Pasta Secrets

Pasta Secrets

The Winter Gala at Sanford Farms

The dining tables at the Sanford Farms’ great room were a vision of wintry elegance. White tablecloths draped to the floor, accented with silver candelabras and black napkins folded into precise fans. The light from the chandeliers cast shimmering reflections on crystal glasses, and a faint hum of polite conversation mixed with the soft strains of a string quartet tucked into the corner. Yet the true stars of the evening weren’t the decorations—they were the Pasta family.

At every table in the horseshoe-shaped arrangement, a member of the Pasta family held court, mingling with guests, sharing anecdotes, and commanding the room’s attention with a natural ease that only generations of wealth and prominence could instill.

At the center of it all sat Guiseppe Pasta, his dark suit impeccably tailored, with his wife Sophia at his side. His sons, both sporting identical slicked-back hairstyles, whispered animatedly to one another, no doubt concocting schemes to charm the local debutantes. Next to him sat his brother Luigi, whose booming laugh echoed through the room, and Luigi’s brood, including his youngest daughter Penny. She was impossible to miss, darting between tables with a restless energy that made her a favorite among the waitstaff and a minor terror for her parents.

Seated further along the curve of the arrangement was Annette Pasta, the youngest sibling, with her husband, Al Dente. Al was tall and wiry, with a perpetually nervous smile that seemed out of place amidst the relaxed confidence of the Pasta family. Guiseppe and Luigi exchanged knowing looks whenever Al spoke, quietly assessing whether the young man was truly “al dente”—just right—for their sister.

And finally, there was Nan. Elder sister to Guiseppe, Luigi, and Annette, Nan Pasta had an air of gentle authority. Her silvery hair was pinned neatly under a jeweled clip, and her smile carried both warmth and a subtle warning: underestimate her at your peril. Nan had earned her nickname, "Auntie Pasta," not only for her legendary salad recipe but also for her knack of quietly managing family affairs.

As I made my way through the gala, snippets of conversation drifted past. One in particular caught my attention—an older gentleman, speaking in hushed tones to his wife.

“The Baguettes used to be just as powerful as the Pastas,” he said, swirling his wine. “If Antonio hadn’t outmaneuvered Étienne Baguette, we’d all be eating French bread instead of pasta.”

His wife sniffed. “A shame. Their wheat was the best in the region. But business is business.”

I filed the name away. Baguette.

The Narrator’s Mission

I was not here for the Pasta family’s company, nor for the lobster bisque and tiramisu that the waiters carried to each table with military precision. My mission was more specific. I needed to speak with Nan about her parents’ house on Academy Street.

Antonio and Mia Pasta, the late patriarch and matriarch of the family, had been the pillars of Amsterdam, New York. Antonio’s lumber mill had turned the town into a hub of prosperity, and Mia’s knack for social diplomacy ensured the family’s standing in the upper echelons of society. Together, they’d built two grand Victorian homes: one for their family and another for Mia’s brother, Salvatore.

I’d heard stories of Salvatore’s house, with its towering turret and stained-glass windows that caught the morning sun like a kaleidoscope. Rumors swirled about secret staircases, hidden compartments, and treasures locked away in its labyrinthine halls. I had recently stumbled upon an ugly brooch in a pawnshop, featuring a red toadstool and a black spider in glittering stones. I remembered an image like it being in the newspapers, with an obscure reference to the Pasta family. Its odd, misshapen back resembled the prongs of an antique key. A key to what? I could only guess.

The house had been sold years ago, but something told me the brooch—and its potential secrets—was tied to the Pastas. And if anyone knew the truth, it would be Nan.

A Conversation with Auntie Pasta

Navigating the gala to reach Auntie Pasta was no small feat. Every step brought me face-to-face with another Pasta or their extended network of friends and admirers.

“Alfonso Ravioli,” a stout man at the third table announced as I passed. He thrust out a hand with such enthusiasm that I had no choice but to shake it. “Cousin to the Pastas on my mother’s side. Enjoying the party?”

“Yes, lovely evening,” I replied, attempting to step around him.

