Through the window, I see Mom’s shadow pass by—her hand brushing her face—and my chest tightens.
“Do you think she heard us?” I whisper.
Ethan sighs, watching the window.
“Yeah. I think so. I just don’t know how much.”
“Should we go inside? Stay with her?”
He shakes his head and looks back at me. “Nah. She’s probably gonna cry a little, thinking about how her little girl’s growing up—and how her older son is full of wisdom and all that.” He smirks. “Let’s give her a minute.”
I snort. “Wisdom. You wish.”
He ruffles my hair, and we just lie there. I close my eyes and make one last birthday wish. For Mom, for Ethan... and for Dad too.
That somehow, we all find a way to be happy again. Even if we never end up together. Just that we continue to be a family, in our own way.
Chapter 07
Anch’io, Tesoro
Alexander
I walk into the kitchen and have to take a second to make sure I’m not imagining things. I let out a sigh, moving carefully to avoid startling her. When I’m right behind her, I rest my hands on either side of her waist and lower my voice.
“What happened to‘I’m settling down after eighty,’ SignoraCarmela?”
“Per Dio, bambino![XIII]If you keep sneaking up on me like that, I won’t live to see another year!”
She presses a hand to her chest in dramatic fashion. I know her too well. She’s not the least bit startled; just caught red-handed and pretending otherwise, like a child caught in the middle of some mischief she’s not supposed to be doing.
Shaking my head, I help her down from the stool where she’d been balancing, rummaging through the upper cabinets.
“Can I ask what you were doing up there?”
I cross my arms and lean against the counter, watching as she walks to the stove and lights the burner beneath the kettle.
“Looking for my yellow mug, the one I like for my tea. Thosebambine[XIV]keep rearranging my kitchen every time they decide to cook, and all they ever do is make a mess!”
A smile tugs at my mouth.
Nonna keeps muttering under her breath—a string of rapid-fire Italian that sounds like both a complaint and a song—as she moves back and forth across the kitchen, pulling cookies from the oven and plucking a few leaves ofmelissafor her tea from one of the many small pots she keeps lined along the window.
I turn around, smiling, and open the cabinet. Her yellow mug is tucked all the way in the back. Thebambine—the girls she’s talking about—are my cousins’ wives, the ones who live here at the villa with her. She’s always grumbling about something, but I know better. She loves having everyone, children and great-grandchildren, under the same roof.
I hand her the mug, take her by the hand, and guide her to a chair despite her protests. “It’s just tea, Nonna. Let me make it for you. You’ve spent your whole life taking care of us. Sitting down for a few minutes won’t hurt.”
“Va bene, va bene[XV]!” she mutters, already pulling theRicciarelli di Sienafrom the tray. Soft almond cookies that she arranges neatly on a plate, dusting them with powdered sugar. They’re a family favorite, always within reach around here.
Once the water begins to boil, I add the freshly washed leaves and let them steep for a minute before turning off the stove, keeping the kettle covered. A few minutes later, I strain the tea and pour it into two mugs.
The moment I hand her the mug and take my seat, Nonna looks at me with that knowing gaze of hers, never missing a thing.
“Why those sad eyes,bambino mio?”
I hold her stare for a moment, then drop mine to the steam curling from my mug. How do I tell her that I, a forty-one-year-old man, am falling in love for only the second time in my life... and that this time, the woman I want might never be mine?
I called Cecilia as soon as I got home to Pisa yesterday. She told me how Alicia’s birthday went, her voice bright, carrying a smile I could hear as if we weren’t a continent away.
