“Oh, wonderful,” I say, as Sofia, who must have slipped away, arrives with a waiter clutching a bottle of pale pink vintage champagne.
“I know it’s French,” she says, “but it’s a celebration, sì?”
“Sì,” we all say in unison as she takes the bottle, pops the cork, and fills our tall, stemmed crystal glasses and we all cheer happily as the liquid pours out.
“So how’s the trip been so far?” Roger asks.
“It’s been amazing. It’s been a bit of a bonding experience for me... you know, with Dad. Belated bonding.”
Leo pushes his knee gently into mine.
“Oh yes,” says Sofia. “It must be so strangely wonderful to come on this trip he would have taken. I’m so glad you’ve had each other to share it with.”
It’s hard not to laugh considering what has gone on between Leo and me, and I feel myself blushing as Leo looks over at me with a sweet smile. I shake my head at him.Stop it.
But I’m so grateful he’s here. He’s opened my eyes to a side of my dad I’d let slip away. He’s reminded me of all the things I used to love about him, and that even if for the last decade I felt such resentment and maybe even anger toward my dad, I also missed him. Maybe I’ll never understand what happened; humans are complicated beings after all. And sometimes we close ourselves off to the big love, to avoid feeling any pain. Is that what I did when we packed our bags and left all those years ago?
Is that what Dad did?
I feel Leo’s hand on my thigh now, and I put mine over his, squeezing to thank him for the support. Our hands stay there. I leave mine on top, and our fingers interlink. They’re just out of view of Sofia and Roger, but it will be obvious if we stay like this too long. I lift my hand and place it on the glass on the table, and a moment later, I feel the warmth of Leo’s hand leave my thigh.
“You had a tough time together in the last decade or so,” says Roger, making a decade sound like a few lost hours rather than the eternity it feels to me now.
I shrug. “It was difficult after my parents separated.”
“And how is your mother? Jean. How isshe?” he says, pouring a little more champagne for me.I feel a strange penetration in his stare.
“Um, yeah, she’s, you know, good. She’s remarried now. Very happy. They live in Yorkshire, near her sister,” I say, unsure how much detail Roger really wants. “She’s struggled a bit with it all too.”
“She has?” he says.
“Of course she has,” says Sofia.
I find myself in defense of my mother under Roger’s gaze. Not that he’s accusing her of anything, but there is an underlying tone of judgment. The way best friends feel, I suppose. The way Ginny or Kate would feel for me.
“Yes, of course.” I splutter a little to find the words. “I mean, he’s her ex-husband. He’s my father.”
“Yes,” he says, drawing the word out.
“It was hard on her too,” I say.
“It was all very hard on them both, pet,” Roger says, patting my hand with his. He glances across at Sofia again, and then back at me.
“Yes. Of course,” I say quickly.
Two waiters appear clutching bowls of pasta, and we are served simultaneously, like a choreographed dance move. The bowls have wide, flat, exaggerated rims. The pesto pasta—linguine—is spun into a perfect mound, with green beans and pan-fried potatoes decoratively placed on top.
“It’s not how you’ll find it in Genoa or Rapallo,” says Roger, nodding toward his dish, “but it’s a very good version indeed. The pesto is leafier than most, which is why you have this green oil pooling at the edges.”
Leo lifts his dish slightly to watch the incandescent green roll in thick stripes toward the edge of the bowl.
“Nice,” he says. “That’s a hell of a green.”
“Basil is a very special plant,” I say. “A key ingredient, wouldn’t you say, Roger?”
“A what?” he replies, leaning forward, holding a hand around his ear.
“Never mind,” I say, knocking Leo’s knee with mine.
