“The sauce recipe I gave you.” Maria’s eyes darted over to her husband, who was staring at a spot on the wall behind Edward’s head, as Edward silently sipped his coffee. “The recipe is not the recipe I use for my own family.” Her expression was sheepish.

“Hmm?” Vivian wondered why Maria was talking about spaghetti sauce. These Italians sure did have a jumpy way about their conversations.

“I am so very sorry. We take our food very seriously, and so the recipe we give to other people is not the good recipe. Or, not as good as our own.”

“Oh, well, garsh,” Vivian said, still trying to figure out what Maria meant.

She hadn’t heard the rumor, then. Vivian’s palms had begun to sweat and she pulled her hands away and put them in her lap. She remembered asking Maria for a good spaghetti sauce recipe, during a lull at the switchboard one afternoon, thinking what good luck it was that she knew an authentic Italian.

“You have been so kind to us, and welcomed us into your home.” Maria smiled, and crossed her own hands in her lap. She glanced up at the ceiling, as if unsure where to look at that moment. A small spider was ambling across the expanse of white, and seemed to be looking for something that wasn’t there. Maria raised her eyebrows and tipped her head from side to side in a playful motion.

“You have earned the real Tomasetti recipe, if you would like it.”

Vivian didn’t know what to think. Her mouth had dropped open a bit as Maria stared at the ceiling, for some reason, and then gave a little shake of her head. Vivian had dropped the useless anxiety about the rumor and a weed of embarrassment had rooted itself in her belly. Maria’s cute little head tilt sure wasn’t going to change that. It was almost as bad as Laura Eagan’s baby talk. Maria reached out and grasped one of Vivian’s sweaty hands and gave it a squeeze. Vivian forced a laugh that, instead of being a charming hostess giggle, came out sounding like a donkey braying in the barnyard.

“Well, yes.” She cleared her throat to get rid of the donkey braying. “I would.”

She felt the color rising in her cheeks. She also felt foolish and offended, but was still a hostess, goddammit. This was why she had trouble with people. They always seemed to be keeping secrets from you. Just like her mother’d always said.

“Come to the kitchen. I keep my recipe cards in a box. I think I have a few blank ones. Maybe I could also get the recipe for the cake, what did you call it? Pandora?”

Edward watched from the window as the Tomasettis left the house and climbed into the rusted, early-model Ford pickup truck, Dominic helping his wife into the passenger seat before walking around to the driver’s side. As soon as they’d driven away, he turned to Vivian and launched into one of his low-growl tirades. Vivian thought, We don’t need a dog, we’ve got Edward. She responded by showing him her back and disappearing into the kitchen.