“Oddio!” Maria gasps, while Roberto just gapes silently.
I don’t know who Paolo Maldini is, but his parents react as though my brother is the second coming of Christ.
I can’t tell if Giovanni bragging about my family is sweet or not. Over the course of my life, a lot of so-called friends used me to be closer to Daniel.
“Anyway, that’s probably enough about me.” I feign a laugh, then take a slow sip of water. Smiling politely, I eat another bite of risotto.
Giovanni’s eyebrows furrow, but he resumes eating his Osso Buco.
“Is this a family recipe, Maria?”
“Sì, it’s been in our family for longer than this house. Osso Buco is the first dish my mamma ever taught me to cook and our most treasured one as a family. In fact, I could give you the recipe this week, and we can make it together!” she says excitedly, clapping her hands together.
“Oh,” I squeak. “That’d be, um, so lovely.”
The last thing I want to do is learn a secret family recipe and then never see this family again. I’d just be signing myself up to be haunted by an Italian ghost for the rest of my life.
I take a huge swig of water and pray that someone changes the conversation. During the middle of my clumsy prayer, Roberto gets up with a small bowl of food and starts heading for the garden door.
“Papa…What are you doing?” Giovanni asks suspiciously, narrowing his eyes at his dad.
“I’m just giving your little brother one treat, so he can?—”
“No!” Giovanni and Maria shout, and I have to bite my lip to keep from laughing at the ridiculousness of the relationship between his dad and their house pigeon.
“Alright, alright,” Roberto replies despondently, circling back to the table.
“You know,” Maria says, “you wouldn’t believe it now, but Gio was the one that started feeding the pigeons.”
“Really?”
“Oh yes, he had quite the heart for animals, especially strays. He’d bring fresh bowls of water outside every day for some of the wildlife in our garden. One time, a bird broke his wing, and Gio nursed the little creature back to health. He spent hours at the local library researching wing splints and hand crafted one with his nonno’s supplies. It might be the first custom item he ever made.”
I slowly turn toward Giovanni, who is blushing a color that rivals the inside of the fresh fig we ate earlier.
“You were a real Snow White, huh?” I tease, nudging his shoulder with mine.
Maria smiles. “Although, that story is nothing compared to all the projects he and his nonno worked on for the bambini.”
His mother has gone full Peyton with the stories of Saint Giovanni of Brescia.
But I can’t stop myself from asking, “...babies?”
“It’s really nothing,” Giovanni interrupts, sending his mom a look that saysstop talking this instant. Unfortunately for him, Maria doesn’t appear to obey anyone.
“Gio and his nonno used to sew clothes for bambini in affido—foster care,” she explains. “It was actually Gio’s idea. I remember the day he came up with the plan so clearly. He was thirteen, and had seen a newspaper article about donation collections for orphaned children. He walked straight up to his nonno and said ‘We can reuse the scraps from your designs to make clothes for them.’ His nonno was so proud of him. Gio was his special boy.”
Giovanni looks down into his lap. If I wasn’t watching closely, I might’ve missed him wiping away a tear with the flick of his finger. The way he’s affected by his nonno’s death, years later, makes my heart twist.
Without thinking, I reach for his hand under the table and give it a squeeze. His eyes widen in surprise, before squeezing back. After a few moments, I order myself to drop his hand, but something in me balks. He grips mine tighter, resting our joined hands on his thigh.
And I’m not sure what feeling blooms in me. Maybe a moment of truth amidst all the pretend.
Chapter 18
Tessa
Maria comes back from the stove holding a silver tray with small, thick-walled porcelain cups on top. Handing each of us an espresso, she whispers, “This is my secret recipe. Not even my son knows the magic of how it’s made, but I’m very proud of my blend. I hope you enjoy, Tessa.”
