In front, the windows had glowed warmly with interior light, but in back it was completely dark except for one dimly lit shade behind the stairs. The wooden steps, a little rickety, creaked under our feet. A shadow moved behind the shade. Grabbing Dante’s arm, I gestured to it. We stared as an elongated pyramid of light slowly revealed itself along one edge. Mrs. Sarvello did not show herself, but she was there. Like a couple of teens late for curfew, we scurried upstairs and burst through the door at the top. Dante flipped a switch. “Told you she kept an eye on me.” He grinned. I laughed softly. “The moving shade, the sliver of light…not very subtle, is she?” We had entered through the kitchen. Dante removed an oblong Pyrex dish from the icebox. “Manicotti,” he announced, stripping off the foil cover, setting the dish on the counter. Two rows of ricotta-stuffed pasta, packed tighter than a school of herrings in heat, were wedged inside the dish.
