36. Katerina
Chapter thirty-six
Katerina
We're heading to Sunday dinner at Marcello and Lucia Russo's home, a small apartment in Carroll Gardens that Bex assures me will be loud and warm. I've never been there, but I've spent the past week imagining every possible scenario: from a joyful acceptance to a screaming meltdown.
Hence my thorough preparation.
"Are you sure that collar isn't choking you?" Bex asks from the bathroom doorway. She leans against the frame, watching me fuss with the top of my blouse.
I give her a mild look. "It's fine."
She nods, though her mouth twists like she's suppressing a laugh. "You keep adjusting it. That's usually me at the shop, messing with my gloves, not you."
I swallow a surge of nerves. "I'm used to dealing with other people's parents about wedding details, not this. Sorry if I'm overthinking."
She steps closer, a small shift of motion that's just enough to catch the faint reflection of her face in the bathroom mirror behind me. Her eyes flick to the mirror, meeting mine. "You're not overthinking. You're just you."
The warmth in her voice settles my heart a little.
I turn around fully, taking in the sight of her wearing a black button-down, sleeves rolled to the elbows, paired with jeans that look comfortably worn.
Simple. She's run a hand through her dark hair, so it spikes up in playful waves that refuse to lie flat.
My fingers twitch, recalling exactly how that hair feels. I force myself to focus on the matter at hand.
She recognizes my internal pivot, she often does. Her grin softens. "You ready?"
I inhale, smoothing the front of my blouse one final time. "Yes," I lie. Then I amend with a small laugh, "Well, not entirely, but yes."
Bex's mouth curves in amusement. "Good enough."
Carroll Gardens feels instantly more vibrant than the part of Boston I grew up in.
We can smell the oregano and tomato sauce from halfway down the block, a torrent of cooking scents pouring through the open windows of the brownstones.
So many voices mingle in the air: neighbors calling to each other, a dog barking, a radio playing from someone's stoop.
Bex pauses in front of a brick building with a wrought-iron gate. "All right," she mutters, "we're here."
My nerves jolt. But she shoots me a quick, reassuring grin and presses the buzzer. We hear a muffled response from inside, her mother's voice, I guess, then a click, and the door pops open.
We climb a narrow staircase lined with framed photos.
The banister squeaks under my hand, and I catch a glimpse of countless baby pictures in the frames.
Some look like Bex as a toddler, sporting an enormous grin covered in what might have been chocolate.
I file away that mental image for future amusement.
Before we can knock at the apartment door, Lucia's voice echoes from inside: "Come in, come in!"
Bex pushes the door open, and we step into a wave of heat and smell: garlic, onions, tomatoes, basil, all layered in the air. My stomach rumbles.
Lucia Russo stands by the stove, wearing an apron with a tomato print.
She's shorter than Bex by a few inches, with dark hair shot through with silver.
She motions us inside like she's been expecting us for hours.
"You're late," she says, but her tone isn't scolding.
It sounds more like a comedic observation.
Bex shrugs off her jacket. "Train was slow, Ma."
I hover by the doorway. Marcello Russo comes in from the living room, wiping his hands on a dish towel. He has a well-worn face, the kind that tells stories of stubborn pride, and Bex's same intense eyes. He gives a small nod in our direction.
"Papa," Bex says, voice careful.
He nods again, offering me a handshake. I take it, feeling the callouses on his palm. "Katerina," he greets me, the syllables lightly accented with his old Italian veneer.
"Kit is fine," I reply, clearing my throat. "It's nice to see you again, Mr. Russo."
He steps back, motioning to the table where four chairs nestle around a bright checkered tablecloth. "Please, sit. Dinner is almost ready."
Bex had warned me about the chaos of activity in her parents' household, but experiencing it firsthand is different.
Lucia tosses fresh pasta in a big pot, listening to a local radio station that blasts Italian ballads.
Marcello pulls out antipasti plates and keeps an eye on a simmering sauce.
They move around each other with a synchronized dance, sometimes bickering in half-Italian, half-English about whether to add more salt.