“Ah, don’t let the decorations fool you—Nan’s the real mastermind behind this shindig,” Alfonso continued, oblivious to my escape attempt. “Did you try her salad? A revelation! I’ve been begging for the recipe for years, but she guards it like it’s the crown jewels.”

I nodded politely, edging away, until I spotted Penny darting toward me with a mischievous grin.

“Watch out,” she whispered as she passed. “Uncle Guiseppe’s looking for someone to debate him about the economy. He’ll trap you for hours!”

Finally, I reached Nan’s table. She glanced up at me, her eyes sharp behind her delicate glasses.

“Come to offer compliments or complaints?” she asked dryly, gesturing for me to sit.

“Neither, I hope. I need to ask you about your parents’ house on Academy Street,” I began, lowering my voice. “Specifically, Salvatore’s house.”

Nan’s expression didn’t change, but her posture stiffened slightly. She folded her hands neatly on the table.

“That house has been out of the family for decades,” she said. “What interest do you have in it?”

I hesitated, deciding whether to reveal the brooch. Instead, I tried to play it safe.

“I’ve heard stories. Secret rooms, hidden treasures... I thought perhaps you could separate fact from fiction.”

Nan leaned back, a faint smile tugging at the corner of her lips. “Stories, indeed. My uncle Salvatore was a man of peculiar habits. He loved puzzles, riddles, and secrets. But if you’re looking for treasure, you’ll be disappointed. The house was thoroughly searched after his passing.”

I pulled the brooch from my pocket and placed it on the table. “Then what’s this?”

Nan’s eyes flicked to the brooch, and for the briefest moment, her calm demeanor faltered. She reached out, turning it over in her hands.

“Where did you find this?” she asked, her tone quieter now.

“A pawnshop,” I admitted. “The back looks like a key. A key to what, I don’t know.”

Nan studied me for a long moment before slipping the brooch into her handbag. “Perhaps it’s time you saw the house for yourself. Meet me at my home tomorrow morning. We’ll discuss it further.”

Hints of Trouble

As I left Auntie Pasta’s table, a strange unease settled over me. Across the room, Luigi was speaking to a tall man in a dark coat who seemed oddly out of place among the gala’s cheerful guests. The man’s gaze followed me as I returned to my seat.

“Everything all right?” Alfonso Ravioli asked, now holding a flute of champagne.

“Fine,” I lied.

But something about the way Nan had reacted to the brooch—and the stranger’s piercing stare—made me wonder if I’d stumbled into something far more dangerous than I’d anticipated.

The Visit to Nan's House

The following morning, I arrived at Nan Pasta’s house—a stately, ivy-covered residence nestled at the edge of town. The front garden was meticulously groomed, with neat hedges framing a stone pathway that led to a door painted the same deep red as the toadstool on the brooch. I couldn’t help but feel a twinge of apprehension as I approached.

Nan greeted me at the door with her characteristic grace. Her silvery hair was pulled back into a loose knot, and she wore a cardigan that seemed far too casual for someone who commanded a room like she had the previous night. Still, her sharp gaze reminded me that I was dealing with someone who missed nothing.

“Come in,” she said briskly, motioning me toward a sitting room that smelled faintly of lavender and old books.

The room was an ode to the Pasta family’s legacy: framed photographs adorned the walls, interspersed with a few small oil paintings that I guessed were family heirlooms. On the coffee table sat a single, steaming teapot and two cups. Nan gestured for me to sit, and we began.

“I haven’t seen that brooch in years,” she said, placing it on the table between us. “It belonged to Salvatore, of course. He commissioned it from a jeweler in Italy, though what he intended for it remains a mystery.”

I leaned forward. “The back resembles a key. Do you think it could open something in his house?”

Nan’s lips pressed into a thin line. “Perhaps. Salvatore was a peculiar man. He loved to test people’s wits, and I wouldn’t put it past him to hide something of significance in plain sight.”

“What kind of significance?” I asked.

Nan poured tea into both cups, the delicate clinking of porcelain breaking the silence. “Salvatore was deeply private. Even within the family, he kept certain affairs to himself. But when his health began to decline, he hinted at something valuable hidden within the house—something he said would ‘rewrite the family story.’”

