“Italian penicillin,” I said, the words slipping right out of my mouth.
He barked out a laugh. “Sì.”
“You can cook.” This time the words came out breathless, almost awed.
“Reputation might precede me, but that doesn’t mean I have lost all of my secrets, Rosa. I am giving one away today to you.”
He stuck his finger in the boiling water, snatching a small piece of pasta, placing it on his tongue. “Al dente.” He nodded to himself and, with a cloud of steam, emptied the pot over the colander waiting in the sink.
Not the entire pot of water though. He reserved some of the hot liquid to mix in with the pasta. After adding a bit of olive oil, he shredded a generous amount of freshly shavedparmigiano reggianoto the top. Taking two bowls from the cabinet, he spooned some into each, handing me one and taking one for himself.
“That will sit right with the bambino.” His eyes stayed down on his food while he ate.
“Bene,” I said, and reaching out a hand, placed mine over his. “Grazie.”
He only nodded, but I could tell this pleased him.
He was right. The pasta satperfettamente—it seemed to absorb the sickness, replacing it with the warmth and security of comfort food.
The door to the house burst open, admitting a blast of arctic air, followed by Eunice, Mia, and Brando. The smell of the pasta dish became stronger, natural air enchanting the scent, and my stomach became ravenous, but food could wait.
Despite the bitter cold, the warmth of my family rushed over me, and I couldn’t hide the smile.
I rushed to Mia, picking her up and swinging her around.
“My baby!” I held her tight, goosebumps puckering my skin from residual cold. Her cheeks were like ice. “You’re home. Mamma missed you so much!”
I kissed her so much that she scrunched up her face and pointed to the ground. Her eyes had zoned in on her grandfather sitting at the table, still shoveling pasta. No matter who had food, her attention naturally went to them.
“Asta!”
I hurriedly unzipped her coat and removed the layers, freeing her from her binds, and she ran into Luca’s arms, chubby little legs making her feet tap as she did, sitting on his lap, commandeering not only his plate but mine. She was like a miniature Goldilocks. The Italian version.Pastina.
“Mmm,” she said, closing her eyes, her hands coming to rest over her heart. In her own little world, she was saying grace and giving thanks. Then she gave her torso a little twist before she started to eat again. “Ia ungry.”
“Then my love shall eat,” Luca said, placing a loud kiss on her cheek.
Finally able to shift my attention, I found Brando staring at me. A hard look had come over his face. It wasn’t from the cold outside.
I offered him and Eunice the pasta on the stove.
Eunice accepted with a hardy thanks. Brando shook his head. He refused to remove his stare.
“You were sick again,” he said.
Not a question. He knew. I almost wanted to take a surreptitious sniff of myself. Did I smell like vomit?
“I always know,” he said, answering the look on my face. “You’re pale.”
“There is nothing to worry over, son. I took care of her,” Luca said. “Her stomach was upset at the scent of my coffee.”
Eunice handed Mia a cup of milk, and Mia thanked her. So did Luca.
If Brando’s face could have turned red, it would have. He looked between me and his father for a moment before his eyes settled on me.
“I’m calling Tito.”
“That is unnecessary,” Luca said, spooning the last bite of his pasta. After setting his spoon down, he wiped his mouth with a napkin. “It means our man will be strong.”
