Page 115 of Mafia Bride
Starting the espresso before arranging the cookies on a platter, I think this is kind of great. I could really learn to like having people over, running a kitchen, being in charge of my own little fiefdom.
Outside, they’re chatting amicably. Santino’s phone rings and he dodges away to answer, leaving Paola and Siena alone. As he passes me, I hear the wordDamiand wonder if it’s the same Damiano who threw oranges at his window, but I can’t ask because he’s gone in a blink.
Damn him and his business. I can hurry the cookies and cold drinks but I can’t rush the coffee. I load the tray with biscotti and glasses for the pitcher of lemon soda and start out, when I hear an urgentpsst.Santino’s leaning in the entrance from the living room with his hand over the phone.
“Wait for me,” he says before shaking his head and walking away in frustration over whatever’s happening on the call.
Is he serious?
I’m supposed to stare at the espresso pot for another seven minutes while we have guests waiting alone? No self-respecting Italian matriarch would let that go on, whether her husband told her to or not. He can reign over his territory, but I reign over the house. He knows that. Besides, what could be the problem? If Siena’s allergic to almonds or doesn’t like anise she can just pick another biscotti.
So, with Santino striding urgently to the other side of the house, I take the tray outside.
“Ah, here she is,” Siena says. “I was telling Paola I love how you’re wearing this.” She touches her throat, and I remember my attempts with the carved brooch.
“Oh,” I laugh and pour out the lemon soda, making light of the aesthetic difficulties. “It’s so beautiful I can’t let it sit in a drawer.”
Paola makes a shorttskbefore drinking. I’m not sure what she’s trying to say, but that particular sound from one of us means something more than nothing. It’s a warning, or a reminder to shut up. It’s disappointment and sometimes irritation. It’s all context, and I feel like I don’t have enough of that to interpret the intention.
“It’s really unique,” Siena says. “The first time I saw it, I thought only a really beautiful woman could pull it off.”
“Siena’s thinking of moving to the States,” Paola changes the subject. “What do you think?”
“Um,” I’m still trying to figure out where Siena would have seen the brooch before, then decide it doesn’t matter. “Yeah. It’s a great idea. I can show you around.”
“My English is terrible.”
“Everyone speaks Italian in Secondo Vasto.” I’m falling right back into the generous hostess role I’d given myself ten minutes ago, and I’m pretty happy here.
“Oh,” I cry, bolting up. “The espresso!”
I can smell the scorched coffee before I even get into the kitchen, where the moka pot’s shaking against the burner.
Liking the role of Queen of the Casa doesn’t make me good at it.
“Don’t worry about it,” Siena says, coming inside. “The soda’s fine.”
“No, no.” I dump the grounds. “I have to do it right.”
She leans on the counter by the open doors and slips a slim pewter case from her pocket.
“You seem happy,” she says, snapping open the case to reveal a row of cigarettes. “One for you?” she asks, holding it out.
“No, thanks.”
“You’re handling the change well.” She hinges one cigarette out and closes the case.
I’m flattered she even notices, but even more than that, she’s open to hearing about what I’d consider my success.
“Thanks,” I say. “It was hard at first.”
“Oh, I’d imagine.” With the scratch and pop of a plastic lighter, she lights her cigarette. “Situation being what it is.”
“Yeah.” I should say something about being raised American, but I take a moment to figure out how to couch it while I refill the espresso pot.
“I was with Rosetta when she died,” Siena says as if this isn’t shocking at all, and she’s about to say more, but I need to backtrack about four words.
“What?”
