you, sweetheart. Your present is still on the way. It got held up in the post, but it’s coming.’

‘Thank you, Marianna. Sorry I’m a little late.’ Ignoring the panicked look on Antonio’s face, Melody unwound her scarf and dumped it, her jacket and her handbag into her staff locker. ‘I missed my first train by seconds and had to wait for the next one. Talk about frustrating.’

Wiping her hands on the starched-to-a-crisp red and white polka-dot apron tied around her generous hips, her megawatt smile radiating the genuine warmth she was renowned for, Marianna tutted as she closed the distance between them. ‘Shush now, there’s no apology needed.’ She cupped Melody’s cheeks, her big brown eyes filled with compassion. ‘Because you, tesoro mio, are a blessing to me, to my son, and to this kitchen. I appreciate you being here with everything you’re going through.’

Emotion lodged in Melody’s throat, making it impossible to reply. Instead, she smiled and nodded.

Marianna had always had Melody’s back, and if she knew her son had been making out with another woman – just like Antonio’s father had done so many years before, sending Marianna running all the way across the oceans to her family who had emigrated to Sydney – she’d lose it. That was why Melody had decided to keep her lips zipped. Marianna hated infidelity of any kind, and Melody didn’t want a rift between mother and son on her conscience right now.

With his mother bustling back out of the kitchen, Antonio cocked his head as if pondering something. Melody could almost hear his brain ticking from where she was standing, putting her apron on. What the hell was he scheming now?

‘What is it, Antonio?’ She kicked off her boots and pulled on her chef’s clogs.

‘I know what you’re thinking and no, I haven’t forgotten your birthday. I actually planned to get your favourite from that little Lebanese place tonight, so would you mind if I called over to Sally’s with it?’ He took a tentative step forward. ‘We can celebrate together with takeaway and a bottle of wine.’

‘It’s probably not the best idea.’ She took her spot at the bench, eyeing the array of fresh ingredients she’d had delivered from the markets first thing this morning – a daily ritual.

‘Please, Melody. It’s been almost a month and I don’t think I can say sorry any more than I already have.’ He stopped on the opposite side of the bench, tipping his head to catch her eyes. ‘Are you ever going to forgive me, pasticcino?’

‘Please don’t call me cupcake. You know I hate it.’ Sighing, she brought her weary gaze to his. ‘Honestly, Antonio, I don’t know if I can ever fully forgive you, and if I do, I’m not sure I’ll ever forget what you did.’

‘But I’ve told you, it meant nothing and—’

She held her hand up to stop his excuses – she’d heard enough of them. ‘I know, I know. It was just a stupid kiss, and she kissed you, not the other way around, yadda, yadda, yadda.’ She met his gaze, hers fierce now. ‘And like I’ve told you, it didn’t look like that to me.’

‘I know it didn’t.’ He regarded her like a wounded puppy. ‘I’ve gone and stuffed everything up, haven’t I?’