“Well, don’t let it bring you down. You just have to get back in the saddle.”
“What am I, a cliché magnet?”
“Ginger says clichés happen for a reason, that there’s an underlying truth to them.”
“She’s right. I’m just jaded. She’s also a smart woman to land a catch like you.And her name is Ginger. How perfect is that?”
They continued walking, approaching a booth chock-full of apples. Zac reached for a beautiful Granny Smith, holding it up. George held two fingers to his temple as if reading brain-waves.
“Crostata?” he said.
“Perfect, don’t you think? A fruit alternative to the baklava and the tiramisu. Maybe whip up a cinnamon gelato to go with it.”
“I like the way you think.”
Zac grabbed a bag and began selecting apples. As he leaned in, the man standing next to him glanced at George. He was handsome, shoulder-length dark hair tucked behind his ears, a light Sunday scruff speckling his cheeks. He was wearing a blazer over a t-shirt, chinos, and expensive loafers with no socks. He smiled when he noticed George was giving him the once-over.
Zac began to speak, but catching George’s obvious study of the man, thought better of it. He shoved the bag of apples into George’s hands. “I’m gonna go find that nutmeg. I’ll meet up with you later.”
“Wait—” George started, but Zac, intuitive wingman that he was, had vanished into the crowd.
The man extended his hand, amused. “Hello,” he said, accent thick and Italian. “I’m Fabio.”
George blushed, accepting his hand. “Hello, Fabio. I’m George. Nice to meet you.”
“Your young friend there, is he your—”
“Son?”
“I was going to say,lover.”
George laughed forcibly, as if choked. “Uh, no. He’s a little young for me. And straight.”
“Where I’m from it is common.”
“And where would that be, Fabio? Somewhere in Italy, I’m guessing.”
“Sardinia.”
“Ah, Sardinia—land of pane carasau.”
Fabio smiled. “You know Sardinia—our bread, at least.”
“I’ve been there. My—” George began. It was always awkward conversationally when speaking of David to someone new. Simply using the term husband suggested nothing of his passing, and the term widower was meant for the remaining partner. To saymy late husbandand I used to do such-and-such seemed unnatural—the vernacular both cumbersome and odd.
He opted for the former. He always did. “My husband and I used to vacation in southern Europe. We’ve been to Sardinia a few times.”
“I see.” Fabio acknowledged, a trace of disappointment in his tone. “You are married.”
“Was. My husband has passed. I lost him in a car accident a few years back.”
Here it comes,George thought for the thousandth time.
“I’m so sorry.”
“It’s OK. It’s been a few years.”
“And the boy...” Fabio pointed in the direction that Zac had gone.
