“So we have no idea who sent you this mild threat that fails to specify a consequence,” he muttered. When the Black Hand Society sent a note, the person on the receiving end was in no doubt as to what would happen if they didn’t comply.
But any threat against Lauren, no matter how toothless, was one too many. There was no way he’d let her be home alone after this.
“I’ll take this and have it analyzed at the station,” he said. “Let’s get out of here. It’s time for Christmas, and you’re not going home alone.”
By the way Joe’s parents greeted Lauren, she could have imagined she was a long-lost member of the family. This was far better than the Beresford.
Joe had brought her through the main entrance of the brownstone, but after only a glimpse at the sparkling spruce in the livingroom, he’d ushered her downstairs into a kitchen bubbling over with savory aromas, including salmon, lemon, and dill.
“December twenty-fourth isgiorno di magroin the Italian tradition,” Joe told her. “No meat. But plenty of pasta, seafood, and dessert.”
Joe’s mother turned at the sound of her son’s voice. With a smile that wreathed her face, she stopped stirring the pot on the stove, brushed a wisp of grey hair from her face, and clasped Lauren’s hands. Lauren felt years of labor in the calluses. This woman worked because she loved.
“Welcome to our home,” Greta said.
“Thank you for allowing me to intrude at the last minute like this.”
“You’re not an intrusion, my dear. You are wanted. You are making our holiday special.” She sounded like she meant it. From what Joe had told her on the way here, his brother held such a grudge against their father that he and his family didn’t even visit for Christmas. It broke his parents’ hearts.
Lauren’s throat grew tight to think of it. She knew what it was to feel left behind.
Something boiled over, and Greta turned back to stir the pot.
“Ah,bellissima!” Sal Caravello kissed both her cheeks, Italian style, and asked if her language studies included his native tongue, too.
“Working on it.” She slid Joe a glance and smiled. “So far all I know iscapisceandcapisco.”
“A good start.” Sal chuckled. “The rest you can figure out from our hands.” He gestured broadly.
“She’s a quick study, Pop.” Joe turned to Lauren. “Speaking of hands, ready to get them dirty?”
Eager to participate, Lauren traded her coat for an apron. “How can I help?”
With patient guidance from Sal, Lauren sliced golden-brown bread, then topped each round with smoked salmon and a dollop of some kind of herbed cheese, adding a sprig of fresh dill and a fewcapers to each crostini. The assembly complete, she washed and dried dishes while the real cooks did what she couldn’t.
She’d never been around anything like this. Sal and Greta worked together seamlessly, proof that they’d prepared thousands of meals over the course of their decades-long marriage. Joe, she noticed, took on the kinds of tasks that may have pained arthritic hands and wrists.
“You’re in charge of seasoning,” he told his mother. “No one can do it as well as you.”
“We’ll see about that,” Sal countered. “An Italian feast calls for an Italian chef, after all.”
Grinning, Joe winked at Lauren, his eyes red-rimmed and watering from all the onions he’d chopped for the pasta sauce.
Greta caught sight of her son’s tearful face and joined her laughter to Lauren’s. “Really, Joey,” his mother said, “there’s no need to cry. I’m sure your father won’t ruin everything.”
Sal guffawed and joined in the banter. Somehow even their teasing held their love for each other.
“Here now. Lauren will be the judge.” Greta dipped a clean spoon into the simmering sauce and handed it to Lauren. Sal followed suit with a spoonful of his rival sauce.
“It’s a tie,” Lauren declared before tasting even one.
Above the laughter that followed, Joe said, “I told you she was smart.”
Smiling, Lauren sampled the offerings, each one bursting with its own tantalizing flavors. “Don’t change a thing,” she said. “In either one.”
After she’d plunged her hands back into the dishwater, Joe stepped beside her with a spoonful of something white and creamy.
“What is it?”