My curiosity deepened. “Do you believe that’s true?”

Nan shrugged. “I’ve learned not to dismiss anything when it comes to Salvatore. But as I told you last night, the house was searched thoroughly after his death. Nothing extraordinary was found.”

“What about the new owners? Do you think they’ve discovered anything?”

Nan’s expression darkened. “The house has changed hands several times, but none of the owners seemed particularly interested in exploring its past. Still, if you believe that brooch unlocks something, you might find answers where others have failed.”

She reached for her handbag and pulled out a yellowed envelope. “This contains a few notes Salvatore left behind—a list of riddles and sketches. He gave it to me years ago, and I’ve never made much sense of it. Perhaps you’ll have better luck.”

I took the envelope, feeling its weight both physically and metaphorically. “Thank you, Nan.”

She stood, signaling the end of our conversation. “Be careful,” she said, her tone softer now. “Salvatore may be gone, but the secrets he kept might still have consequences.”

As I stepped out of her house, I noticed the tall man from the gala the previous night. He was leaning against a black car parked across the street, his dark coat buttoned up tightly despite the mild weather. His gaze locked onto me, and I felt an icy chill crawl down my spine.

I slipped the envelope into my bag and walked quickly to my car, the sense of unease from the gala returning tenfold. Whatever lay ahead, I had a feeling that uncovering Salvatore Pasta’s secrets would be anything but straightforward.

Top of Form

The Secret of Salvatore’s House

The door groaned as I pushed it open. Dust motes floated through the slanted beams of light filtering in from tall, arched windows. The air was thick with age—old wood, faded wallpaper, and something else. Secrets.

Nan stepped in behind me, her gloved fingers brushing along the wall. “Salvatore never let the family see the entire house,” she murmured. “I wonder what we’ll find.”

The brooch felt heavy in my pocket. I pulled it out, turning it over in my fingers. The jagged, misshapen back caught the dim light. A key. But to what?

Nan’s eyes locked onto a large, ornate painting above the cold fireplace. The frame was massive, its gilding cracked with time. At the center stood a scene of rolling wheat fields. Farmers with wide-brimmed hats worked the golden landscape, but something about their faces struck me—sharp, angular features.

Nan nodded. “Salvatore painted this himself.”

“The Baguettes,” I breathed. “I heard of them.”

Beneath the frame, I noticed a small, irregular indentation in the wood paneling. A keyhole.

My hands trembled as I pressed the brooch against it. With a soft click, the frame released, swinging outward like a door. Inside, stacked neatly, were leather-bound ledgers, letters, and a single framed photograph.

Nan lifted it, her fingers tightening. “Antonio and Mia Pasta,” she said softly. “And…”

A man stood beside them—his features unmistakable.

“Étienne Baguette,” a voice cut through the silence.

Nan and I whirled.

“I am Pierre Baguette,” he said. “I believe you have something that belongs to me.”

He stood in the doorway, his dark coat swirling in the draft. His face was shadowed, but his eyes burned.

“So it’s true,” he said, stepping forward. “My great-grandfather and yours were once allies.”

Nan remained silent.

Pierre continued. “This house—this feud—began because Antonio betrayed Étienne. They were supposed to build an empire together, lumber and wheat. But Antonio used his influence to force my family into a corner. My great-grandfather never recovered.”

He reached for the documents, but Nan moved faster, tucking them under her arm. “This isn’t just history,” she said. “This is the truth. And I’ll decide what to do with it.”

Pierre’s jaw clenched. “And if I don’t let you?”

I stepped between them. “This isn’t a fight you can win in a dark house full of ghosts, Pierre. If this truth matters, it won’t be hidden away anymore.”

For a long moment, none of us moved. Then, Pierre exhaled sharply. “I just want my family’s name restored.”

Nan studied him. “Then maybe it’s time we finally settle this.”

Pierre nodded, tension easing from his shoulders. “No more secrets.”

Nan turned back to the hidden compartment, her expression unreadable. “No more secrets.”

As we stepped back into the daylight, I had the feeling that the story of the Pasta and Baguette families wasn’t ending here. It was just beginning again.