Where my mother was hunched over a cookbook. “O, cara mia! Bella filglia!”
Mama rushed over and hugged me tightly.
“Whatcha doing, Mama?” I teased, accidentally inhaling the scent of her hair product. It sent a wave of nostalgia over me.
“My married daughter was coming over; I wanted to make you cookies,” she explained, waving her hand wildly about as she talked. “But something is wrong with the dough.”
Pressing a kiss to her forehead, I moved to the recipe book, realized she had melted the butter instead of softening it, and adjusted the ingredients accordingly. The dough was done in no time. A double batch of chocolate chip cookies.
Mama kept the kids out of the kitchen, pouring us each an espresso as the first batch baked. “And how are…things?”
Heat burned my cheeks.
I checked the oven to hide it. “Great!”
“He was…gentle?” The hope in her voice made me choke.
Liam had been anything but. Which was exactly what my jaded heart demanded.
My voice was unnaturally high. “Everything is fine, Mama. Ooh, these are done!”
I pulled the still doughy cookies out and put the next sheet into the oven. My stomach grumbled loudly, and I plucked one off. Tossing it between my hands to cool, my mouth watered.
“Papa,Papa!” the girls sang out from the backyard.
My mother tensed. She pulled her sweater up and fluffed her hair. Walking over to her, I tugged on the material. My eyes hadn’t betrayed me. There was an ugly, purple mark on her flesh.
With a hiss, Mama pulled the sweater back in place. We stared at one another.
“Things are fine here too,” she insisted.
We might not have the kind of relationship others had, but something settled between us. It felt like now that I was married, she wasn’t hiding what regularly happened.
It’s as if she expects the same thing to happen to me.
Papa pushed through the back door a moment later. “I wondered why a small army of Irishmen were parked out front.”
He was smiling.
I wanted to smack the hot sheet of cookies across his face. Instead, I played along.
“Just thought it was time to visit my family.”
“I would have thought the honeymoon phase lasted a little longer,” Papa mused, plucking a cookie. When it melted in his hand, he frowned. “These aren’t done, Marcella.”
My mother winced, scrambled to the sheet, but I held out a hand. “The girls wanted a soft batch, Papa. Don’t worry, we’ll have some proper ones in a minute.”
Those gruesome brown eyes narrowed, but he kept up the act because the kids chimed in, insisting that they preferred them underbaked.
“I’m glad you stopped by, Gabriella,” Papa said pleasantly. “Why don’t you come to my office so we can have a little chat.”
Mama shot me a tense look but stayed close to the oven.
I swallowed hard. “Okay.”
Shooing the girls back outside, my father led the way to his dimly lit sanctuary. “Close the door.”
I obeyed.
