I fix my plate, give her space to decide if she needs to talk or to be quiet.
The morning is cool, but the sun is strong, already climbing. It lifts the color in the vines and throws light on the curve of her cheek. There’s the smallest rasp at her next swallow. She flinches at herself and hides it with coffee. I file it away and say nothing.
There’s honey inside and lemon on the counter. I’ll make tea when we go in.
“I meant to clean the kitchen,” she says, eyes still on the food.
“I handled it,” I say. She furrows her brow. “I know how to clean a pan.”
There’s that flicker of surprise in her eyes again. “You did the dishes.”
“Some of them.” I pour her a little more coffee without asking. “Some I put in the dishwasher.”
A horrifying thought occurs to her, and it shows plainly on her face.
“Not your knives,” I say. “Those I set aside for you to handle.”
Her back drops back against the chair, relieved.
She lets out a breath she didn’t know she was holding, shoulders easing by a notch. She tears a corner from the bread, drags it through the tomatoes and speck, and takes a careful bite.
“It’s good,” she says. “Where did you learn to cook?”
“My mother,” I say. “She taught us all a long time ago. Insisted that a good dish is how you attract a good woman.”
I smile fondly at the memories of my mother teaching me how to fold tortellini patiently. And how quickly that patience ran out when one of us—usually Antonio—made a snarky remark.
She tips her head, curious now. “Could your father make a good dish?”
I can’t help the smile. “Not on his life.”
Her mouth lifts. “Tragic.”
“He had other talents,” I say. “None of them belonged in a kitchen.”
She studies me over the rim of her cup. “But she loved him anyway.”
“For the time she had him,” I answer, and leave it at that.
The morning carries birdsong over the rows of vines. Somewhere, a tractor starts.
Bianca looks down at her plate, then back at me. “She sounds formidable.”
“She was. She moved across the ocean to a country where she couldn’t speak a word of the language and raised four troublemakers. Mostly on her own.” I nudge the cherries toward her.
Bianca reaches for one.
“She’d have liked you,” I add.
Her brows rise. “Because I can cook?”
“Because you don’t scare easily,” I say. “And because you stand your ground, even when you want to run.”
Color warms the curve of her throat again, but her shoulders settle. She spears a tomato and eats it without looking away. “I wasn’t running. I was… recalibrating.”
She clears her throat. “So, you were born—”
“Right here,” I say, encompassing the land.
