Her uncle’s attention remained studiously fixated on the stovetop. Obviously, he wasn’t volunteering to be first in to work, even if the new hours were his plan.
Dad huffed. He’d always argued against opening the tratt for lunch, particularly with his cafe covering that need.
‘Shouldn’t you guys be winding down a bit?’ she said. ‘I mean, Uncle Dante’s here and you’ve got plenty of staff. Maybe consider a holiday?’
‘I didn’t coach her,’ Dad protested, sliding to the far side of his stool to distance himself from Jemma.
Jemma’s hands flew up in question. At work she controlled the instinct to talk with her hands, but with her family, she could be both voluble and visible. But never vulnerable.
‘Before you came in, I was trying to persuade your grandparents to come and stay for a few nights,’ Dad explained.
Jemma lifted one shoulder. ‘It’s not exactly Italy, but at least it’d be something.’
‘A bit better than something.’ Dad sounded a bit miffed. ‘You’d know that, if you ever took up my invitations.’
Nonna’s loaf gave a satisfyingcrackas she sliced through with a bread knife, and Jemma, Nonno and Dad all leaned in to snag morsels of shattered crust, dragging them through the pools of melted garlic butter that leaked onto the chopping board.
‘I’ve been to Settlers Bridge,’ Jemma protested around a mouthful of bread.
‘You’d think you could manage more than one visit a year.’
‘Yeah, work–life balance is important,’ Dante cut in.
There was a momentary and unusual silence, which Jemma assumed was everyone taking a pause to consider whether Dante had any knowledge on that subject. Until he’d taken over Dad’s role in the trattoria last year, she’d never known him to hold down a job.
‘I might take you up on that holiday offer sometime, Pierce,’ Dante continued obliviously. ‘Could do with a bit of a break myself.’
‘You’ve taken care of the salad, Dante?’ Nonna said before Dad had a chance to respond to the threat to his idyllic lifestyle.
‘All done,’ Dante said, swaggering over to the industrial fridge.
‘Open the wine and let it breathe, Pierce,’ Nonno directed. ‘Bread and wine are life.’
‘Agreed,’ Jemma said fervently.
Dad pushed his plate toward her, tipping his head at the bread on it. The gesture spoke volumes: she wasn’t escaping tonight before he’d given her a talking-to about her diet, lifestyle and whatever else he felt required some fatherly input. Sometimes it seemed he felt a need to make up for her mother’s lifelong hands-off approach to parenting.
‘How is Samanta?’ Nonna asked. For some reason, she always dropped the ‘H’ in Dad’s partner’s name.
‘Good. Great,’ he replied, with disturbingly dreamy inflection.
‘Oh my God,’ Jemma groaned, and Pierce whipped back to her.
‘What’s wrong?’
‘It’s been what, nearly a year? And you still get that sappy grin on your face the moment anyone mentions Sam.’
‘I didn’t say anything,’ Dad protested.
Dante chortled. ‘Didn’t need to, bro. I’m with Jemma on this one.’
‘There’s nothing wrong withamore,’ Nonno declared, smacking his lips against Nonna’s cheek.
Nonna elbowed her husband but leaned into the embrace. ‘Off with you,uomo sciocco.’ Only Nonna would get away with calling Jemma’s hot-tempered grandfather a silly man. ‘Get the glasses out. Pierce, I can smell your ragout is about to burn. Dante, toss that salad. Jemma … you just relax. You look tired,bella.’
Spared any of the chores, Jemma was tempted to preen. But she caught her father narrowing his eyes at her. ‘Just lots on at work at the moment, Nonna.’
‘Why don’t you come chill for a weekend?’ Dad suggested. ‘You take the cottage on the riverfront and we’ll sleep on the boat.’
