“Sì. Sì. We can make something with seafood,” he begins. “Your father loved all the classics. Pasta con le sarde. Bottarga.”
“Narrowing down to three dishes? Oddio!” Isabella says, clutching her forehead dramatically. “And one special ingredient?”
“Arance,” says Luca quickly.
“No! Pinoli!” says Nonna. “Olio. Limone.”
“Mandorle, per favore!” shouts another.
“That’s another vote for almonds,” I whisper to Leo.
And then the conversation runs away from us as everyone begins to argue in colorful Italian over what the quintessential Sicilian ingredient is, and the dishes that ingredient serves best.
I lean toward Leo. “Con le sarde? One of the Sicilian classics,” I say quietly.
“Indeed,” he replies.
“No elevation required,” I cannot help but add.
Leo leans in toward me now, lowering his voice further, and I feel his breath hot against my ear as he says, “You got it all wrong, Olive.”
I move my head to escape the fizzing feeling I’m getting from his mouth’s proximity to my ear. “Exactlywhatdid I get wrong?” I shoot back.
“Me,” he says, tearing some bread so roughly he almost topples a wine bottle.
As the conversation on Sicilian food turns more heated, Nonna stands, throwing her arms in the air as she stomps off back toward the house calling Rocco “un idiota!” as she leaves.
“They are arguing about rice again,” explains Isabella. “Arancino or arancina. She comes from Palermo. In Sicily, we can’t even agree on what to call something.”
“This is not going to be easy,” I whisper to Leo. “Not even this table of Sicilian foodies can come up with an agreed approach.” I see the corners of his mouth curl up into half a grin.
Isabella then holds her arms out to quiet the table. “The answer isfood,” Isabella says, unhelpfully.
“Very good food,” I reply, feeling my belly start to stretch with the sheer volume of food I’ve virtually inhaled.
“What I mean is, you two need to get out and eat. I can give you a list of places to visit. You have so much to try.”
“We’re doing that,” I say quickly, feeling my cheeks burn.
“She meanstogether,” says Leo. “And she’s right.”
“I’malwaysright,” Isabella says.
“What is she right about now?” Rocco says, throwing his hands up.
I can’t help but giggle at the two of them as I reach forward to take more bread, tear it between my teeth, and dunk it into the vinegary oil at the bottom of a plate of anchovies.
I turn to Leo. “Sheisright,” I say. “I got it wrong, Leo. I thought we could do this quickly and easily, and it’s going to take time and a lot of working together to get the best result.”
Leo nods. “Yup,” he says, turning to me, a smug smile on his face. “I knew you’d get there eventually, Olive.”
I ignore the jibe. Leowasright too. I’ve been fooling myself. I was determined to protect my heart by keeping my distance from Leo and by avoiding reading the manuscript, but it’s no use. To do this properly we have to work together.
The wine flows, the heat bears down, the lively debates continue, the constant chirping of crickets fills the air, and I feel a sense of familiar comfort. I spot a bird in the distance, its wings large and still as it glides. I start to relax.
“How have you been since Nicky passed?” Isabella asks gently, leaning in to keep the conversation between us.
“Oh. Um. It’s been difficult,” I say, clearing my throat. I reach for my wineglass and take a sip, in the hope that she doesn’t press for more.
