I could be civil if he could.Ifbeing the fucking operative word.
“You look well,” he said to Scarlett. “It’s nice to see you home.”
“Marriage and children agree with me.” She grinned. “And it’s good to be back.”
“Names?” He nodded at my children.
The question alone didn’t make Scarlett stiffen. It was the tone. He’d remember them in case they caused any trouble. Accustomed to his rudeness, I expected nothing less and sat easier in my chair—I would have stiffened if he was anything but blunt—stroking Marciano’s head while he colored on the paper the diner had given all the kids.
“Mia. Matteo. Mariano. And this is our youngest—” I patted his head “—Marciano.”
Matteo and Mariano got to their feet. Matteo offered his hand first. The sheriff looked down at him, at me, and then took each of their hands.
“Ciao,” Marciano said, holding out his hand, too.
“We stand when we shake another man’s hand, son,” I said in Italian.
“Si, Papà.”
He hopped down from my lap, standing in order, and gave the sheriff his hand once more.
The sheriff took all this in with a narrow eye. His sons gave the same look. All the Stones had a way of looking down on a man. The trait didn’t skip.
The sheriff studied my children, wondering what they had gotten from me—preparing himself for the onslaught. Where there had been only one of me before, I had multiplied.
“Be mindful of your children,” the sheriff said, adjusting his son. “This isn’t Italy.”
What he really meant was…you and your sons won’t take any of my children from me again, or my wife.
“As you can see,” Scarlett said, her tone even, but her eyes fierce, “our children are fine. No need to worry, Sheriff.”
He nodded once to us and then led his family out of the diner. Matteo’s eyes followed him, narrowed and suspicious, and he rolled his shoulders. It was clear he didn’t like Stone. This unspoken feeling was spoken aloud right after, though, by our outspoken daughter.
“I do not like him,” she whispered in Italian, “but I do not know why. I also feel sorry for him. I am not sure why that is either.”
Mia could feel what most people couldn’t. She was peculiar like her mamma. Her feelings were usually not that strong, but when she felt something stronger than usual, sometimes she didn’t know why.
Scarlett’s “sense” hadn’t gotten as strong as it was until after she’d met me. A fact that I refused to dwell on.
Even though it wasn’t Sunday, I decided ice cream was necessary. We left the diner and bought our ice cream elsewhere so we could walk down Main Street. Mia was interested in seeing the ballet studio.
No surprise, Matteo refused to order. He stood back, eyeing his sister and brothers like they were traitors. But I didn’t miss the longing looks he cast at the other kids as they dived in, getting sticky from the cold treat in the sweltering heat.
Scarlett sighed, leaning in closer to me. I had my arm wrapped around her shoulder, using my free hand to eat my own cone. Occasionally, Scarlett and I would share. She was unusually quiet, though, watching Matteo, but her mind didn’t seem to be on just him.
Finally, just a bite or two through the flavor of ice cream he would have ordered, she sighed even louder, complaining about being full. Loud enough so that he could hear, she said how she hated to waste such a good scoop of ice cream.
“Matteo,” she called. “Come here, my love.”
He came to her, not wanting to rush, but not being able to help it.
“Will you finish this for me?” She handed him the ice cream. “I can’t eat another bite.”
“I do not—”
“I hate to see it go to waste.” She shook her head. “That wouldn’t be right.”
He held it a moment and then turned around and started to eat. Slowly, at first, until the taste really made it to his tongue, and then he almost inhaled it.
