“You were at school today? What do you study?” she asks.
The question catches me off guard. “Business. At Malus University.”
“Do you enjoy it?”
I open my mouth to give the automatic answer, but something in her warm eyes makes me pause.
“Not really,” I admit. “I wanted to study art history, but my father said it was impractical.”
“Art history.” Sofia’s face softens. “Dante loved art, and so did Valentina. They used to drag us into galleries when we were on vacation.”
Guilt slices me afresh at the mention of Vincenzo’s dead sister and cousin. After Mom died, Dad forbade us from speaking her name. Silence caused my grief to double, triple in size as there was nowhere for it to go. I study Sofia through my lashes, bracing for accusation, because surely she’s reminding me that I’m the reason that they and the others are dead.
But Sofia has already moved on, debating with Matteo about some new barber in the neighborhood. Her voice is light. Her shoulders relaxed. There’s no venom hiding in her words.
She talks about the dead because she loved them. Because remembering is how she keeps them close.
Matteo reaches to take a piece of bread from my plate. It’s so like something my brother Cristiano would have done when we were children that I automatically gasp in outrage and swat at his hand.
I’m too late, and he snatches the bread, holding it up like a prize. “You snooze, you lose, princess.”
“Don’t call her princess,” Sofia scolds. “She has a name.”
“Fine. You snooze, you lose, Adora.”
“You have your own bread right there,” I point out.
“Stolen bread tastes better. Everyone knows that.”
I laugh, because it’s just what my brother would say. A real laugh. Both of them look at me like I’ve given them a gift.
“There she is,” Sofia says. “I knew there was a smile hiding in there somewhere.”
She reaches over and tucks a strand of hair behind my ear. The gesture is so maternal that my throat tightens. When was the last time someone touched me with such easy affection? Mom used to do this. Brush my hair back, cup my face, dropkisses on my forehead for no reason at all. I’d forgotten what it felt like.
“You have beautiful hair,” Sofia says. “Like honey in sunlight. Does it come from your mother’s side?”
“Dad’s.” My voice comes out rough. “But everyone said I looked just like her.”
“Tell me about her.”
The question is so simple. So genuine. I realize I’m longing to talk about her. After she died—after she waskilled—her photos came down. Her belongings vanished. It was like she’d never existed at all.
“She was kind,” I say quietly. “She used to sing while she cooked, when she wasn’t arguing with Nonna about her sweet wrappers scattered everywhere and teaching me bad words in Italian.” I smile at the memory. “She’d scold both of us and end up laughing instead.”
Sofia nods, her eyes warm with understanding. “You miss her.”
I swallow hard. “Every day.”
“I lost my mother ten years ago, not long after my husband passed away. The missing never stops, but we grow bigger around it, and the sharp edges wear down.” Her smile is kind as she gazes at me. “And the love stays.”
I have to look away, blinking rapidly, and the guilt almost suffocates me. She shouldn’t be the one comforting me. How can she bear to be kind to a Montoni?
Matteo, perhaps sensing I need a moment, launches into a story about a disastrous winter hunting trip. Something about a twelve-year-old Vincenzo falling into a freezing river and refusing to admit he couldn’t swim until Matteo and Dante had to haul him out like a drowned cat.
“He made me swear never to tell anyone,” Matteo says, his eyes dancing. “So naturally I’ve told everyone.”
While they tell me funny family stories, I’m able to keep eating. The laughter comes a little easier. When I finish my pasta, Sofia piles more food onto my plate despite my protests, and Matteo refills my glass.
