“Scherzare? You like to joke to make it easier? Like this one,” she says, nodding back at Rocco.
“Thanks. Yes. Gah. My Italian,” I say, shaking my head.
“Your papà didn’t speak the mother tongue at home?”
“He did. I just... stopped... learning,” I reply, feeling the heat creep up my neck. Truth is, I have barely spoken Italian in fifteen years.
“Ma figurati!” she says, waving her hands. “You pick it up again fast.”
We take our seats. Leo and I are placed next to each other, so close I can smell his zesty shampoo. I watch him stiffen as he glances at the distance between us on the bench; the tension starts to burn like radioactive fallout.
“Welcome,” says Isabella raising her glass. “Oh, this is such a treat, Olive.”
“We are absolutely delighted,” Rocco agrees, waving for Leo and me to pour ourselves a drink. I shudder at the thought of drinking today, looking for the pitcher of water.
“It’s Sicilian,” says the petite nonna opposite me, whose eyebrows are identical to Rocco’s but pure silver to match the wisps of hair that escape her messy bun.She swipes the bottle from the table and pours me a generous glass of pale-pink wine.
“If you insist,” I say, taking a sip. It is cold and delicate and my spirits lift a little in the way that they always do when I’m enjoying the ceremony of dining in a group. Nonna nods, pleased, burps loudly, and leans forward to pinch Leo on the cheek. I’m amused to watch him submit to the gesture, after which she fills his glass to the rim.
“Feels rude not to,” I say to Leo.
“It’s an economic duty round here,” he replies dryly, clearly feeling the same queasiness I am.
Rocco stands and taps his knife on his glass. “Allora. A toast!” he says. “But in Italian, I’m sorry, Olive.”
“Go ahead,” I say, waving a hand at him, smiling.
“Alla famiglia. Al cibo. E Leonardo. Benvenuto a casa. Eri come un figlio di Nicky.”
You were like a son to Nicky. I know Rocco doesn’t mean to belittle me with this, but still, the shame weighs me down instantly, my shoulders rolling forward in fear of what’s next.
“E Olive. La bambina di Nicky. Benvenuto a casa,” he says, before grinning at me again. “Meglio tardi che mai.”
Nicky’s baby. Welcome home. Better late than never. I chuckle along with everyone, though my heart is aching.
“Thank you for having me back,” I say, raising my glass.
“Sempre.”Always. Our glasses touch with an enthusiastic clink.
“Eat.Eat!” Rocco says loudly, waving his hands, and we dive into bowls of sumptuously dressed vegetables, meats, breads and cheese, and heavy pots of sardines with pasta, which are all being handed around under my nose. I am unable to refuse any of it.
“God.Drool,” I say to Isabella, dishing a massive helping of everything onto my plate. “I’m gonna be rolling home down that volcano and straight into bed.”
“The best food in the world,” Luca says, grinning like the Sicilian chef he is.
“The cookbook!” Rocco says suddenly. “How are you two getting on with the recipes? All this choice.” He waves his hand across the simple, delicious table spread and I nod in agreement. If only Leo didn’t want to fancy it all up.
“Well...,” I say, pausing to rack my brain for an appropriate answer.
“We’re working on the approach...,” Leo cuts in gallantly.
“Approach?” Rocco says, confused.
“We’re at the planning stage,” I explain.
“Mamma mia,” says Rocco, doing the Italian pinched fingers. “Can I help? How many recipes do you need?”
“Three,” I say quickly, feeling Leo next to me sit a little straighter in his chair. Why didn’t we think of speaking to Rocco?
