Marco, noting a little icing sugar had been reserved, couldn’t help but ask, ‘Why don’t you put it all in?’
Stella felt her cheeks redden behind her impending embarrassment. She hesitated for a moment, then explained, ‘Because I like to pour some on the slice I cut for myself. Like a dressing of sorts.’
‘Ammazza!’ he said, truly impressed, feigning a regal bow.
They shared a private little laugh as Stella tucked the mostly-empty packet into her back pocket. ‘I’ll hook you up later,’ she promised on a whisper.
Ignazio joined them and, as the guest pastry chef, insisted they serve thepandoroon a silver platter with a warmed jar of Nutella. Because itwasChristmas, after all.
Rounding five o’clock, Carlotta announced that she had to leave, not wanting to be late for Christmas dinner with her family. No amount of spectacular company was worth the argument with her father, who had already sent her a number of reminder texts. Giacomino followed suit, tired from the onslaught of the past week at theenoteca. The booming trade was great for business, but tough on his stamina.
Marco and Ignazio decided to stay on a little later, as Giuseppe wasn’t expecting them home for dinner until closer to six.
Licking his finger, Marco collected every sugar-drenched crumb from his plate. ‘What is it aboutpandorothat’s so . . . so . . .?’
‘Satisfying,’ Stella said.
‘Sì. It’s just so—’
‘Comforting.’
‘Sì! It’s soft and light and—’
‘Vanilla-ry?’
Nodding in agreement, he popped a second slice on his plate. ‘I wish I could eat this all day, every day.’
Marcella, who watched the toing-and-froing with delighted interest, couldn’t help but pipe up. ‘Much better than day-old bread,no, Stella?’ Her left eyebrow hooked with sarcastic comic timing that only Stella could read.
Stella remembered the comment about the sub-par sex with Vincent, and chose to ignore Marcella’s not-so-subtle probing. She knew exactly what she was up to. Turning her attention once again to Marco, she said, ‘I’lljoin you!’ and cut herself another slice. She reached for her secret stash of reserved icing sugar and winked across at him, ignoring Marcella’s persistent gaze. ‘Posso?’
He smiled and proffered his plate. ‘Do your worst, Stellina. Show me how it’s done.’
The banter and energy between the two was practically electric, and they giggled their way through Stella’s generous pouring of the sugar.
Noting this, Marcella cried, ‘Dio Santo!’
‘What?’ they both asked, mirror images of each other across the table,pandoroslices held aloft, pending their first bites.
‘Just get married, you two! It’s like you share a brain.’
‘That’s just because we spend so much time together,’ Stella corrected.
Marco’s eyes suddenly hit the table, and the slice ofpandorowas self-consciously returned to his plate.
Ignazio noted this nervous change in his cousin and knew it was time to change the topic. ‘Anyone want to play cards?’ He produced the same little red-and-white box that Stella and Marco had played with during their Roman day out.
‘Great idea!’ cheered Stella, rolling up her sleeves.
Marco began clearing the centre of the table, carefully shifting the pine cones and candles, and handing empty glasses to Marcella, who took them into the kitchen. ‘Attenzione, Ignazio! Stella is a super-master ofscopa.’
‘He’s right, I’m afraid.’ Flexing her muscles, she added, ‘Prepare to go down!’
Marcella piped up with some big talk, too. ‘Zitti tutti! Give me the cards. You’re wasting time here.’
‘Time for what?’ Stella asked.
‘Time for me to make losers of you all!’ She cackled, shuffling the cards in her hands like a pro. They danced from one hand to the other as if connected by an invisible thread.
