As Frans dashes away again, Eli frowns. “What gift?”
“You’ll see.”
We awkwardly stand around again, looking at either the ground or the sky until François returns with a large, plastic-wrapped platter. It’s loaded with almond cookies, cannoli, profiteroles, and sugar-dusted biscotti. My stomach gives a low rumble.
“I, um, thank you,” January says, as Doc practically snatches the plate away. “…What is it?”
Mrs. Whitehall examines her nails. “The new housekeeper, Rosaelia, wanted to make some of Teresa’s recipes before they were returned to you. Some Italian superstition. I don’t know.”
“Oh.” January smiles but this time it seems forced. “Thank you and thank you to Rosaelia.”
“Hmm,” Mrs. Whitehall says. “Well, think of it as an olive branch, January. Come on children.”
She turns on her pale blue heels and departs, the Whitehall siblings trailing after her like lost ducklings.
“Total fucking freakshow,” Doc mutters. “Come on, people. Sal and Gretzky are around the back.”
We duck around other wedding guests and dive into the safety of the limo. I put my arm around January who is still holding the gnocchi roller.
“Are you okay?”
She nods, eyes full of tears. “The photo was worth it. I’m so glad to have Zia’s things again.”
“I’m so pumped for these fucking cookies,” Doc says, pulling on latex gloves. “But first things first.” He takes his laser pen from his pocket and starts scanning the platter with the thin blue beam.
“What’s that?” January asks.
“Poison tester.”
Her mouth falls open. “You think my stepmom is trying to poison us?”
“She one hundred percentwantsto poison us. Depends, if she’s got the balls.”
“Or we could just throw the food away,idiota,” Eli says, pouring himself another minibar scotch.
“Fuck that, I’m dying here.” The pen gives a series of low beeps.
“Approved,” Doc says happily. “No poison. No compromising substance known to man.Molto bene.”
He rips off the plastic wrap and starts cramming cannoli into his mouth.
January’s forehead creases. “Where did you get that pen thingy from?”
I know she’s asking,does it really work?
“It’s very effective,” I tell her. “It was designed for traveling dignitaries; royalty and politicians, that kind of thing.”
She doesn’t look convinced.
“It also cost ten million bucks,” I add, still salty about it.
“Oh my God!” January says.
“Well, what was I supposed to do?” Doc demands through a mouthful of custard. “Get some asshole to taste everything we’re about to eat and wait twenty-four hours to see if they die?”
Doc passes the platter around and I take an almond cookie. It’s delicious, light, and not too sweet. As soon as I finish it, I take another and soon, everyone but January is stuffing their faces.
“Goddamn,” Doc says, his mouth full of cannoli. “Sorry your Zia died, Tits, but whoever this woman is, she canbake.”
