Lucia purses her lips, reluctantly admitting they are right. “Fine. Maybe I should have asked whether Chloe is attracted to men and whether she’s already had relations with my youngest son before I tried to set her up with Franco. I’m just trying to help here.”
“Help by not helping,” Grace says, then she points a finger at me. “You got any coffee? I’d kill for a shot of caffeine and a peanut butter crisp.”
I nod, remembering that I do actually have a business to run, and this place is not just a social club for my aunt’s friends. “I’ll start a fresh pot,” I tell her. “Give me about five minutes.”
Grace drops her sunglasses back over her eyes and clomps toward the door. “I’ll stop back,” she says over her shoulder. “I got to open next door.”
I scurry back toward the kitchen, wishing for the millionth time since I set foot in Latterature that my aunt had a peekaboo window in the kitchen.
Before I push past the kitchen door, I hear Lucia call my name. “Chloe, sweetheart. We’re leaving.”
I hustle back to the front to wish the women goodbye. They hardly seem to notice me. Bev and Lucia are talking about covering shifts at the local animal shelter. Carol is adjusting the top of her blouse, asking if it sends the wrong message for a first date.
“It’s coffee with Ray Morris, Carol. What kind of messages do you think that man is going to pick up on from a blouse?” Bev is unzipping a fanny pack that is hanging around her waist and then digging around for her car keys. “Besides,” she adds, a heavy note of judgment in her tone. “Aren’t you and Earl still married?”
Carol primly adjusts the fuchsia top to cover her cleavage with a bit more modesty. “We’re separated,” she clarifies. “And it’s complicated. These things take time. While Earl is sorting out what he needs, well…in the meantime, I’m sorting out mine.”
Bev barks a rough laugh. “For the love of all that’s holy, Carol, don’t let Ray Morris be the one to scratch your feminine itch. And if he does, please don’t tell us about it.”
They are all giggling and talking, but as Lucia pulls open the door and holds it for her friends, she cocks her chin and calls out to me. “Chloe, honey. Where’re your aunt’s welcome bells? You don’t want to be in the back and not know if a customer comes in the store!”
I nod and scan the floor and the front counter, but I don’t see them. “Bob’s nephew took them down when they came to deliver the television.” He’d said the constant ringing would be noise we didn’t need while they were going in and out. But it looks like he didn’t replace them before they left. “I’ll find them,” I assure her. “Thanks.”
She is fussing with a pair of massive sunglasses when she shouts to her friends and trots back into the shop.
“Chloe, you should come to my place for dinner on Sunday.” She’s breathless and looks excited, like she’s just been hit with inspiration. “My husband cooks, and Mario…” She pinches her thumb and fingers together, the tips of her nails clicking lightly, then kisses them and gestures at me with her hand in something that looks like delight. “He’s the real cook in the family. Home-cooked Italian food and good company. The whole family will be there…including my Franco.” She leans in a little closer and says in a hushed voice, “And don’t even think about bringing anything. You’re not a guest. You’re family.”
I give her a weak smile. The thought of sitting down to eat with the bold, outrageous Bianchi family is a lot to take in.
“I’ll try to make it,” I say vaguely. “I have so much work to do here in the shop.”
“It’s dinner. You got to eat, and you haven’t eaten until you’ve had my husband’s meatballs. You can’t say no to Mario’s meatballs. Oh, maybe I can get him to make braciole. It’s to die for. He’ll do it. He’ll make it just for you. I’ll see you at six sharp, honey.”
She doesn’t wait for me to respond and hustles down the block toward her ridiculously huge pickup truck. I can see just the top of her auburn-colored hair as she steps up on the running board and climbs behind the steering wheel of the burgundy beast.
I head back inside Latterature. As overwhelmed as I was by the noise and color and chaos of Aunt Ann’s friends, somehow, without them here, everything in the shop seems strangely quiet and extremely lonely.
3
FRANCO
I roll into my parents’house close to an hour before dinner is served because I know if I’m not there to set the table, Vito will do it and he’ll fuck it all up.
Of the four of us Bianchi siblings, two still live at home. Gracie, because even though she’s thirty, she’s the baby, and Ma and Pops give her absolutely no reason to move from the comforts of her childhood home.
And then there’s Vito.
We’re eleven months apart and practically went through everything at the same time, and yet we turned out to be two totally different men.
We both like to work with our hands, but that’s where the similarities end. Vito’s a firefighter, and, to him, mealtime means setting out a stack of plates, a jumble of mismatched silverware, and letting everybody help themselves.
Ma likes things a certain way, and while it may be extra work to pull out the cloth napkins and put the leaf in the dining room table, it makes her happy.
Over the years, we’ve each fallen into roles in the family.
Gracie is the baby, so she’s off the hook, no matter what the issue is. I’m surprised Ma and Pops even make her clear her own plate. She’s spoiled fucking rotten and can do no wrong.
Benito, the second youngest, owns an Italian restaurant, but does he lift a finger to help Pops make dinner? Hell no. He can hardly pull himself from his restaurant most weekends for the couple hours it takes to eat and socialize before bolting out the door like he’s a CEO and not a chef.
