“It’s fine,” he says, steadying me with a strong hand and helping me to the seat next to him.
I fail to find a seat belt, instead clutching the sides of the stool as we chug around a corner and up the narrow lane, past Rocco’s and north, taking back roads to avoid the motorway, toward the slopes of Mount Etna. Leo and I sit about six inches from each other in tense silence.
“Isabella has the other car,” Rocco says loudly, as I grab the old chrome counter to steady myself around a particularly tight turn. We climb slowly through olive trees, native forest, and wild fennel, the sea appearing out of the small serving window on our right. I want to lean across Leo and peer out at the view but think better of it. Instead, I nudge him, trying to break the ice, pointing to an old peg letter board above the serving window.
“A thousand bucks for a cone is a bit steep. What do they put in the gelato, diamonds?” I quip. Leo looks at me with a withering combination of confusion and concern.
“For god’s sake, it’s a joke,” I say. “Iknowit’s in lira.”
“It’s not always easy to tell when you’re joking,” he replies.
Urgh. I’m going to have to call some kind of truce or lunch is going to be an awkward nightmare.
We turn down a dirt lane toward a cute two-story stone house in a faded dusty peach color. On one side, thick vines threaten to swallow the house; on the other, a gnarled olive tree shades a stony front porch. I see the faded plastic swing still hanging from one of the branches, and my eyes move instinctively to find the old wood basin under the outside faucet, but it’s gone.Fifteen years, I think.Of course it’s gone.
In the distance I can see the misty cloud that often clings to the top of the curved crater of the volcano. I stop for a moment and stare up at it in wonder,listening to the slight breeze rustle the leaves and the intermittent chirp of a nearby cricket.
As we slow to a stop in the patchy brown grass by a crumbling brick wall, Rocco and Luca jump out of the truck and hurry ahead of us, Rocco carrying a box of glasses, and for a moment Leo and I are alone.
“Hey, Leo,” I say carefully. “Maybe we should talk?”
“Talk?” he replies stubbornly. I try to suppress my frustration, but Leo catches me balling my hands into fists. I release them, my heart thumping so hard I can feel it in my right temple.
“Yes,talk. Please. You’re still very upset with me about yesterday,” I say. “I really don’t want you to feel sidelined or whatever it is you’re feeling.”
“It’s fine,” he replies, staring past me.
“It’s obviously not fine,” I say, exasperated. I want to shout at him. I want to remind him that I’ve not seen these people in fifteen years and that I’m incredibly anxious. The trouble is, Leo thinks this is a problem of my own creation, a result of my abandoning Dad.
“Please don’t hate me today.” It’s all I can whimper, my vulnerability tumbling out.
Leo looks at me and his face softens.
“I don’t hate you, Olive,” he replies, shaking his head, his eyes flickering to mine and then to the floor. “Of course I don’t. I’m frustrated. Come on. We have to go.”
Leo puts out his hand to indicate I should disembark the ice-cream truck first, and I do, the midday sun hitting my face. Despite the altitude, it’s still hot in the sun and I feel sweat start to trickle down my back as Rocco appears around the side of the house.
“Olive! Leo!” he calls, and Leo paints on a big smile and waves back to indicate we’re coming.
Then he turns toward me, takes a deep breath, and says, “Let’s enjoy lunch and talk about the cookbook later. We’ll sort it out. I’m sure.”
I nod. It’s a white flag of sorts. “Thanks.”
10
ROCCO’S FAMILY STANDand move toward me as we approach. I absorb waves of hugs and kisses and pinched cheeks, remembering some people more than others, but all of them are warm and welcoming and full of sympathy.
Rocco’s handsome son Michael and daughter-in-law Maria are here; they are Luca’s parents. Rocco’s other son, Sal, is also here, visiting from Naples with his two younger children, who, after a shy hello, resume running about the garden trying to catch a tiny orange butterfly. Rocco’s dad, who must be in his nineties, sits with his wine wearing a corduroy coppola, beside two old women: one squat and round, obviously Rocco’s mother, and the other tall and elegant like Rocco’s wife, Isabella, a graying goddess with bangles up her arms and a floating green kaftan.
The long wooden table is set with delicate white bone china, and small mismatched vases with handpicked flowers are strewn throughout the center runner. It’s a classic spread. A small bowl of fresh green olives. Fried artichokes. Sardines with a little oil and salt. Plates of hams, a hard ricotta, and to my joy, caponata—that aubergine dish—served in a colorful ceramic bowl hand-painted with citrus fruits.It is to die for, and I feel the flush of a memory. This could be my childhood family table at home.
Isabella kisses me on my forehead and says, “Bellissima! Finalmente ti rivedo! You’re alive!”
“At least someone is alive,” Rocco bellows from the head of the table, winking at me.
“Rocco!” scolds Isabella, clutching the cross around her neck before turning to me. “He jokes because he hurts.”
“I can relate,” I say to Rocco, before turning to Isabella, smiling. “Mi piace scherz—” I stammer.Damn my Italian.
