Chapter 14 Rob
ROB
Dinner with the Cavarettis was, as Mateo had warned, absolute chaos.
His Aunt Sylvie lived on a tree-lined street a couple of blocks from campus in a two-story gray shingled house with a large porch.
Skateboards, three bicycles, a soccer ball, and a football littered the lawn covered in autumnal leaves, and a wall of sound blasted through the open front door.
If I hadn’t known better, I’d have thought we were walking into a frat party.
“Thirty people?”
“At least.” Mateo flashed a pirate’s grin. “This is your final ‘Get out of jail free’ opportunity. Make a break for it, man. I would if I could too.”
“Liar. You just like making me squirm.”
“True. C’mon. I won’t let them eat you alive.” With that, Mateo strode inside and hollered a greeting at the top of his lungs. “I’m here and I brought the bagel boy!”
“Thanks a lot,” I growled, elbowing him in the ribs.
The noise level fell for a beat, then exploded as a swarm of Cavarettis descended. I recognized Sal first. He hugged Mateo and introduced me to his wife, Scarlet, a petite brunet with a baby on her hip and a cousin named—maybe Angie?—who wore thick makeup, a snug red dress, and hoop earrings.
“Nice to meet you,” Angie purred. “I’m Sal’s cousin on Aunt Sylvie’s side of the family and Teo’s cousin by default. I’ve heard a lot about you and—”
“Yo, the bagel man made it!” Vanni appeared out of the blue. He clapped me on the back, taking over as Mateo was pulled away by a few kids. “Let’s get you a beer. Ma! Aunt Therese! Teo’s here, and he brought you a present!”
We were stopped half a dozen times on our way to the kitchen by family members who’d claimed we’d met at the bagel shop or who were big football fans.
“Dude, I remember when you played for Dallas. You were a beast!”
“I remember when he played for Haverton!”
“Do you like olives? I hate them, but if you like them there’s a bunch in the kitchen. I’ll show you.”
Okay, that last one was a little girl with pigtails who was missing her two front teeth.
“That’s Cici,” Vanni was saying. “She’s my sister Maria’s oldest.”
“I’m six,” Cici piped in. “I’m in first grade.”
“Nice to meet you, Cici.”
Mateo swooped in behind the little girl and lifted her onto his shoulders. “Hey, Cici, let’s go hide the olives. You comin’, Rob?”
Cici beamed from her perch. “Let’s go!”
The kitchen was definitely the hub of this house.
High ceilings and wide windows over the sink let in the late afternoon light and provided an echo chamber of sorts for multiple conversations in the room.
Aunt Sylvie held court at the stove with two younger women I thought might have been her daughters.
She was hard to miss in her zebra-print apron and red pants.
“I’m here…with Rob,” Mateo announced.
“And he has flowers for you, Nonna!” Cici added.
Aunt Sylvie pivoted on her heels, briskly shoving her reading glasses atop her head. She kissed both of my cheeks, did the same to Mateo, then took the wine and flowers. “For me? You shouldn’t have, but I’m glad you did. Welcome!”
“Thanks for having me.”
“Teo, get our guest a glass of something, will you? And Rob…eat!”
“Where’s Ma?” Mateo asked, swinging Cici off his shoulders.
“Eccomi!” His mother carried a large platter from the pantry. “Ciao, bello, Teo. Ah! You are here. I’m so happy. You’re hungry, si?”
“I—si.” I figured that was the correct reply. “Thank you, Mrs. Cavaretti.”
“You may call me Therese.” She grinned, and I couldn’t help thinking that Mateo looked a lot like his mother.
Therese was a beautiful woman in her sixties with bobbed raven hair, red lipstick, and an easy smile. Unlike her flamboyant sister-in-law, Therese wore fashionable tailored clothing in muted colors.
She patted my arm as she spoke in rapid-fire Italian to her son, gesticulating toward the stove.
