He’d told her that he and his high school girlfriend had planned to move to Canada to marry and start a family, but that was two decades ago. Fast-forward more than twenty years, and he now found himself in a similar situation where he found himself falling for another Black woman. He constantly had to remind himself not only was she different, but times were different. He just couldn’t pick up and move to another country, because he had obligations that bound him to his family’s businesses. His great-grandfather had come from Sicily to the United States in 1881 with three dollars, two changes of clothes, and a dream to make a living in his new country. He’d found life tough and the welcome to Harlem unpleasant, where he experienced racist backlash from other immigrant groups. However, he endured when he worked two and sometimes three jobs to make enough money to send for the wife he’d left in Italy. Life for future generations of D’Alessandros improved, and now with Sal’s death, Frank had become the head of his family.
“The only thing I can say is that she’s in a better place, becauseher addiction had turned her into someone I didn’t recognize as my sister.” He forced a smile. “Enough talk about drugs. Are you ready for coffee and dessert?”
“Francis!”
“That’s my name,” he teased.
“I’m as full as a tick, and here you’re talking about having dessert.”
Throwing back his head, Frank laughed with abandon. “Every once in a while, you come out with these expressions that are funny as hell.”
Justine smiled. “Southerners have their own unique sayings that will make you laugh until you cry.”
“Southerners aren’t the only ones who have their own sayings. Roman philosopher Lucius Annaeus Seneca said:manus manum lavat, which translates to ‘one hand washes the other,’ while modern Italians say,Una mano lava l’altraed entrambe le mani lavano il viso.”
“Oh, my goodness. You speak beautiful Italian. Now tell me what you said.”
“I said one hand washes the other, and both hands wash the face.”
“It’s so true about both hands washing the face. It sounds so much better in Italian,” Justine said.
He winked at her. “That’s why it’s called a romance language.”
“I’ll see you guys later,” Kenny called out as he ran past the kitchen.
“Did you grow up speaking Italian?” Justine asked Frank.
“Yes. My mother spoke Italian to her children, while my father spoke English, so by the time I entered the first grade, I was completely bilingual.”
“I took four years of Spanish, and I got an eighty-five on the Spanish Regents.”
“That’s really good. Are you fluent?”
Chuckling softly, Justine shook her head. “No.”
“Do you want to learn to speak Italian?”
Her expression changed, becoming serious. “Why would I want to speak Italian?”
“You said that you want to become a teacher.”
“And?”
“Have you thought of teaching a foreign language?”
Justine shook her head. “No. I want to teach elementary school children.”
“Reading, writing, and arithmetic,” he said in a singsong voice.
Pushing back her chair, Justine stood. “I’m going to clear the table and put the dishes in the sink to soak before I put up a pot of coffee for our dessert.”
Frank also stood. “I’ll help you.”
There wasn’t much to clean up, because he and Kenny had washed everything as they were cooking. It was a technique he’d learned from his mother, who wanted to spend the least amount of time in the kitchen once dinner was over. And the pots and utensils he’d brought over were clean and stored in the picnic basket.
He stood behind Justine, waiting for her to fill the sink with hot water, then add a liquid detergent, before reaching around her to put plates in the sink. Frank heard her suck in her breath as he pressed his chest to her back. “Are you okay?” he whispered in her ear.
“I don’t know,” she said breathlessly.
