Chapter 07
Anch’io, Tesoro
Alexander
I walk into the kitchen and have to take a second to make sure I’m not imagining things. I let out a sigh, moving carefully to avoid startling her. When I’m right behind her, I rest my hands on either side of her waist and lower my voice.
“What happened to ‘I’m settling down after eighty,’ Signora Carmela?”
“Per Dio, bambino! [XIII]If you keep sneaking up on me like that, I won’t live to see another year!”
She presses a hand to her chest in dramatic fashion. I know her too well. She’s not the least bit startled; just caught red-handed and pretending otherwise, like a child caught in the middle of some mischief she’s not supposed to be doing.
Shaking my head, I help her down from the stool where she’d been balancing, rummaging through the upper cabinets.
“Can I ask what you were doing up there?”
I cross my arms and lean against the counter, watching as she walks to the stove and lights the burner beneath the kettle.
“Looking for my yellow mug, the one I like for my tea. Those bambine[XIV] keep rearranging my kitchen every time they decide to cook, and all they ever do is make a mess!”
A smile tugs at my mouth.
Nonna keeps muttering under her breath—a string of rapid-fire Italian that sounds like both a complaint and a song—as she moves back and forth across the kitchen, pulling cookies from the oven and plucking a few leaves of melissa for her tea from one of the many small pots she keeps lined along the window.
I turn around, smiling, and open the cabinet.
Her yellow mug is tucked all the way in the back.
The bambine—the girls she’s talking about—are my cousins’ wives, the ones who live here at the villa with her.
She’s always grumbling about something, but I know better.
She loves having everyone, children and great-grandchildren, under the same roof.
I hand her the mug, take her by the hand, and guide her to a chair despite her protests. “It’s just tea, Nonna. Let me make it for you. You’ve spent your whole life taking care of us. Sitting down for a few minutes won’t hurt.”
“Va bene, va bene[XV]!” she mutters, already pulling the Ricciarelli di Siena from the tray. Soft almond cookies that she arranges neatly on a plate, dusting them with powdered sugar. They’re a family favorite, always within reach around here.
Once the water begins to boil, I add the freshly washed leaves and let them steep for a minute before turning off the stove, keeping the kettle covered. A few minutes later, I strain the tea and pour it into two mugs.
The moment I hand her the mug and take my seat, Nonna looks at me with that knowing gaze of hers, never missing a thing.
“Why those sad eyes, bambino mio?”
I hold her stare for a moment, then drop mine to the steam curling from my mug. How do I tell her that I, a forty-one-year-old man, am falling in love for only the second time in my life... and that this time, the woman I want might never be mine?
I called Cecilia as soon as I got home to Pisa yesterday. She told me how Alicia’s birthday went, her voice bright, carrying a smile I could hear as if we weren’t a continent away.
Later she admitted, her voice thick with emotion, that she’d overheard a conversation between her kids that had made her cry. Out of pride... and apprehension.
Her ex-husband—il coglione[XVI]—will be at Ethan’s graduation next week. I know they share two children, and that, in some way, he’ll always be part of her life. But I won’t pretend I didn’t feel that pang in my chest when I pictured them in the same place again.
When I asked how she felt about it, Cecilia said, “I’m happy with how their conversation went.
It couldn’t make me happier that despite everything that happened, their bond was never damaged.
.. that they never lost that safety to ask each other for something like this.
He’s only graduating high school once, and I want him to look back one day without regrets…
without wondering if he should’ve invited his father, especially if they manage to mend things.
I know my son. If Ethan truly didn’t want Colin there, he would’ve found a way to let Alicia down gently.
But I can’t help feeling anxious about all of it. ”
As she spoke, I could hear the strength in her voice battling the tremor beneath it, a careful balance I feel she’s always trying to keep. And even though I understood every reason behind her words... it didn’t stop the sting of jealousy from taking place deep inside me.
I wanted to ask if that anxiety was only about Ethan, or if part of it was the thought of sitting next to her ex-husband for hours during the graduation ceremony.
How long do those ceremonies last in the States, anyway?
Mine was so long ago I can barely remember.
But I don’t say any of that to Nonna. I run a hand over my beard and say, “Too many business matters to handle, not nearly enough time for all of them.”
