The Antipasti Social Club

Craigslist Ad. Wanted: Someone to share Antipasti plate at Bernardi’s Italian Restaurant on S. Broadway, Denver. Looking to expand my acquaintances and friends. Have coupon buy one get one free. Your meal Free. Email or text me at:

Berlita’s ad drew several responses. The most interesting came from a part-time librarian named Baxter. She said she rarely was able to go out to dinner because she cared for her brother. If nothing else, Berlita could do a good deed and give a caregiver a respite. They agreed via text to meet at Bernardi’s at 6 PM Saturday evening.

Baxter was a fiftyish woman dressed in an old-fashioned tweed skirt suit with high-necked cream-colored blouse, beige hose, and sensible black shoes. Her salt-and-pepper hair was pulled back into a tight bun, and enormous glasses owled hazel eyes.

Berlita, in her mid-fifties, was dressed stylishly in black pantsuit, silk scoop-neck top, and beige ankle boots. Her dark hair was styled, shoulder length and wavy. She was attractive and confident.

“Nice to meet you,” Berlita smiled, extending her hand

Baxter held her purse tightly with all ten fingers and did not attempt to accept the proffered handshake. Berlita put her hand down awkwardly, her smile fading.

“Shall we be seated?” she asked.

“Yes.”

After the waitress presented the menus and they placed their orders for the Antipasti plates, Berlita began the conversation.

“How long have you worked for the library?”

“Eighteen years.”

“Do you like your job?”

“Sometimes.”

“What’s your favorite part of your job?”

“Shelving books.”

Berlita paused, hoping Baxter would ask her a few questions. Baxter had not smiled, and she answered in short, clipped responses, as if speaking were like prying jewels from a rock.

“I’m glad you could have an evening off from taking care of your brother.”

“Mm? Oh, yes.”

“Does he require a lot of care?”

Baxter looked at her with censure. Obviously Berlita had traveled into unacceptable territory.

The waitress placed before them drinks and the plates of black and green olives, cubed and sliced cheeses, Italian prosciutto, chick peas, mushrooms, cherry tomatoes and crackers, as well as two containers of Italian dressing.

Baxter immediately began placing forkful after forkful into her mouth like she hadn’t eaten in weeks, barely taking time to chew.

Berlita picked daintily at the food, trying not to be repulsed by her dinner mate’s eating habits. This wasn’t going at all like she had imagined.

“Have you always lived in Denver?” Berlita asked tentatively.

Baxter nodded once and went on shoveling food into her mouth.

“Do you enjoy going to the movies?”

Baxter shook her head No, didn’t look up, and forced ten olives into her mouth, juice running down her chin, which she swiped at with her fingers.

Berlita gave up asking questions.

After five minutes of silence, Berlita flagged the waitress. “Could I have a box please?” she asked.

Baxter finally looked at Berlita in surprise.

“I received a text,” Berlita lied. “I need to leave.”

“But… But I thought we would get to know one another.”

“Excuse me, Baxter. But I think of getting to know one another as having a conversation. And to me a conversation means I toss a statement or question gently to you like a tennis ball, and you toss a question or statement gently back to me. And it goes back and forth like that. You haven’t said more than 2 words, and I’m not really having a good time. So, I’ll pay the bill as I promised you a free meal, and I’ll be on my way.”

Tears rolled down Baxter’s cheeks. Berlita was surprised and uncomfortable.

“I don’t have many friends,” Baxter sniffed in self-pity.

“Maybe you need to learn some more social skills. I’m not being mean. Just saying.”

“Go ahead. Ask me anything. I’ll tell you.”

“That’s not how this works. Let’s just call it a night.”

“My brother isn’t really sick. I just say that as an excuse to people because I never get to go out. I hate my job. I hate all the people there. I hate my life. I was hoping meeting you was going to fix some of that.”

“Baxter, I’m sorry but it’s not my job to fix your life. That’s your job. You need to find things you like to do and meet people in the process. If you don’t have anyone to go with, you do it anyway. I go out to eat by myself a lot.”

“Oh I could never do that.”

“Why not?”

“Because I couldn’t. That’s all.”

“What else do you like to do?”

“Watch TV.”

“That’s not going to make you any friends. What about joining a book club, or a knitting class, or taking a course at the local university?”

“I can’t do any of those things.”

