Humming to herself, she found a mason jar and filled it with her steaming sauce. It was so good that her friend Donna-Marie Esposito had told her over and over again at their Saturday afternoon gin rummy marathons how Constantina should market it, just like Paul Newman did. When Constantina, blushing, had remarked that she didn’t have Mr. Newman’s money, nor his fame, Donna-Marie had shooed off her arguments with her plump, beringed fingers. “So what? Your sauce is better than anything I’ve ever tasted, and that includes my dear departed aunt’s. I tell you, Zia Rosalia’s and that Mr. Newman’s can’t hold a candle to yours, my friend. Oh, wait!” She lifted her hands as if she’d just received a message from God himself. Hands clutched tightly around her cards, her rings caught in the light from the huge chandelier that hung over her dining room table. Her cigarette, an unfiltered Camel waggled between her fuchsia-glossed lips. “You could call it ‘Rubino’s Pure Old Country Italian’ and give that Newman a run for his money, I don’t mind saying. Newman? Definitely not from the old country. You could make a fortune. And by the way, ‘gin.’” She slapped her cards onto the table.

Blushing and smiling now, Constantina screwed on the top of the jar and paused to light another cigarette. She sat down and smoked it to the filter—waste not, want not, her mother, God rest her soul, had always warned her nine children to remain frugal. Constantina would take that advice to her grave. She ground her Salem Light into an ashtray, washed her hands, and placed the jar of sauce into the handy basket attached to her walker; then headed to the front door.

It took a while. She wasn’t as young as she used to be, and that hip, oh, my, but she hitched her way to the woman’s—Grace, her name was—apartment, where music was blaring.

She rapped her large knuckles against the door, but it swung open. Unlatched. No wonder the music—something popular and definitely not Frank Sinatra—was so loud. What was it called? Hip-hop? Like a rabbit?

Young people today!

And what was that girl thinking leaving the door open in this neighborhood?

“Hello?” Constantina called. “Hello, Gracie?” She adjusted her walker and started into the room. “I brought you some of my spaghetti sauce. . . .” Where was she? Still in bed? The door was open, and Constantina had never seen a woman of ill repute’s boudoir. “Hello?” she called again, not wanting to startle Gracie or catch her dressing. “Gracie?” She angled her walker toward the door, and beginning to perspire, wishing she’d brought her pack of Salems with her, she pushed onward, through the opening to the room and—

She stopped short.

Saw the naked girl on the bed.