‘Sit. Eat,’ Nonna said, doling amaretti biscuits onto a plate by the handful.
‘Frangelico, Pierce?’ Jemma lifted an eyebrow at her father. Years back, in the throes of teen angst and rebellion, she’d started calling him by his first name. The habit had stuck, even if she still thought of him as ‘Dad’.
‘Of course,’ he responded. Jemma had always preferred the adult version of the chocolate-chip-studded hazelnut biscuit.
‘What happened to the “no sweets before dinner” rule?’ Dante demanded, as though they were kids in competition for adult favours, rather than uncle and niece. Probably not all that surprising, given they were almost the same age.
‘For Jemma, it is different,’ Nonna said. ‘She is too thin, see?’ Jemma twitched her arm away as her grandmother pinched her bicep. ‘She is like you, Dante, spends too much time in the gym.’
Jemma gave an almost-silent huff of amusement; she and Dante couldn’t look more different. Where she was wiry, Dante bulged, his muscles corded with popping veins. After his latest stay in jail, her uncle had gone clean, giving up the performance-enhancing steroids—but he’d soon discovered he couldn’t build the mass he wanted without chemical assistance.
‘I’m only doing self-defence classes, Nonna.’
‘Martial arts?’ Dad said. He pushed the biscuit plate toward her, indicating that he agreed with the prevailing view about her weight. ‘That’s new, isn’t it?’
‘Getting too wet for running,’ she replied. Trust Dad to pick up on the change to her routine. ‘What’s in the pot, Dante?’ she asked, although the rich tomato smell was something of a giveaway.
‘Pasta,’ Dante replied. ‘Pierce is in charge of the sauce.’
Dad pointed at the large casserole dish on the hotplate. An occasional explosion of fragrant tomato juice erupted between the lid and edge of the pot, tracking down the deep blue enamel. ‘Rabbit ragout.’
‘You murdered fluffy bunnies?’ Her grumbling stomach rendered her complaint void. ‘You really have gone country.’
‘They’re in plague proportions in Settlers Bridge. I’m making the most of the free meat before the farmers start poisoning them.’
‘You didn’t use steel-jaw traps, did you?’ The cruel devices had been illegal for over a decade.
‘Not trying toentrapme, are you?’ Dad said with a grin.
‘Yeah. Sad when you have to look to the family to drum up business.’ She shot her father a wink. She and Dad had a running joke about the divide between her career and her uncle’s somewhat shady interests.
‘Used to do that when I was younger,’ Nonno said.
‘What, break the law?’ Jemma asked. ‘Explains a lot. Apples and trees, you know.’
Dad shook his head slightly, signalling for her not to pick a fight.
‘Rabbiting,’ Nonno clarified. ‘There are many in Tuscany. Or at least, there were.’
‘They’ve probably all been caught and eaten by now. How come you’ve never been back, Nonno?’ Jemma asked. It was easy to divert the conversation; her family were loud, bombastic, with a tendency to interrupt and talk over one another.
‘Be an expensive trip just to check on the welfare of theconiglio,’ her grandfather replied.
‘What time would Nonno have for holidaying?’ Nonna asked, unfailingly pragmatic. The room filled with a waft of garlic as she slid a tray of crusty bread from the oven. Until that moment, Jemma would have thought it impossible for the kitchen to be any more fragrant. ‘Look at us, eating dinner at eleven at night. The only time we can all be together.’ Nonna shook a finger at Jemma. ‘And that’s your fault.’
Jemma threw her hands up in protest. ‘You had dinner service until an hour ago, Nonna. And I’m not the one who lives miles away. You said yourself: I’m right next door. Plus, I manage to turn up every month for dinner … unlike some.’
‘Nice,’ Dad muttered. ‘Throw me under the bus, why don’t you?’
‘Needs must,’ she replied. ‘I figure you’re used to defending your absence.’ Though he lived less than two hours away, Dad may as well have gone to the moon, according to Nonna. He’d left thecity, the heart and hub of everything.
‘But you are always busy, Jemma,’ Nonna said. ‘When are you going to find a man so you don’t need to work so much?’
Nonno guffawed. ‘How would a man stop our granddaughter from pursuing her passion, Rosa? What example does she have? Nowadays, you’re at the trattoria more hours than me.’
Faint concern threaded through Jemma. Nonno was inexhaustible, indefatigable. He had always been a larger-than-life figure to her, as permanent as stone, as reliable as earth. Was he slowing down?
‘Only because you’ve joined that ridiculous walking group,’ Nonna said, and Jemma’s breath eased. ‘As though you’re not on your feet enough. But if you want to be striding around the streets in silly stretchy pants while it’s still dark, that’s on you. Someone has to get in early now Dante wants the trattoria open for lunches.’