I noticed that every burner was in use and every square inch of real estate on the island was covered with food—platters of antipasto, bowls of olives, peanuts, and bread chunks, bottles of soda, beer, and wine, and even a couple of bags of potato chips.
“Do me a favor and grab a slice of prosciutto. I’ll be in trouble if you don’t eat.” Mateo handed me a slice with a piece of focaccia bread.
“In trouble?”
“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 playing bocce ball.
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 a bocce ball 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.”
I nodded, oddly disappointed that the moment was gone.
Dinner itself was everything Mateo had warned it would be. Adults congregated at two long tables in the family room, and kids sat at the round table in the breakfast nook. Food was passed amid a flurry of competing conversations.
I sat next to a beautiful olive-skinned woman who introduced herself as Hilary, a cousin from Aunt Sylvie’s side.
She was a financial analyst who lived in Santa Cruz and commuted to San Francisco three days a week.
Another cousin—Marta, maybe?—fed me a near constant stream of information about Hilary.
She was thirty-four, a Stanford grad, no kids, a huge Taylor Swift fan, a fitness buff…
oh, and her last boyfriend was a bum. The Cavarettis didn’t do subtle well.
I gorged on halibut with puttanesca, shrimp linguine, roasted veggies, and the best bread I’d ever eaten in my life while chatting amicably with Hilary and clandestinely keeping an eye on Mateo, who was seated nearby at the head of the table.
Occasionally, our conversations overlapped, and I’d have his full attention and…
suddenly I’d find myself smiling for no reason at all.
Curiosity and common courtesy had been my reasons for accepting this invitation.
But there was a personal element here as well.
I got this strange fluttery feeling in my chest watching Mateo interact with his family.
He alternately played the doting son and nephew, the goofball cousin, or the heir apparent.
I didn’t claim to understand the dynamics at Boardwalk Pizza, but I got the impression that Mateo and Sal were in charge… with Mateo making all final decisions.
Maybe I was wrong. And maybe someday I’d ask. Tonight, I was content to be amongst new friends and grateful he’d allowed me into his orbit.
On the drive home, I regretted the second helping of tiramisu. I patted my belly at a red light and groaned.
“I’m not eating tomorrow.”
Mateo snickered and drawled an annoying, “Right…”
“I’m serious. How do you eat like that and own a pizza shop and still manage to stay in shape? I don’t get it.”
“I don’t eat like that every day. That’s a Sunday thing only,” he assured me. “So…do you wish you’d listened to me and bailed out while you had a chance?”
“No way. I loved it.” I darted a sideways glance and could have sworn he smiled. “Your family is…lovely.”
“I think you mean loud.”
“That too, but they’re awesome,” I enthused.
“Green light.”
“Oh.” I put my foot on the gas and continued through town. “Am I taking you home or…are you coming with me?”
“I’m definitely going to your house, but I need my car.” He thanked me when I pulled into the alley behind the pizza parlor a couple of minutes later. “I’ll be there in fifteen or less. I—hey, you’re starin’ at me.”
“No, no, I’m just…” I chuckled. “This feels like a date.”
“A date? Are you nuts? I would never ever in a million years take a date to Sunday dinner. No way. No one brings a date to Sunday dinner. My cousins joked that sharing a marinara recipe was like proposing, but you might as well set the fucking date if you bring some poor soul to Sunday dinner.”
“Gee, Teo…I don’t know if I’m ready for that kind of commitment yet,” I teased.
“Very fucking funny. And for the record, we”—he gestured manically between us—“are not dating. Not even close. I barely like you, and I—”
“C’mere.” I didn’t give him a chance to refuse. I hooked my hand around Mateo’s nape and pulled him toward me, sealing our mouths. I patted his cheek as I released him. “See you at my place.”
I checked the rearview mirror for a parting glimpse of a shell-shocked looking Mateo. And yes, I was very aware of my super-sized smug grin. God, I loved getting under that guy’s skin.
Or was he under mine?