Brando had followed his uncle and stood beside us.
Signor Occhipinti kissed my knuckles before he turned to Brando and shook his hand. “It is my pleasure to meet you both,” he said, his olive complexion going rose for a moment. His speech was slow and his tone tender. He turned to me, lifting his thin brows. “I am told that you aretheballerina, ah?”
“Sì,” I said, nodding—a bit dumbstruck by his presence. He was a softer man in the midst of so many hard ones. “Do you enjoy the ballet, Signor Occhipinti?”
“Please, call me Paolo,magia.”Magic.
“Paolo,” I said, smiling.
“Theballerina. I have taken in four of your shows. The first one was at the insistence of Tito Sala. The others were by my own desire. You are—just as,ah—” He stopped and seemed to be thinking. He glanced at Brando and then smiled shyly. “You are magic on your toes.”
“And he is—” Lothario slapped a hand to the man’s fine-boned shoulders, pulling him forward “—Magiawith aviolino! He has come to serenade us with his own brand of sorcery.”
Paolo went the color of a plum tomato at this.
“Well,” I said, putting a hand to my heart, as Brando put his hand on my back. “We are immensely looking forward to hearing your magic tonight at ourtavolo.”
“Who is responsible for your existence?” Paolo asked in Italian.
I glanced at Brando. My existence?
Brando nodded toward my mother, who looked on, rapt. A fierce glow lit her cheeks. This was her signature countenance when I was praised for my talent. That, or she went to stone, wearing her indifferent look, which stated,this is no surprise to me. It all depended on the company.
“Signora Pnina Poésy, my wife’smadre.”
Paolo went to my mother and took her hand, placing a sweet kiss on her knuckles. After he had complimented her on the ability to give birth to a legend—my cheeks went hot at this, and Brando grinned—the two started to chat about the ballet. As usual, the conversation veered toward my famed ballerina grandmother, Maja Resnik.
Yes, he knew of her, Paolo said. However, he personally knew Matteo Ballerini, the famous artist, my mother’s biological father, therefore my grandfather, and Maja’s lover. And he knew him quite well.
I had, out of anger and retaliation, broken the news to my mother and sister that Matteo was my mother’s real father, our grandfather, when Charlotte insisted on calling Brando and his family less than kind names during one of her fits.
At Matteo’s name, my mother perked up, curiosity rearing from the depths. And Brando wondered where I got it from…
I shook my head and gave Brando a quick kiss before I began to organize the artichokes on the counter.
Eunice came in and announced that the antipasto would be served in the dining room. She had placed a butter-colored cloth over the table, and freshly picked sunflowers in blue stone vases gave the room a summery touch. We would take our dinner out on the back terrace, though, when it was cooler.
I was glad for the maneuver—the kitchen flowed now instead of being congested. We could cook in peace. With such an unexpected visit, we had our hands full.
I was glad that I had purchased so many artichokes. The rest of the menu would come to me, hopefully soon, but in the meantime I busied myself with washing the spiny vegetables and removing their barbs.
Apollonia came in as Maggie Beautiful went out with a bundle of grapes in her hand. She, Carmen—who had Diego in his basinet next to her—Eunice and I set to the task of readying dinner.
Apollonia was one mean cook. When we first moved to Tuscany, she had taught me all she knew. But stuffed artichoke is a Sicilian dish, one that was brought to Louisiana by emigrants. Brando’s great grandmother had a recipe of it in her box of culinary treasures. As we snipped off sharp pieces of the artichoke, Eunice and I explained to Carmen and Apollonia how the dish was made. Wiping my hands on the apron, I stood and helped Eunice mix all of the ingredients together so we could start stuffing the bread mixture between the leaves.
The door opened, revealing Donato, Livio, and another man that I didn’t recognize. Donato marched past us, directly into the room with the guests. Livio glanced at me, a pensive look on his face, before he hustled off toward the entrance to the chapel, head down.
“Ooh!” I said in surprise as the other man took me around the waist and started dancing with me around the kitchen.
“Paolo is here! Romance is in the air!” He sang a romantic ballad, humming the parts he had apparently forgotten the words to.
He reminded me of a young Marzio.
“Not to be rude,” I said, attempting to stop the dance but finding no luck. He picked me up and swung me around like a doll in his muscular arms. “But who are you?”
He stared at me with glistening Fausti eyes. His breath leaked out slowly, robust with Chianti. He slowed the dance, and I tried to maneuver out of his grip again, but he held me captive against him.
“You smell of garlic—” he came closer and I tipped my head back “—and you are—”