“I’ll ask again, Why not? Is it a control thing?”

“You’re right. This isn’t going well.” Baxter grabbed her purse and walked out of the restaurant without a word of thanks or a smile.

That was certainly interesting, Berlita thought. Oh well. Nothing ventured nothing gained.

“I’ll take the check, please,” Berlita said.

Chapter Two

Craigslist ad. Wanted: Baker and chef to bake gluten-free bread and pastries, and create antipasti items, at my home one afternoon a month. Will pay and provide groceries for your family. Email or text me:

Bonnie answered her ad. “I’m not a professional,” her text said, “but I bake a lot of gluten-free bread for my daughter. Would love to try making antipasti items. Am available the last Thursday afternoon of the month. Will it be okay to bring my daughter? Sincerely, Bonnie B.”

“How old is your daughter?” Berlita texted back.

“She’s four.” Bonnie answered.

“Yes, last Thursday of the month will work. Here’s my address…”

Bonnie was a lovely woman in her mid-thirties, strawberry blonde hair pulled back in a ponytail. She wore a white baker’s apron over a checked green shirt and jeans.

“This is my daughter, Chelsea.”

“Nice to meet you, Chelsea.” The little girl had braces on her legs and walked with difficulty.

“If it’s okay, I’ll have her sit at the dining room table and color,” Bonnie said. “I brought a musical story CD she can listen to.”

“Perfect.”

Berlita had placed all the baking ingredients on the counter, as well as the items she wanted to use for her antipasti plate, similar to the one she’d had at Bernardi’s.

“How did you learn to bake bread?” Berlita asked as Bonnie began measuring flour and seasonings into a bowl.

Bonnie looked into the dining room, assessing whether Chelsea would hear. Her daughter was bouncing her head in time to the music.

“Chelsea was born early with some physical ailments. She required a lot of surgeries. I had no control over those operations. I had to trust the doctors and nurses to do the best job they could do. My husband worked overtime to keep our insurance in place and pay the bills, and I was left alone a lot. So, to pass the time, keep me busy when Chelsea was recovering, I began baking bread. It gave me something to do with my hands, expending a lot of pent-up energy in the kneading. I gave loaves to the doctors and nurses, first as pleadings that they do their best, then as gifts of gratitude. Some of the nurses couldn’t eat the regular bread, so I began learning how to bake gluten-free bread. And Chelsea did better with it, too. So, that’s how I learned.”

Berlita liked her story and liked Bonnie.

“I have a lot of food intolerances,” Berlita said. “So, I need gluten-free. Store-bought gluten-free bread is so expensive, and not very good. My hands are somewhat arthritic, so I can’t knead the bread like recipes call for. I thought if I had someone to help me once a month, it might help us both.”

“I’m really glad you placed that ad,” Bonnie said. “I haven’t had a chance to meet a lot of new friends with taking care of Chelsea.”

“That was my goal, too,” Berlita said. “To make some new friends and acquaintances. I’ve placed a few ads and had some unusual experiences.”

“Like what?”

Berlita told her about the experience with Baxter.

“Baxter is a very lonely woman,” Berlita said, “and while I feel sorry for her, I can’t fix her life. She’s going to have to find a way to do that herself, if she’s willing to try. But I figure I can’t give up. If I don’t reach out, I won’t find any new friends.”

“Well, I’m glad,” Bonnie said, “you didn’t give up after that. I’m glad I’ve met you. You seem like you’ll be a good friend!”

“I agree. Sometimes you just know when someone is part of your tribe.”

Bonnie smiled and finished placing the loaves in the pans to rise. She and Berlita worked together on the antipasti plate and chatted amiably.

They sat at the table with Chelsea and enjoyed the Italian snacks and finger food, tossing questions and banter back and forth as if they’d always known each other.

As Bonnie was getting ready to leave, Berlita handed Bonnie a bag filled with groceries left over from their afternoon activities.

“Oh, thank you so much!” Bonnie exclaimed. “This is so generous of you! And I’ve had such a wonderful time!”

“I have to!” Berlita replied in a pleased, happy voice. “I’d like to have a small party the last Thursday of next month. Would you come back and do what you did today? You and Chelsea and your husband would be most welcome to be part of the group.”

“I would love that! We’ll see you next month!”

