Page 50 of Sunrise By the Sea

‘And I have to show you that that is not true and that there are ways to live and grieve at the same time.’

‘What do I do?’

‘Well,’ said Anita slowly, ‘you carry on. You stay the course. You walk further away from home. You don’t think about your job or your granddad or your future or anything else. You put one foot in front of the other.’

Chapter Twenty-nine

It’s hard to say, really, when happenstance comes along.

Marisa, if asked to be brutally honest, would say that it was flotsam, something floating past when she felt she was in a shipwreck and she had grabbed at it, desperately trying to keep her head above the waves.

Polly, being of a more optimistic disposition, would put it down to serendipity. Regardless, when she lightly knocked on the door of the little yellow house when the twins were at their lessons, she wasn’t at all prepared for Marisa in the kitchen.

‘Oh,’ she said. ‘What are you making?’

Marisa had just added a thin stream of milk to the bowl.

‘Justcrespelle,’ she said. She had laid out nutmeg for the bechamel and was trying to dry the spinach, not entirely successfully.

‘Spinach is the wettest thing in the world,’ she complained.

‘I know,’ said Polly. ‘They should feed it to camels. Did Reuben not leave you a salad spinner?’

‘I think I’m pretty committed to the kitchen roll.’

Polly smiled. ‘So, what even is it?’

‘Well, I make . . . They’re like little pancakes really. Then you stir the spinach into the sauce . . . My grandfather used to let me do it. The colours blend just so beautifully, it’s like magic. Then you add lots and lots and lots of pecorino. And then some more. And too much pepper also. And probably some prosciutto if you’ve got some kicking about. And you fold it over and pour more sauce on top and stick it in the oven until it’s all bubbling and delicious.

‘Oh my God,’ said Polly. ‘That sounds amazing. You’re making me hungry.’

She thought for a moment.

‘Does it make children eat spinach?’

Marisa shrugged. ‘Italian children already eat spinach.’

‘Yeah yeah yeah,’ said Polly, watching her, a thought growing in her head.

‘I don’t suppose they’d scale up?’ she said, watching Marisa whisk her bechamel neatly.

‘What do you mean?’

Polly frowned. ‘Just a thought I had. Can you show me?’

Marisa shrugged again – she still wasn’t very used to having people around – and heated up the pan to cook the first one.

The spinach swirled into the bechamel sauce was like marbling, the bright green against the creaminess, and hypnotic to watch.

‘Wow,’ said Polly, then she smiled apologetically. ‘I don’t get out much.’

‘Neither do I,’ said Marisa and Polly jumped back in horror. ‘Oh God, sorry, I didn’t mean . . .’

‘It’s all right,’ said Marisa, smiling to show she wasn’t really hurt, although it stung a little bit. But that was hardly Polly’s fault.

The butter sizzled in the pan as she started to turn thecrespelle.

‘You seem to be making a lot,’ observed Polly. ‘Are they all for you?’

---