Page 9 of Vicious Temptation
Agnes snorts, swirling the gravy in the pot with the wooden spoon she’s holding. “The basics. A little chopping, a little seasoning. Nothing too intense. But Cecelia likes being in the kitchen.” She sets the spoon down on the flowered ceramic rest between the stove burners, and walks to the refrigerator. I can see that she’s starting to get a little slower, the signs of age showing, and it makes my chest ache a little to see it. I’ve known Agnes since I was a child. She worked for my parents, before she came to run my household after I married. She and Aldo are far more than just staff to me. I wasn’t exaggerating when I said to Masseo earlier today that Agnes is like family to me.
I walk to the wine rack on the far end of the counter as Agnes takes a large wooden bowl out of the refrigerator, covered in a linen cloth. She sets it down on the counter and pulls out a stepstool for Cecelia, who steps up onto it as Agnes uncovers the bowl.
“I know how much you like punching down the dough,” Agnes says with a smile. “So go ahead and do that, and then we’ll get it into the oven. Danny, do you want to oil the loaf pan?”
Danny nods eagerly, and Agnes brings him the ceramic loaf pan, along with a bottle of good olive oil and a napkin to coat the inside of it. I feel something tug in my chest at the sight of the dish—that pan, made out of fired ceramic and hand-painted with small flowers in red and blue, was a part of the dishes that were given to my wife by my family, before our wedding. A gift from our old-world family, back in Sicily, where the dishes were made.
There’s an entire set of dishes that match in the cupboards, where they sit and never get used. I don’t like seeing them on the table. But Agnes uses the more “useful” ones, things like the loaf pan and casserole dish, and I don’t mind, especially since the children help her in the kitchen so often, and I rarely have anything to do with the cooking. They should get to enjoy the things that their mother loved.
Danny is happily pouring olive oil into the pan, his hands greasy with it, and I glance over from uncorking a bottle to see that some is already in his hair. I set the wine bottle down, crossing the room to go and rescue the pan.
“You have to use a smaller amount,” I tell him, folding the paper napkin and pouring out a bit of the oil onto it. “Here.” I tilt the pan, showing him how to spread it evenly all around the surface, and then mop up the excess. “Now the bread dough won’t stick.”
I hand him the napkin, letting him sweep it once more around the interior of the pan, before taking the oil-soaked napkins and throwing them away. Cecelia is happily helping Agnes flour the dough, and for a moment, I just stand there, taking in the sight in front of me. It’s a happy, homey one—my two children and a woman who could easily be their grandmother fixing a hearty dinner for us, laughing as the last rays of the sun stream through the wide, valance-topped window above the sink and over the old woman and little girl kneading bread dough.
As always, when I watch a moment like this, my chest feels hollow. Because Delilah should still be here, her ink-black hair thrown up in a messy bun atop her head, her rings sitting in a dish on the windowsill while she helps Cecelia with the bread dough, flour all over them both. She liked to hum while she cooked, and the sound of it is noticeably absent from the kitchen, as happy as this scene is.
I swallow hard, pushing away the image. It’s harder for me to imagine Bella here, but maybe that’s a good thing. She’s meant to be a new employee, and it’ll be up to her to fit into our lives, or not. If I could imagine her here so easily, that might mean I’m thinking of her in ways that I shouldn’t.
“Come on, Danny,” I tell my son, doing my best to banish thoughts both of my wife and of the woman I’m hoping to hire to care for our children. “Let’s get you cleaned up. Can’t sit at the dinner table with olive oil in your hair.”
Danny lets out a sound of protest, but he gets up anyway. “I’ll be back down with him in just a bit,” I tell Agnes, who nods and collects the pan for the bread dough.
A half-hour later, we’re all back downstairs and around the table in the dining room. Agnes and Aldo often eat with us, at least a few times a week, and tonight is one of those. I bring in the Dutch oven with the pot roast, and Agnes carries in the bread and a dish of herbed olive oil and butter, as well as a boat of gravy. Danny and Cecilia sit on one side of the table, Agnes and Aldo at the other, with me at the head. I feel a small pang every time I see Cecelia sit down in the chair her mother used to occupy, knowing I’ll never see Delilah there again.
At the same time, I’m grateful for the family that I do still have, and the closeness we share.
My decision to bring Bella into this wavers, just for a moment. What if it upsets the balance that we have now? I can see a potential for this to go wrong, as well as right.
“I’m thinking of hiring someone new,” I say slowly, glancing up at Agnes as I slice into the pot roast. “A nanny.”
Agnes raises an eyebrow, passing the butter dish to Cecelia. “Oh? Is that so, Gabriel?”
There’s a hint of caution in her voice. I imagine that it likely has to do with some of the same reservations I’ve had.
“I thought it might be good for us.” I glance over at Danny and Cecelia. “Would you like that? A new friend to help Agnes during the day, while I’m not at home?”
Cecelia frowns, glancing at Agnes and back at me. “Maybe,” she ventures. “Depending on what she’s like.”
Danny just shrugs, smearing butter over a piece of bread. “That’s fine,” he says, kicking his feet back and forth against his chair.
“Agnes?” I glance back at her. “What do you think?”
She flattens her mouth, but nods slowly. “The help might be good,” she says, and it’s at that moment that I feel sure my decision to bring someone on, whether it’s Bella or someone else, is the right one. I’ve never known Agnes to be someone who readily admits when she needs help, so for her to say that means that it’s time. I watch her for a moment as she puts a second helping on Aldo’s plate, looking for signs that something more is wrong than she’s letting on. But she just looks a bit tired. She’s aging, after all, as much as I don’t want to admit it. I remember when she was still a younger woman, managing the house for my parents.
I drop the topic for now, wanting to wait until after the children are in bed to discuss it further. We finish the meal with lighter conversations, talking to Cecelia and Danny about school, and how excited they are for summer break, which starts next week. Another reason to bring on extra help. Bella, if she agrees, can take some of the load off of Agnes while the children are here all day, rather than being in school for part of it.
When dinner is finished, Cecelia and Danny help Agnes clear the table. Wanting them to learn to help take care of themselves is one of the many reasons why Delilah never employed more staff, and why I’ve continued not to do so. I don’t want them to grow up never having washed a dish or cleaned their own rooms.
The nighttime routine is always the same. I take them upstairs, tuck them in, and then head back down to pour myself an evening drink. Agnes is in the living room when I walk in with a glass of wine, cleaning up a little, and I shake my head.
“It’s after nine, Agnes. Leave whatever it is until tomorrow.”
“What, I can’t tidy up?” She shoots me a meaningful glare, and I sink down into my armchair, frowning at her.
“You can’t work all day. Go put your feet up. Read a book, or knit. Whatever your hobbies are these days.”
“My hobby is making sure you’re taken care of.” She gives me a fond, but faintly concerned look. “And I want to hear more about this possible nanny you’re hiring.”