“At the local store, they’ll be more than happy to outfit you with a brand-new wardrobe. You won’t find any Armani or Prada there, but Regina will still like you just as you are.”
“Great,” he replies sarcastically. “How can I ever thank you.”
“Look at it this way: Once your dates with the three Cozzi cousins are over, we can go out for that pizza. And don’t try to cancel. You’ll offend the ladies.”
“Don’t worry, I can handle all three at once.”
Yes! If the Cozzi cousins deliver the best of their worst, I think they’ll make Michael think twice about strutting around the way he does, I muse as I watch him leave.
As he walks down the path leading out of the courtyard, he takes off his shirt and stops at the fountain, where he takes the hose and showers the fertilizer from his body.
I could go back inside, but for some reason I’m stuck there, in the doorway.
“Maremma infoiata!” Mamma exclaims, planting herself at my side. “Is that Michelangelo’s David right here in our courtyard?!”
Giada materializes on my left. “Two, four, six ... eight!”
“What the hell are you doing?” I ask my sister.
“Counting his abs.”
“I thought you were all about Carletto?!” I reproach her. “And you, Mamma, aren’t you a little old for ... for ... for ...” I would like to conclude with “drooling,” but I can’t bring myself to say it.
“I’m old, not blind!”
“Whose abs?” Linda interjects, peeking out of the kitchen window, but fortunately Michael is already too far away to hear her.
“No one’s,” I say, more to myself than to her.
I may be out for revenge, but I start to feel a tinge of annoyance at the thought of Michael out on those romantic dates I’ve arranged.
13
Michael
“Have some moretortelli,” Regina’s mother suggests, gunning to pile a third portion onto my plate.
When Elisa told me about dinner with Regina, she failed to mention it would be with her entire family. Herentirefamily.
Mother, father, grandmother, grandfather, younger siblings, and pets.
“I’m really quite full.” I stop her, but I can see she’s offended, so I give in. “But I’ll take two more because they are so good.”
Brief, sad story: These tortelli filled with potatoes are accompanied by a more than abundant ragù, and I must have eaten about a pound of them. The end.
“Regina made them this morning,” remarks Giliola, her mother. “By hand.”
“I made the stuffed peppers too,” replies the daughter, who has done nothing but bat her eyes at me all evening.
How do I tell them that peppers don’t agree with me?
We’re still on first courses, but before this, they stuffed me with appetizers like crostini with glazed onions, fig and pecorino jam, artichoke pâté, Maremma-style pork rinds and tripe, goat cheese with ahoney-and-egg sauce ... now, after this tortelli ragù, I can vaguely see the Madonna.
As a kid, I ate cuisine from all over the world, but my digestive system seems to prefer English food.
Unfortunately, I’m also too English to offend my host at her table.
“We would have liked to host Carletto too, but we never see him around!” Giliola grumbles, sitting back down at the head of the table. It’s obvious who’s in charge here.