“E io ci credo[XVII]...” she says, narrowing her eyes, the tone halfway between teasing and knowing she’s caught me hiding something.
“You better believe it. And don’t even try to change the subject. I haven’t forgotten that I caught you standing on that stool when I got here.”
I point a finger at her, aiming for a scolding, but there’s no missing the amusement in my voice.
“There are plenty of people in this house who can do things for you. It’s time for you to take it easy, Signora Carmela.”
“Assurdo! [XVIII]I’m not some helpless old woman. My mind is sharp and my body keeps up just fine—sì[XIX]?”
She takes another sip of her tea, eyes glinting with mischief, every inch the queen of her kitchen.
“After ninety, maybe I’ll take it easy. These younger generations were born tired, always needing a rest.”
I can’t help but laugh, almost choking on a cookie as I shake my head. She says it with such conviction it almost sounds like a declaration of war.
“That’s not true. You’re just impossible. And let’s be honest, when you reach ninety, you’ll say you’re not stopping until a hundred.”
Nonna waves her hand dismissively.
“Ma va’! [XX]I don’t even want to live that long. I need to go check on Franco soon, make sure he hasn’t gotten himself tangled up with some svergognata[XXI] on the other side. That man was no saint.”
I know what part of her means when she says that, half joking, but there’s longing there too. I also hope she stays with us for many more years.
Franco was her husband—ten years older, my grandfather, who passed away last year. During those first few weeks, we all feared for Nonna’s health; the two of them had been inseparable. They fought constantly but loved each other just as fiercely.
With time she began to recover. Little by little, finding her footing again. To this day, she calls him a scoundrel, says he was too charming for his own good. But everyone knows he never looked at another woman. His heart belonged to her, always.
Soon enough, she’s telling me the latest neighborhood gossip, while we finish our tea. I just nod along, smiling every time she tells me what she’s been up to when I was traveling. Just content to be in her presence.
“Missing that view?”
I turn to see Angelo, my cousin Pietro’s husband, walking toward me from across the pool area.
I nod. “No matter how many places I visit, nothing ever compares to what I feel standing here.”
My eyes move across the property that’s been in my family for generations. The endless expanse of olive groves melting into the horizon, the small orchard my great-great-grandfather planted for his wife, standing as proud as ever after all these years.
And then the house—pale yellow, timeless—its marble staircase crafted by Santoro Marmo framing the entrance from end to end. It’ll outlive all of us, I think, and keep telling our story long after we’re gone.
“Feeling nostalgic, amico mio[XXII]?” Angelo says with a teasing grin. “Or is that look about missing a certain americana[XXIII], sì[XXIV]?”
I rub the back of my neck, letting out a breath.
“Cesare and his big mouth...”
Cesare, one of my cousins, also works at Santoro Marmo and occasionally travels with me. Last week, he caught me scrolling through Cecilia’s Instagram profile and started firing off a thousand questions.
I barely answered any of them, but it didn’t take him long to connect my frequent trips to New York over the past few months with her. And nothing I said could convince him otherwise.
I know he followed her profile too, but that doesn’t bother me.
Cecilia’s never managed her social media herself; the person who handles it for her works remotely from New Orleans. Not that it stops me from checking now and then... just to catch a glimpse of her world when I can’t be part of it.
“Is Sam out with the kids in the olive grove?” I ask, not even trying to hide my attempt to change the subject.
Angelo bursts out laughing, clapping me hard on the back.
“Sì, sì. I see how it is. That only proves Cesare’s right. Cupid got you, my friend—better late than never. Nonna Carmela will be thrilled. She’s already dreaming about more great-grandchildren!”
“Che cazzo[XXV]...” I mutter under my breath.
I’m saved by Sam’s bark, loud and cheerful, just before he comes running toward me, a few of my nephews, nieces, and cousins trailing behind him. He’s always this happy whenever I leave him here during the day while I’m working or away on a trip.
I crouch down to greet him as he bounds into me, tail wagging like he’s been waiting for this moment all day. A chorus of laughter follows when the kids rush in for a collective hug, small arms wrapping around my waist and legs.
I take my time saying goodbye to each of them before heading out. Sam hops into the car beside me, buzzing with excitement, and as I pull out of the driveway, I catch Angelo laughing at me through the rearview mirror. I can’t help but laugh too.