The Marriage Trap
Maggie gulped. “Um, maybe I should—”
Mama Conte wrapped her hand around Maggie’s arm. Her frailty seemed nonexistent. Sheer strength pulsed from those delicate muscles and squeezed like a death trap. “Niente. You stay with me, Margherita, and help me with dinner.”
Michael shook his head. “Mama, Maggie does not cook. In the States, most women work and many do not know how to prepare food.”
That caught Maggie’s attention. Her head whipped around and she glared. “Screw you, Count, I can cook.” She gave a fake simper. “I just pretended not to know how so you’d take me to dinner more often.”
Mama Conte gave a proud cackle and led her inside, leaving an astonished count in their wake.
With every step toward the giant, shiny kitchen, a new bead of sweat appeared. Maggie seethed as one thought danced in her brain.
If she got out of this alive, she’d kill him.
• • •
Maggie wanted to give in to the urge to run from the house screaming. She hated kitchens. When she was younger, most of the cooks would turn mean when she’d enter their sacred space, until just the sight of that shiny equipment wrung a shudder. Still, she kept her head up and her attitude positive. She was a capable woman and could follow a recipe. Maybe dinner would be something easy and she could show Michael her unbelievable culinary talents and finally shut him up.
Michael’s mama already had a variety of bowls and measuring cups stacked on the long, wide counter. Various containers of powdered things were neatly lined up. Definitely not like that crazy show Iron Chef with all the chaos and running around to prepare a meal.
Maggie always believed cooking was done for survival—not pleasure. Since she earned lots of money, she spent most of it on take-out. She frowned and tried to feign enthusiasm for the task ahead. God, she wanted more wine. If she got drunk enough, she’d be more relaxed for the upcoming torture.
“What are we making?” she asked with fake cheer.
“Pasta. We shall eat a quick dinner before the rest of the family arrives, then put out pastries and coffee. You know how to cook pasta, Margherita?”
Relief relaxed her tight muscles. Thank God. Mama Conte picked the one meal she excelled at. She often cooked pasta late at night and knew how to get it to the perfect consistency of al dente. Maggie nodded. “Of course.”
Satisfaction flickered over the older woman’s face. “Good. We need a few batches. I’ve already gotten the ingredients.”
The massive countertop held flour, giant eggs, oil, rolling pins, and a variety of other equipment. She glanced around for the box of ziti and a pot to boil the water in as Mama Conte handed her an apron. Maggie wrinkled her nose at the odd choice of clothing just to stick something in water, but what the hell. When in Italy . . .
“I am sure you cook pasta differently in America, so you may watch me first, then prepare your batch.”
Confusion fogged her brain for a moment, and Maggie refused to give in to panic. Where was the blue box? What was she talking about? In growing horror, she watched as wrinkled hands moved like lightning cracking eggs, straining yolks, and mixing everything in a bowl. The flour was dumped in the middle of a large board, and slowly, Mama Conte poured the wet stuff in the middle and began some kind of ritual that blended it all together. Like magic, dough suddenly appeared, and she kneaded, stretched, and danced over the blob for endless minutes. Completely fascinated by the hypnotic ritual, Maggie couldn’t believe this stuff would end up looking like anything you could actually eat. Never breaking the rhythm, Mama Conte glanced toward her. “You may begin when you are ready.”
Oh. Shit.
Reality hit her as she stared at the mass of stuff piled in front of her. Homemade pasta! She had to make the actual dough? There was no heavenly box to open, or a jar of sauce to heat up. The stakes were much higher than she thought, and Maggie felt the beginnings of an attack nibble on her sanity. She breathed deep. She could do this. No way would she be broken by a lump of dough and an Italian mother just waiting to pounce. She’d show them all.
Maggie pulled the bowl close. The flour part was easy, but the eggs scared the hell out of her. Hm, one good crack in the middle, pull apart the shell, and the inside should slide out easily. With fake confidence, she slammed the egg against the edge of the bowl.
The slimy stuff slipped into her hands and white shell scattered. One quick glance at Mama Conte confirmed she wasn’t looking over, and she trusted Maggie to get her batch done. Humming some Italian song under her breath, she kept kneading.
Maggie scooped out as much of the shell as possible and left the rest in. A few more and she had some kind of wet ingredient that looked acceptable. Kind of. Screw it, she needed to move fast before his mother looked over. She poured a mass of flour in the center, then dumped the stuff in the bowl in the middle.
Liquid ran over the edges of the board in a runny mess. Trying not to pant, she wiped her brow with her elbow and scooped up the mess with the apron. The damn fork didn’t help stir it at all, so Maggie took a deep breath and stuck both hands into the junk.
Oh, gross.
Flour caught under her nails. She squeezed over and over and prayed for some sort of miracle that resembled dough. Powder flew around her in a dust cloud. The more she panicked, the faster she rolled. Maybe more flour or another egg? The rest was a blur until a pair of firm hands stilled her movements. Maggie closed her eyes in pure defeat. Then slowly opened them.
