In my opinion, there is no more beautiful place in Italy.
Emilia spent the next twenty minutes gazing out the window.
As we got closer, she asked nervously, “Remind me of everybody’s names again?”
“Well, you can just call my parentsSignorandSignoraNavarrini.”
“Of course.”
“Giancarlo’s my older brother. He and his wife Cinzia have two little kids, Alberto and Mirabella. Palmira’s my older sister. She’s the one who works at the hotel. She’s married to Renzo, but they don’t have any kids. Then there’s me – ”
“With no kids, thankfully,” Emilia interrupted.
“Yet.I’ve got three on the way,” I said with a grin. “I shook on it.”
Emilia gawped at me with an open mouth. “You betternot tell your parents that!”
“Don’t worry, I won’t. If I do, Mama won’t give you a moment’s peace until you pop the first one out.”
“Great…” she grumbled.
I laughed. “Then there’s my younger brothers Benito and Rolando. Benito just got married to Carla a year ago. Rolando’s living with his girlfriend Silvia in town – but don’t mention that around my mother, she’s pretty pissed that they’re ‘living in sin.’ And my youngest sister Serafina lives with my parents.”
“I’m never going to remember all those names,” Emilia said mournfully.
“Don’t worry, there won’t be a quiz at the end.” I paused. “That I know of.”
She gave me anI’m not amusedlook, then returned to staring at the scenery.
We eventually pulled off the main road and traveled down a gravel drive until we reached my parents’ house, which sat all by itself on four acres of land. All my married siblings lived in houses built on the same property.
My father and brothers worked for the nearest winery, but my family tended our own little patch of olive trees and vineyards. There was really only enough to make small batches of olive oil and wine, which they sold on consignment to local tourist shops. It was basically a hobby that turned a modest profit.
But it was ours.
…theirs,actually.
I’d walked away from it nine months ago, when I took a job with the Rosolinis.
When I parked the car and Emilia and I got out, three dogs tore out of the vineyards and came racing over to the Mercedes. They were all black lab mutts with grey showing on their muzzles.
“Who’s a good boy, huh?” I asked as I squatted down and rubbed their heads. “Who’s a good boy?”
“Who’s this?” Emilia asked as she petted one of the dogs that came over to sniff at her dress.
“That’s Dolce,” I said. ‘Dolce’ was Italian for sweet. “Over here are Mario and Luigi.”
Emilia looked at me in disbelief. “Mario andLuigi?”
“My brothers and I played a lot of Mario Kart as kids.”
“I thought there were six dogs?”
I smiled sadly. “We’ve had them forever. These are the only ones left.”
“Oh…”
Suddenly the front door opened and Mama came out, still wearing an apron.
