The engagement was not a surprise. Not really. Marco had known for weeks, Serafina too. But when Angela held out her hand to show the ring, Serafina burst into tears, which made Angela cry, which made Marco blink hard and reach for the wine, which made Sal look up from his glass and smile, the small, rare smile that meant he approved.
Marco came around the table and pulled me to my feet. He hugged me, tight, and said, “You did good, cousin.” Then he hugged Angela, just as hard, and said, “Welcome to the mess.”
Angela said, “Thank you,” into his shoulder.
We sat back down, and Marco opened the best of the bottles. He poured a little into each glass, then raised his own.
He said, “To new things. To stubborn vines. To family.” He looked at Angela, then at me. “And to love that doesn’t quit.”
Serafina wiped her eyes and said, “Salute.”
Sal lifted his glass, but did not speak. Instead, after the first sip, he put his hand flat on my chest, right above my heart. He looked at me for a long moment, then said, in Sicilian, “Be happy, brother. You’ve earned it.”
I nodded. I said, “You too.”
Angela sat close enough that our shoulders touched. She had her hand on my knee, her thumb making slow circles. The ring caught the candlelight.
We ate. We drank. We laughed.
When it was nearly midnight, and the last of the dessert was gone, Marco looked around the table and said, “Where’s Tonio?”
Sal shrugged. “Probably still at the gym. Or the bakery.”
Marco rolled his eyes. “The bakery girl. Of course. He hasn’t shut up about her for a month.”
Serafina grinned. “At least he found something better than punching walls.”
I said nothing. I thought about Tonio, about what waited for him next, and hoped it would be as good as this.
Sal caught my eye. There was a moment—a brief one—where I saw the weight we both carried, the thing we were keeping to ourselves for now. But he nodded at me, once, and I nodded back, and the moment passed.
Angela excused herself and went inside. When she came back, she had changed into my shirt again. She walked to the end of the terrace and looked at the stars. I followed her, leaving the others to their talking and their wine.
She said, “Are you happy, Pietro?”
I thought about it. I thought about the years before her, the old nightmares, the running. I thought about the things I had done, the things I had lost.
I said “Yes.”
She put her head on my shoulder.
“I’m happy too,” she said.
We stood that way, looking down at the river, until the others called us in for the last toast.
Inside, the baby had woken, and Marco was rocking her in his arms, singing in a voice so off-key even Serafina laughed. Sal poured one last round. The wine was deep red, almost black, and tasted, as Serafina said, like home.
We raised our glasses. We drank.
Chapter 20
Angela
Thecarcametoa stop on a street I did not know.
Pietro killed the engine. The dashboard light went out and the dark of the side street came in through the windows in one slow pour. No streetlamp on this block. No signage. A row of old brick fronts that could have been anything—a tailor, an accountant, a building that had been one thing in 1962 and was now waiting to be something else.
“Are you going to tell me,” I said.
