“È passato troppo tempo! Questa signora non è la tua fidanzata. Sei pazzo?”
I looked to Mario for a translation.
Instead, he introduced me. “Don Manca, grandfather, this is my wife, Allie Jacobs now Valentini.”
His father winced.
“Matrimonio all’improvviso, o inferno o paradiso,” Don Manca muttered. Marriage, improvised…something…heaven or hell. Damn. He didn’t like me one bit.
Mario ignored his outburst and continued, “Allie, this is my grandfather, Don Manca.”
“A pleasure to meet you. Mario speaks fondly of you,” I said.
One eyebrow went up. “He speaks secrets?”
“Only about sheep.” I tried to smile, but the unwavering scrutiny was almost worse than his father’s deliberate cold shoulder.
“Do you like sheep?”
“When they aren’t trying to knock me over, yes.”
He laughed. “They all try. The trick is to never turn your back on them.”
“I’ll remember that.”
“Allie is a veterinary surgeon,” Mario confided.
An out of work one, but I wasn’t going to mention that.
“Say it is a lie. This beautiful woman?”
“Sì, Aiaiu.”
Don Manca glanced at Mario’s left side. Apparently, he knew about the injury. I shot a glance to the corner where Loppa lurked. He quickly looked away. Guilty.
There were low words I couldn’t decipher. Mario’s father turned his head sharply and cocked it as if trying to figure out what was spoken. Apparently, it wasn’t Italian, or a dialect so strong he couldn’t make it out.
One Mario had no difficulty with. “Sì, Aiaiu. She knows.”
All humor fled from Don Manca’s face. His silence stretched for too long. Eventually, Mario dipped his head, as if caught doing something wrong.
I straightened my shoulders. I would not apologize for helping Mario, nor would I attempt to hide the truth. I slipped my arm back under Mario’s, lending him strength.
As I did, the scrutiny refocused on me.
Don Manca scanned me from head to toe. His eyes caught on the ring on my finger. The tension in his jaw made the wrinkles deepen. More low words to Mario, mostly unkind if his tone was any indication.
Mario shook his head. “I made my choice.”
Don Manca squinted at me then. “Your grandfather, Albert, do you remember him?”
“Yes, I was ten when he moved to Nevada. We visited when he came to town. He liked walnuts, and played a mean game of Euchre. That’s a card game which is popular where I grew up.”
“He played a mean game of Scopa, too.”
He knew my grandfather. I froze. Suddenly the danger Mario was in became a little too real.
Don Manca ignored my panic and carried on. “Albert was the best with numbers. Yours, his, it didn’t matter. Give him odds or transfers, and that man was a magician.”