Chapter Three

Craigslist ad. Wanted: Nail technician to do my nails for an Antipasti party night. Would like to have small pizzas painted or labeled on the nails. If you have what I’m looking for, Please email or text me:

“I have what you need,” the text said.

“I’ve placed several ads on craigslist,” Berlita texted back. “What is this regarding?”

“Nails,” was the response.

“What is your name? Where are you located?”

It took half a day for a response.

“Bree.”

Berlita hated these kind of text exchanges. It was like pulling teeth to get the information she needed. Since no one else had responded to the craigslist ad for pizza nails, however, she tried again.

“Where is your salon located? What is your cost? When do you have time available?”

“Today.”

Berlita gave up. This was too much effort. She’d go without rather than deal with someone who seemed to think she could read a mind through a phone.

The next day she received a text: “R u coming?”

She knew it was Bree from the previous texts. “Maybe. If I get some information.”

“What inf?”

“Where are you located?”

“985 Acoma.”

Berlita looked up the address on Google maps. It was a tiny house, somewhat dilapidated if the picture was accurate. It was not a professional salon.

“How much do you charge? When do you have time available?”

“30.”

She’ll probably expect a tip, too. That’s too much money, Berlita thought. And she didn’t have time to drive all the way to Bree’s house, especially without a specific appointment. She decided not to pursue it and didn’t respond.

The next day she received another text from Bree.

“20”

Berlita ignored the text.

“Bitch. You’re wasting my time.” From Bree a few minutes later.

“Thank you for your response,” Berlita responded. “Please don’t text me again.”

That was certainly interesting, Berlita thought. Oh well. Nothing ventured nothing gained.

Chapter Four

Craigslist ad. Wanted: Having an informal Italian Antipasti evening party last Thursday of the month and would like to provide entertainment. If you can sing and/or play an instrument, let me know the cost. Email or text me at:

“Hi. My name is Bertie. I sing and play the piano or keyboard. I have several Italian songs I can sing. I would charge $50.”

At least this person texted in full sentences. “I have a piano,” Berlita texted back, “or would you want to bring your own keyboard?”

“Your piano would be fine.”

“Would you mind if we met first before the party?”

“Well, I’m really busy taking care of my brother who has health issues and my two grandsons, but I could send you a Youtube video of me singing at a wedding recently.”

“That would be perfect. Here’s my email address.”

Berlita loved what she saw in Bertie. An older woman in her sixties, short curly gray hair, and singing her heart out, with a beautiful voice.

Berlita worried that maybe this person had stolen the video so she could get her address and rob her. You heard of those things happening.

“Would you mind if I called you, and listened to you sing?” Berlita texted back.

“I’m free right now. In fact I’ll call you this minute.”

Berlita’s phone rang, and Bertie on the other end was laughing. “I’ll bet you’re wondering if I’m a psychopathic robber.”

Berlita laughed too. “Well, you can’t be too careful these days.”

“I totally agree,” Bertie said. She broke into singing O Solo Mio.

Berlita had goosebumps jumping on her neck, Bertie’s voice was so beautiful.

“Do you sing for a living?” Berlita asked. “You’re certainly good enough.”

“I would have loved to. But I met my Jack, and we got married, had kids. Then my kids had kids. I take care of them. Then Jack died. And my brother was injured in a car accident, so I take care of him, too. But when I get a chance I sing for small get-togethers and weddings.”

“I’ll be so happy if you can sing for us,” Berlita said enthusiastically.

“I’ll be there,” Bertie said, and Berlita gave her the address.

The Antipasti party night was a huge success, with half a dozen people attending who Berlita had met through her Craigslist ads. Everyone enjoyed one another’s company and were the grateful sort that are pleased just to be included.

“We’re so glad you put your ads on Craigslist,” Bonnie said. “This was such a wonderful night for all of us.”

“Thank you, Bonnie, for helping prepare the delicious food. And Bertie for your beautiful singing.”

“Here! Here!” the others toasted Berlita and her gracious words.

“What do you say we do it again next month? Bertie can you sing for us again?”

“Wouldn’t miss it! If it’s okay, I’ll bring my grandsons. They’re Chelsea’s age.”

“Of course!” Berlita said. “Bring your brother, too.”

And that’s how the Antipasti Social Club got started.

Copyright August 2021 Laura Deane LLC

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.