Justine put her hand over her mouth as she struggled to control her emotions. What she’d suspected for years was now apparent. Francis D’Allesandro was in love with her, while she denied loving him. Although she’d told herself that she wasn’t in love with him, there were so many things she loved about him. He’d become the surrogate father Kenny never had, and there were a few times when her son said he hoped Frank would become his stepfather.
Frank reached into the pocket of his suit trousers and gave her his handkerchief. “I’m sorry if I upset you.”
She blotted her eyes, careful not to smear her eyeliner and mascara. “You wait until we’re surrounded with hundreds of folks to tell me this.”
“When would be a good time, Justine?”
“I don’t know.”
“Neither do …” His words trailed off when Kenny came over with the girl clinging to his arm.
“Mom, Larissa wanted to meet you.”
Justine smiled at the petite, pretty Black girl with large brown eyes and a head full of curly black hair. “It’s nice meeting you, Larissa.”
“And this is my uncle,” Kenny said, introducing Frank.
Larissa’s expression mirrored confusion. “I … it’s nice meeting you, too.”
Kenny laughed. “Tell her that you’re my uncle,” he said, speaking Italian.
“Ha ragione,”Frank replied in the same language. “I am his uncle,” he confirmed, switching to English.
Larissa appeared even more confused as she stared at Kenny. “I didn’t know you spoke Italian.”
“That’s because I only speak it when I’m with my uncle’s family.”
“Well,” Larissa drawled smugly, “I happen to be half Italian on my father’s side. That’s where the name Rossi comes from. Mrs. Russell, my parents have invited some of my classmates to come to our house for a barbecue. I told Kenny I’d like him to come, but he said he had to ask his mother.”
Justine looked at Kenny. She wanted to tell him that she didn’t know anything about Larissa’s parents—where they lived, or what they did for a living. And as much as she tried not to, she still found herself watching over Kenny as if he were a little boy. He was eighteen, and she allowed him a lot more freedom than she had in the past; but unlike mother birds who would push their fledglings out of the nest when it came time for them to fly, Justine had found it more difficult for her.
“I’d like to talk to your parents before I give Kenny permission to join you.”
Larissa smiled. “Of course.” She beckoned to her father. “Dad, this is Kenny Russell’s mother and uncle.”
The tall, swarthy man wearing a three-piece tan linen suit extended his hand to Justine. “My pleasure, Mrs. Russell,” he said in slightly accented English. “I’m Matteo Rossi.”
Justine inclined her head. “It’s nice to meet you, Mr. Rossi.” She shared a glance with Frank. “And this is Kenny’s uncle,” she continued, with Kenny’s pronouncement that Frank was his uncle.
Frank offered his hand, smiling. “Franco D’Allesandro,” he said, introducing himself, using the Italian derivative of his first name.
Matteo’s sweeping black eyebrows lifted.“Un paisano?”
“Sì.My nephew said you’ve invited some of his classmates to your home,” he continued, speaking Italian. “I’d like to know where you live and what time I can come and pick him up.”
Justine’s gaze went from Frank to Kenny and then Larissa’s father, because she hadn’t understood a word they were saying. Frank turned to her. “The Rossis live in Riverdale, and he said they plan to end the gathering around eight. I have the address, so I’ll pick him up.”
She saw the expectant look on Kenny’s face. It was obvious he liked this girl, and she, in turn, liked him. “Okay.”
Kenny took off his cap and gown, handing it to Frank, then gave Justine the envelope with his diploma and Frank’s gift. “I’ll see you guys later,” he said, as he and Larissa went to join their classmates.
“Not to worry, Mrs. Russell. Your boy will be safe in my home,” Matteo said.
Frank put his arm around Justine’s waist. “He’s going to be all right,” he whispered in her ear. “Kenny is aware that we’re going to pick him up.”
“But you didn’t write down the address.”
Frank tapped his forehead. “It’s up here. I have what folks call a photographic memory, so there’s never a need for me to write down numbers.”
