‘Yes, but that’s different,’ Nonna said stoutly. ‘Does your cousin the plumber have tiles in his bathroom yet? Doesn’t your brother park his concreting truck on a mud driveway? And I still feed you, don’t I?’
‘Always, my Rosa,’ Nonno said, smacking a loud kiss against her cheek and presenting her with a glass of red wine as though it were a rose.
‘Jemma, though, she is the one with no one to feed her, no one to care for her,’ Nonna said, moving the conversation back to a tried-and-tested subject.
Jemma groaned. ‘Remind me why I look forward to family dinners.’ She’d only managed a couple of spoonfuls of the hearty soup, yet Nonno was already leaning forward to refill her bowl.
He winked. ‘It is the only way to escape your grandmother’slamento,’ he said.
‘Lucky it tastes like home, then,’ she replied, accepting the plate of Parmigiano Reggiano from Dante and sprinkling the straw-coloured cheese liberally over her soup.
‘It is already seasoned, Jemma,’ Nonna reproved.
‘I know. And perfectly. But you can’t get too much of a good thing, right?’
‘Well, you can,’ Nonna said, patting her own stomach, apparently oblivious to the irony in having just exhorted Jemma to eat more. ‘You—’
A dull bang trembled the air, instantly perforated by a sharp crack.
Nonna gave a little squeal, knocking over her glass as she leaped back from the counter. Nonno reached for her, instinctively wrapping her in a protective embrace. Dante sank into a crouch, a pugilist’s squat, as he spun toward the trattoria. And Dad’s arm shot out, tugging Jemma close. Each action happened in the blink of an eye, yet it seemed Jemma’s heart had been stopped forever by the time she registered the tinny revving of a motorbike, followed by the squeal of tyres at the front of the building.
‘Stay here,’ Nonno ordered.
Everyone ignored him, crowding through the kitchen doors into the restaurant. The half-dozen tables nearest the window, covered with white tablecloths and set for the nextday’s service, were littered with shards of glass. As Dad hit the light switch, the glass pieces twinkled as though they pulsed with life.
‘Che cazzo!’ Nonno said.
‘Rocco,’ Nonna warned. Though her grandmother could be relied on to scold them for cursing no matter the circumstances, she hung back in the kitchen doorway, her apron clutched in her hands, pressed to her heart. A cold breeze swirled through the room, turning the hems of the tablecloths into dancing ghosts.
‘I told thosecoglionethey’d scratched the window when they cleaned it last week,’ Nonno fumed, his shoes crunching in glass. ‘Now look. Shattered.’
‘Be careful where you walk,’ Nonna cautioned.
Jemma had started into the room, but changed her mind, placing her arm around Nonna’s waist instead. It was unusual to see her grandmother shaken.
‘We have to get this cleaned up,’ Dante said. ‘I’ll have to call someone in.’
‘Or, you know, we could clean it up ourselves,’ Dad said.
The three men walked further into the room. Dad and Nonno stood with their hands on their narrow hips, surveying the mess. Dante had his arms akimbo, as though his overinflated biceps made it impossible to bend them normally.
Thick window glass littered the floor and tables. Jagged shards gaped from the frame like shark’s teeth.
Another sheet of glass fell, exploding as it hit the floor and making Jemma jump and Nonna squeal as a spray of fine crystals ballooned across the room like a cartoon cannon blast.
Dad blew out a heavy breath. ‘Grab a brush and dustpan, Mum. Jemma, bring the big steel bin. Dad, you see if the insurance company has an after-hours number to call. If not,I imagine it’s a straightforward insurance claim, but we’ll have to take a photo before we clean up. Dan, you find a plastic tarp or something similar, and some gaffer tape. We don’t need the rain blowing in as well as all this mess.’
He stepped forward, halting as glass crunched underfoot. ‘What’s this?’ He bent, then straightened, a smooth granite rock in his hand.
Jemma recognised it immediately: despite a barrage of notifications and fines from the local council for unauthorised use of the Crown land area, Nonno kept a forty centimetre–deep garden in front of the trattoria. He filled the bed with bright seasonal flowers to match the baskets hanging from wrought-iron hooks either side of the windows. The garden strip was bordered with the smooth, fist-sized boulders Nonna had collected from the beach—another transgression—and caused a trip hazard, according to council. But it wasn’t the rock that made her heart stutter. It was the distinctive, pale-blue aerogramme notepaper tied around the rock with butcher’s twine.
Paper that was a perfect match with the two notes she’d found in her letterbox.
Dad hefted the rock. ‘What the hell have you done this time, Dante?’ he growled. ‘I knew you’d bring shit down on the family.’
‘Not me, bro.’ Her uncle threw up both hands, palms out.
‘Jemma?’ Nonna said sharply as Jemma retreated, stepping backward into the kitchen.