Mama Conte stared at the mess that was supposed to be pasta. White shells scattered within the lumps of gooey junk that slid over the counter and dripped on the floor. Tiny puff clouds rose and drifted around them. Her apron was filled with sticky clumps, and the so-called dough covered her bare arms up to her elbows.
Maggie knew it was over. Michael would never marry a woman who couldn’t cook homemade pasta. Mama Conte would never approve of such a match, or even believe in the possibility. With the last shred of pride she held, Maggie lifted her chin and met the woman’s gaze head-on.
“I lied.” Mama Conte lifted a brow in question, and Maggie rushed on. “I have no idea how to cook. I use the dried pasta and dump it in water. I heat up sauce in the microwave. I eat take-out almost every night.”
“I know.”
Maggie jerked back. “What?”
“I wanted to see how far you would go. I am impressed, Margherita. You never show your fear. Once you commit, you see it through, even if you think you will fail. That is exactly what my son needs.”
With quick actions, Mama Conte dumped the oozing mess into the garbage, redusted with the flour, and turned to her. “We begin again. Watch me.”
Maggie watched as she was showed each step with careful precision. As the fear of discovery slid away, she relaxed into the lesson, her hands steeped in dough as she worked the mound with a strength that quickly tired her. The hand weights at the gym had nothing on cooking, and the muscles in Mama Conte’s arms and wrists never seemed to tire as she sought the perfect blend. Maggie caught up the lilting melody Michael’s mother hummed, and a sense of peace settled over her. She’d never cooked with a woman before, never been allowed in such a warm, domestic space. As the rolling pin worked the dough and was stretched delicately, Mama Conte handed her a portion.
“The earthiness of pasta dough is the true element in a good, simple meal. We must stretch it to a delicate thinness without breaking. Work the edge.”
Maggie bit her lip. “Mama Conte, maybe you should do this one?”
“No. You will serve your husband dinner tonight, Margherita, by your own hand. And this is not because you are beneath him, or he believes you are less. It is because you are more. So much more. Capisce?”
The beauty of her statement shimmered around her with sudden truth. She reached up, wiped her brow, and smeared batter over her forehead. And smiled. “Okay.”
They worked without speaking, humming Italian songs, listening to the soothing motions of the rolling pin and the chirping of birds in the distance. Maggie broke noodle over noodle, but dug in, until one perfect large strand draped over her hand. Uneven, but transparently thin without a break.
Mama Conte reached over and draped it on the drying stand, inspecting it carefully. Her cackle echoed through the kitchen. “Perfecto.”
Maggie grinned and wondered why she felt as if she just emerged from a Mount Everest climb in the middle of winter.
• • •
Hours later, she sat at the large table with bowls of steaming pasta and fresh tomato sauce. The scents of sweet basil and savory garlic hung in the air. Three bottles of wine took up the corners, and plates squeezed between the platters of food like secondary characters in a book. She glanced over nervously at Michael. Would he laugh? Would he tease her about her inability to cook and her pathetic efforts at an expert table?
Laughter and yelling and loud discussion swarmed around her in confusion. She was so used to dinners eaten at her breakfast counter while she watched television or at structured restaurants with low, murmured conversation. Growing up, she ate alone, or with her brother in silence. But Michael was different.
He teased his sisters and relaxed under the warmth of his family, and Maggie realized his ease was brought into every situation because he knew exactly who he was. She respected that in a man and found it rare. He enjoyed life and liked a sense of humor, and she wondered what it would be like to eat with him every night. Sip wine, talk about their day, cook together, and eat together. A real-life couple.
Michael picked up his fork, twirled the noodles, and popped them in his mouth.
She held her breath.
He made a moaning sound. “Ah, Mama, it is delicious.”
Mama Conte smirked and slid herself onto the seat. “You may thank your wife, Michael. Each noodle on your plate was made by her hand.”
He drew back in surprise. A tiny frown marred his brow as he looked down at the meal, then swung his gaze to meet hers. An odd combination of emotion swirled in those eyes. A lick of heat. A flare of pride. And a flicker of gratitude.
He bowed his head and a smile bloomed over his face. Lightness filled her, and she smiled back, the busyness of the table fading away under his attention. “Grazie, cara. I am honored to eat something you made for me. It is delicioso.”
She nodded, accepting his thanks. Venezia spoke about bridesmaid dresses and weddings. Carina spoke about art. Julietta spoke about the new ad campaign they were launching at the bakery. Michael kept eating, obvious pride in his fake wife’s food.
And for a little while, she was happier than she’d ever been.
Chapter Five
They were in trouble.
Michael flanked the door and greeted a long line of relatives he hadn’t seen in months. He’d suspected the intimate dinner party that was no big deal would end up in a disaster. Well, not as much for him as for poor Maggie. His famiglia flocked around her with a noisy affection they only reserved for blood. Cousins brought spouses, girlfriends, boyfriends, and all the bambinos. Close neighbors and some women who’d hunted him for years showed up to check out their winning rival. For him, it was a typical evening at his mama’s house.