Page 38 of All's Fair in Love and Pizza
“Yeah. I should have known they’d put me in charge of you,” he groused without heat.
I chuckled, popping prosciutto and bread into my mouth. “That’s not necessary.”
“Fine. I’ll leave you in the kitchen.”
“Uh…”
“I thought so.” He grabbed two beers and held them above his head. “This way.”
“Wait for me!” Cici called out, skipping behind us.
Mateo waltzed through the family room to the bank of sliding glass doors leading to a large backyard…and at least a dozen more Cavarettis playingbocceball. After another round of introductions, new teams were made and within five minutes I was in the midst of what seemed like a weekly family battle.
“You cheated!” someone griped angrily.
“That’s sour grapes, Cuz.”
“You can shove your sour grapes up your?—”
“I’m tellin’ on you!” someone else chirped.
The lighthearted fun was interrupted by Sal, who was on table duty.
“You know the drill. Chop-chop!” He clapped his hands, and everyone trudged to into the house like helpful minions.
I furrowed my brow. “What’s happening?”
Vanni overheard the question and jumped in. “We gotta clear furniture in the family room and set up the tables and chairs. It doesn’t take long. Don’t even try to lift a finger. Ma’ll get mad.”
Mateo dropped abocceball and brushed his palms on his jeans. “He’s right. It’s best to stay out of the way. Want to wash up? Dinner will be ready soon.”
The narrow hallway leading to the bathroom was decorated with collage-style family photos in mismatched frames. Like the wall of photos at Boardwalk Pizza, this collection featured a few generations of Cavarettis. I paused to study them, much to Mateo’s chagrin.
“That’s you, huh?” I pointed at a kid with a thick mop of dark hair and a toothy grin covered in flour while his father laughed in the background. “And your dad.”
Mateo squinted. A myriad of emotions crossed his expressive face. I could almost see his internal data bank at work, locating the memory, examining it, and deeming it worthy of further inspection.
“Yeah.” His lips curled on one side. “I was about seven. Dad was teaching me how to toss the dough. There was flour everywhere. It was early in the morning…must have been a Saturday. We were going to open soon and Aunt Sylvie was yelling at us to clean up the mess, but Dad kept saying, ‘One more time, kiddo. One more time.’ It became an inside joke. If either of us uttered that phrase, we’d laugh…and if we weren’t swamped with customers, one of us might even throw a handful of flour.”
I smiled. “You must have been close.”
“He was a good man and a great dad.” Mateo straightened and gestured at a faded baby picture of a toddler and an infant. “That’s Dad and Uncle Sal. They were best friends. Two peas in a pod. They did everything together. Here’s one of them fishing at Yosemite. Oh, and that’s from a ski trip in Tahoe. And oh, here’s one of my cousins and me at Coney Island. Our families visited New York for some great uncle’s hundredth birthday or something. We had a blast.”
I zeroed in on a section of wall dedicated to sports. “This must be your dad again…and your uncle.”
“They both played football.”
I cocked my head curiously. “I thought you look like your mom, but now I’m not so sure.”
“Ah, yeah, I get that. Dad was a good athlete. He played football in high school. Baseball too. He not so secretly wished he was good enough for the big league.”
“He must have been proud of you.”
Mateo frowned, eyes still fixed on the photo. “I think so. I think he?—”
“Dinner!” someone hollered from the kitchen.
Mateo jolted as if startled from a reverie. “Um…the bathroom is right there. You go first.”