And the entire time, Bex and I stand just outside that chaos, trying not to get in the way.
I find myself relaxing in tiny increments, which surprises me.
The place feels utterly unlike my parents' pristine home in Wellesley, with its hushed manners and carefully curated décor.
Here, the walls are lined with old framed photos stacked two or three rows high, capturing weddings, baptisms, family reunions, half of them slightly crooked.
The living room sofa is plush and worn, the coffee table stacked with magazines.
A couple of crocheted doilies cover various surfaces, each featuring a different floral pattern.
It breathes warmth. And to my own surprise, I'm not uncomfortable.
Dinner is served soon enough: steaming bowls of pasta, a platter of roasted vegetables, fresh bread. All placed on the table with minimal ceremony. Lucia points at the seats, and we arrange ourselves: Bex and I on one side, Lucia and Marcello opposite.
I exchange a small glance with Bex, bracing for an interrogation. But the conversation starts politely enough, mostly about how the sauce turned out. I take a bite and nearly melt at how good it is.
Eventually, though, Marcello turns his attention to me. "So, Miss Kit," he says, stumbling a bit on how to address me. "Rebecca said you are an event coordinator. Weddings?"
Bex winces a bit at the mention of that job, but I keep my voice light. "Yes, though I'm exploring documentary filmmaking now."
He tilts his head, posture more guarded. "Documentaries. That's film, yes?"
I nod, swallowing a sudden flash of nerves. "Yes, sir. I'm applying for a fellowship. It involves capturing real stories. Some of my interest is around families who built things from scratch in America, focusing on how that shapes the next generation."
He regards me with a thoughtful expression. "Interesting subject."
The table quiets. Lucia pauses mid-scoop of more sauce onto Bex's plate, giving me a look I can't quite parse. I realize I might have just told them that I want to do a documentary on families a lot like theirs.
I press on carefully. "I think it's important to show the real side of it, not just the triumphs but also the sacrifices. People who left their home country to search for better opportunities, what it took, what it cost. That kind of thing."
Marcello's gaze lingers. Then he gives a slow, deliberate nod. "Ah, yes. That is indeed important."
Lucia sets the ladle down and reaches across to top off my water glass, an almost shy gesture. From what Bex has told me, that's Lucia's version of an olive branch. I offer her a small, grateful smile.
"Well," Lucia says, trying to shift the mood, "we have plenty of old stories if you want to hear them someday."
Bex clears her throat, meeting my eyes briefly. Someday might be sooner than they realize, but we let that topic sit for now.
The rest of the meal plays out as a cautious navigation.
Marcello asks me about my father, about Boston.
Lucia wants to know if that city has decent Italian groceries.
I answer as honestly as I can. Bex chimes in occasionally, gentle corrections or teasing remarks.
The dynamic is closer to a first-meeting politeness than the conversation about us being married.
And that's okay, for the moment.
When the pasta plates are cleared, Lucia brings out a dish of roasted peppers and olives, encouraging us to keep eating. I feel stuffed already, but I accept a small helping. Bex does the same.
Then Marcello taps Bex's shoulder. "Come help me, figlia, I need some help in the kitchen."
His voice wavers, making it obvious he's looking for an excuse to talk privately. Bex's eyes flick to me for half a second, and I give a silent nod. Let him have his talk.
So they stand, carrying dishes to the sink. A moment later, I hear the low rumble of their voices through the partly closed door. I can't make out the words, only the gentle cadence of father-daughter conversation.
At the table, Lucia and I linger. She folds her napkin, smoothing it with patient hands. Then she looks at me. "Rebecca, she has been different this year," she says softly, skipping preamble.
I rest my hands in my lap, listening.
"Lighter," Lucia adds. "She used to come here and be so closed. We had many arguments, especially about her career. But since the wedding at Hollyvale, she's less angry."
I catch a pang in my chest. "She's always had that lightness," I say, voice quieter. "But maybe she finally found somewhere to let it stay."
Lucia nods, eyes drifting to the door as if she could see her daughter through it. "Yes. She told us she was seeing someone good. That's how she put it."
