“I always do.”
She opens it, the night pushing a little chill in around her. Then she turns back, eyes softer. “Eat,” she says. “Please.”
“I will.”
She nods once, like that’s the only promise she needs, and steps out. I watch her go down the walk to her car. The night air is cool enough to make my arms prickle. She waves once without looking back and drives off. Tail lights disappear at the corner.
I close the door and turn the deadbolt. Getting ready for bed is automatic—checking all the doors, the windows, the stove. After washing the day off me, I get into bed and lie on my back and remember what I told myself when I got here. I’m here for Nonna’s funeral, then back to Italy.
I guess that’s officially off the table.
Chapter Eight
Giovanni
I get to Regalia a few minutes before 8:00 and park where I can see the front door. The room through the glass is half full, not slammed. Good. Less noise. Fewer eyes.
Inside, the bell rings. Francesca sees me enter and doesn’t make a show of it. She comes around the podium with the book in hand like I’m any two-top with a reservation.
“Evening,” she says. “We’ve got your corner ready.”
“Grazie,” I say. “Keep it quiet.”
“Of course.” She takes a quick look at the room. “Water?”
“Sparkling. No lemon.”
She leads me to the corner table by the window. Good sight lines. Back to the wall. I take the chair that faces the room, habit. The table is set tight and clean. Napkin folded right, not a fan, not a rose. Plain. Forks where they belong. Knife sharp enough for meat, not a saw.
She sets down a short tumbler of sparkling water, no ice, a wine glass, and a folded list. I don’t touch the list.
“Chef will send pairings,” she says, reading my mind.
“Let her,” I say.
She nods and leaves me alone.
I don’t look toward the swing door. I’m not here to watch a line. I’m here to eat. If she knows what she’s doing, the plates will say it.
Bread arrives first. Not the big basket they give families, not breadsticks in a glass. Two slices of warm country loaf, crust thin, crumb open. A small saucer of oil, I recognize. Sabina’s supplier. Peppery, not grass. Good start. I tear a piece off, test. Warm, not hot. Fresh, not reheated. Salt right.
Francesca brings a bottle of white already opened, label turned away. “Verdicchio,” she says. “Cool, not cold.”
She pours a taste. I swirl enough to wake it up and take a sip. Clean, almond at the end. I nod. She pours.
Bianca comes out of the kitchen like she’s been walking this floor all her life. Black coat. Hair up, a few pieces not listening. No lipstick. No earrings. She stops a step short of the table and keeps her hands behind her back.
“Good evening, Mr. Conti,” she says.
“Giovanni,” I correct.
Her mouth almost moves. “Giovanni.”
“Bianca.”
We don’t waste time on small talk. She tips her chin at the glass. “Okay?”
“Okay.”
