Paul began to sing along, and there was nothing I could do to shut him up. “Will you bring me happiness? Will you bring me sorrow?”
“I might bring you sorrow,” I said, “if we don’t make a little more progress getting this house unpacked.”
“Fine,” he finally said, then gave me a wet kiss and got back to work.
67.
IT WAS LATE AFTERNOONand I had just begun to tackle the bedroom when I heard a car pull up out front. I assumed it was Giovanni’s niece, who was already living next door and whom I’d been hoping to catch at home so I could introduce myself. But when I went to the door, I was pleasantly surprised to find Laura and Bobby making their way up the steps.
“The Carpenters are here,” I called to Paul, then met them out on the house’s tiny front porch. “Benvenuti a casa nostra!”
“We figured we’d come see how the new place was treating you,” said Laura as she hugged me hello. “Oh, and we brought wine.”
They had brought two bottles of Vermentino, but there was also a bag of gourmet treats. A block of hard cheese, a jar of olives, a package of mortadella, and these paper-thin crackers called pane carasau, which I would later learn were sometimes calledcarte da musicabecause they made so much noise when you ate them.
“Do we have a bottle opener?” Paul asked me after he’d greeted them both, and I panicked, positive that we did not.
“I thought this might be a problem,” said Laura, and from the depths of her purse she retrieved a corkscrew.
“You are a genius,” I said, and Paul did the honors, opening the bottle and pouring the wine into four coffee mugs, which were the only beverage receptacles we owned.
“I thought you weren’t drinking?” I said to Laura in a hushed voice while she arranged the rest of the goodies on a plate.
“I got my period two days ago.”
“Oh, no,” I said sympathetically, but she waved me away and held up the plate for all to see.
“Will you look at this thing?”
We agreed that she had put together quite a spread, then I led everyonethrough our messy bedroom and out to the garden where Giovanni had—thank God—left behind a small table and chairs.
“There’s a cat here somewhere,” I said as we took our seats. “I’m hoping he smells the mortadella and comes out of hiding.”
Laura placed the plate in the middle of the table, and Bobby raised a mug in our direction. “To your new home.”
“I read somewhere that in Italy, when you toast, you’re meant to make eye contact with each person at the table,” said Laura. “Then you saycin cin.”
“Notsalute?” I asked.
“It’s too formal,” said Paul. “Remember, we’re friends.”
“Ugh, that’s right,” said Laura. “You’re married to someone who actually knows Italian. Does he walk around correcting you all the time?”
“Never,” said Paul.
I gave him a look.
“Okay, maybe sometimes.”
“I think we’d kill each other if he was my actual Italian teacher.”
“Too exacting?” said Bobby.
“Too impatient,” I said.
“Speaking of your superb Italian skills, Lieutenant Archer,” said Laura, “are you really not going to tell us what that guy said to Eileen at the bar?”
I glanced at Paul.