My throat tightens. "I'm trying," I manage.
She tilts her head, a small smile curling her lips. "You came to dinner. In this family, that is already good."
I find myself smiling back. The acceptance in her voice feels fragile but real.
From the kitchen, Marcello's voice rumbles. I can't catch the exact words, but the tone is mild, maybe even affectionate in that gruff fatherly way. Bex's response is quieter, a soft murmur.
I try not to eavesdrop, though curiosity claws at me. Lucia drums her fingers lightly on the table. "He'll get used to it," she says under her breath, almost conspiratorial. "Rebecca is still our girl. He doesn't want her to feel pushed away again."
It takes me a second to realize that by "it," she means the entire situation: our marriage, our relationship, my presence. The knowledge that she's open to this sends a flood of relief through my chest.
Eventually, Bex and Marcello return. Their body language is relaxed enough that I guess the conversation hadn't gone terribly. Bex has a faint flush on her cheeks, and she shares a half-smile with me as she reclaims her seat.
We talk for another hour, sipping coffee Lucia brewed, nibbling leftover bread, flipping through old photo albums that Lucia insists on showing us.
The pictures reveal a younger Lucia and Marcello on their wedding day, a beaming bride in a lace veil, a stiff-necked groom with a proud posture.
Bex rolls her eyes when Lucia points out baby pictures of her, but I can see the fondness spark in my wife's expression.
Yes, wife. That word still makes my heart jump. But I try to let it settle, like a normal thing: my wife, Bex.
As the night wears on, the conversation meanders. We don't re-announce ourselves as married, but the undercurrent is plainly there. No one tries to chase us out. Marcello even pours a small glass of limoncello for each of us, a courtesy I suspect is rarer than they let on.
Finally, Lucia checks the time and clucks. "You will miss your train if you don't go soon," she says, waving a hand at me.
I stand, gathering my coat, Bex doing the same. Marcello accompanies us to the door. Lucia presses a takeaway container of leftover pasta into Bex's hands, insisting we'd want it later. I find that ridiculously sweet.
We say goodbye in a chorus of well-wishes. Then we step into the hallway, shutting the door behind us.
By the time we reach the sidewalk outside, the evening air feels cool against my flushed cheeks. A streetlamp glows overhead, casting a cone of buttery light.
Bex turns to me, eyes bright. She looks at the leftover container in her hands, then up at me. "Right. So, my dad just called you impressive. Quietly, while I was putting away dishes, but he said it. She's an impressive woman."
I stop short, my heart giving a fierce jolt. "He did?"
She nods, a slow grin tugging at her mouth. "Yeah. That's good, right?"
She leans in, expecting me to confirm.
I feel a surge of relief, my mind spinning with how big that is, a father's grudging respect. "That's maybe everything," I say, voice a little raw.
She grazes her knuckles against my arm, exhaling. "So we survived, huh?"
I laugh softly. "We did."
We start walking again, leaving the smell of tomato sauce and the hum of family conversation behind us. I realize I don't feel shaky or exhausted like I often do after dinners with my own parents. Instead, I feel a strange sense of hope.
Bex threads her arm through mine. "By the way, could you get used to that sauce? Because it might become your entire future."
I press my lips together in amusement. "I think I'll manage."
She squeezes my arm affectionately, and we round the corner, the city's glow guiding us back toward the subway.
As we walk, I reflect on how different this night was from the formal dinners I'd endured my whole life.
No stiff, judgmental quiet, but rather a warm chaos of conversation where hand gestures were as important as words, and a father who was unsure but seemed willing to try.
I could work with that.
At the station entrance, we pause. Bex looks at me, her face half-lit by the flicker of a streetlight. "Feel okay about heading back to my place? Or do you need to catch that train home?"
Her voice is casual, but there's an invitation beneath it. I hesitate, smiling. "I've got time," I say. "If that's okay with you."
"It's more than okay," she murmurs, leaning closer. "I have leftover limoncello. And a new Netflix subscription I never use."