Chapter Twenty
Tarantella
Rod
The smell of the famous Amato pasta alla Norma wafts through the yard from the open back doors, pulled open so we can all march out of the house directly to the party with the primo, the first course.
Our guests are probably going to explode at some point this evening and, judging from the proud smile on Bianca’s face as she and Tali tote the pasta over to the table, she’d be glad if they did.
We’ve made about enough to feed a couple of large elephants for Bia’s ‘farewell’ bash, but our actual clientele today is just about the entire neighbourhood.
Rebecca is here with her kids and her grandkid, and Jake, his sister Lyla and their parents have also joined us.
With everyone in total, we have about sixty people at a massive picnic table, all laughing and literally breaking bread together.
My eyes dart around the table, though. The one person I’ve been waiting on isn’t here.
‘She’s a busy woman, Rod,’ hums Bianca as she heads back inside to grab herself a plate. ‘Give her a moment. She’ll be around.’
I force a smile. Her absence is totally not affecting me. Why would it?
To the back of the yard, Tali, Jake and Lyla are running around with the dogs. Scout attempts to absolutely crash into Tali with his ass, and she just bursts into giggles.
‘Who are you all posted up waiting for?’ As if immediately rotating in for my oldest sister, Genny scoots over in what I think is supposed to be a casual manner.
Her empty plate of pasta tells me she’s probably raring for some gossip in between courses, and I roll my eyes as she clasps her hands together in faux-patience.
‘No one,’ I fib. Really poorly, because my eyes flick to the gate of the fence just as I say that.
Genny gives me a big-dimpled grin, her auburn ponytail bouncing. ‘Oh, you are. You’re waiting for her. What in the world did Bia tell you that it straightened everything out? I need to get myself a load of that.’
‘Stop it,’ I whine, attempting to use my baby-of-the-family privilege on her. Naturally, it fails, because she shoves my shoulder with a laugh and points down at my full plate on the table.
‘Eat,’ says Genny pointedly, but her smile only broadens as she looks to a spot just behind me.
We exchange a look of sibling-ESP, and immediately, I swivel around on the picnic table bench. The breath I’d been holding finally leaves my chest, except when I see Jordan, it fills right up again.
Her almond-shaped eyes narrow happily, little creases forming in the corners.
She wears this long pale green sundress dotted with white flowers that tussles about in the faint breeze, and my eyes travel up towards the tight torso of the dress, hugging her body for dear life, then to the gold necklace pendant that rests askew at her collarbone.
She sweeps a wave of long black hair back.
Her gaze doesn’t waver from mine. I hope she can’t tell just how badly I want to tear that dress right off her and—
Jordan’s eyebrows turn up curiously as she regards our absolutely enormous table, pasta every which way. ‘You really thought I’d miss this?’
‘I was a little worried you might miss it,’ I practically choke out.
‘Italian family dinner?’ She nods towards the food piled high on my visibly sagging foam plate. I don’t know if it’ll be able to take seconds. ‘Absolutely not missing that.’
Bia whisks her off just as I’m working on my next words, chattering about the pasta while finding Jordan a seat between two fellow sundressed women.
As usual, she fits in effortlessly, the conversation starting up almost immediately.
Jordan laughs, eyes wide, as Bia scoops a hearty helping onto her plate till it’s close to folding inward from the thick sauces.
Food is my sister’s love language, as a restaurateur.
It’s very much an inheritance from our Ma, considering Dad can’t cook for shit, and neither can Genny. I only do well enough to get by.
I watch Jordan ask Bia the question I had no doubt would come up.
I hear her from paces away, the concerned ‘Gluten-free?’ that I know is more out of guilt towards herself, that she’s inconveniencing us, more than anything else.
Bia nods reassuringly. Of course, I’d told Bia.
I wanted to make sure. Despite my lacklustre cooking skills, I’d tried my best to help my sister make a separate pan without the gluten.
I also made her promise not to tell Jordan I’d said anything, not to make a deal of it, but from the grateful smile Jordan shoots my way, I can tell my sister definitely broke her promise.
I’m perfectly content standing, but with mischief in her eyes, Bia reaches over, wraps her fingers of iron around my wrist, and yanks me onto the bench right next to Jordan. I clear my throat, prodding my sister in the ribs with my elbow. ‘Bia. What is this?’
‘Family dinner. Go on!’ she chortles without any further explanation, flitting off to prepare the secondo, second course. Someone places wine glasses before us, already full of Prosecco.
‘There’s going to be more?’ Jordan says in disbelief, taking a generous sip of wine before grabbing her fork. ‘I guess we’d better get going.’
‘Wait – savour it.’ I don’t totally register that I’ve got my hand over hers, until I look down and notice it, moving mine away with an awkward cough. I swallow hard, meeting her eye. ‘It-it’s been in our family for literally centuries. It’s really good, the pasta.’
‘Oh, I see.’ Despite all my fumbling, Jordan doesn’t seem taken aback, just amused as she digs in for the first bite. She raises an eyebrow. ‘Okay, Big Time. I’m doing it. Hold onto your panties.’
I almost choke on my own pasta, which is just as delicious as I remember.
As Jordan gives it a taste, she clearly agrees.
Her eyes flutter closed in satisfaction.
I try not to let the unholy thoughts I’m thinking consume Italian family dinner.
‘Holy cow,’ she exclaims, shaking her head in disbelief before going right in for another forkful.
‘This is phenomenal. You said centuries old?’
I’m way off my game, but I nod, a weird wobble of my head. ‘Yeah, uh, Ma used to make it for us all the time. Her family’s from Sicily, it’s a traditional recipe. But when I moved out, I never cracked it myself. Bia did. There’s a reason she’s the one who took over at Amato’s.’
‘Amato’s?’
‘The family restaurant my sisters were talking about the other day.’
Jordan swallows another bite of pasta before raising a hand in shock. ‘My god, and the food is this good? Rod, I hope we’re going to go.’
‘So do I!’ Genny shouts unhelpfully from across the table, a finger pointed in my direction.
‘Not your business!’ I yell back, and the table roars with laughter. Jordan, a hand over her mouth, holds back a snicker.
Deep into the evening, the sun begins to go low as Bia brings out her famous espresso tiramisu for dessert.
After the second course, dessert completely stuffs us all.
I’m in the yard with Tali sitting way up on my shoulders when a familiar, lively song blares through the massive Bluetooth speaker my sisters have set up on the porch.
Bia ushers everyone over, clapping her hands with a huge grin on her face, cheers going up around her.
Her big ponytail, the front bit fluffed up, practically bounces on beat. ‘Andiamo!’ she exclaims happily.
‘What’s goin’ on?’ asks Jordan from in the grass where she’s kneeling with the dogs. Scout perks up right away, Boo a bit more hesitant.
‘Tarantella,’ I reply, as I crouch so Tali can get down. She immediately runs straight to Bia, the little traitor, taking my sister’s hand with a giggle. A huge circle is starting to form, spanning half the backyard as the tarantella continues.
The rest of us all stand, and we are swept into the circle, shoulder to shoulder. Even with the overstimulating thud of the bass on the speaker, I clearly feel Jordan’s fingers hesitantly lacing their way through mine beside me.
‘The left!’ yells Genny, and we all move leftward, stepping with a bounce and kick. Jordan’s arm brushes mine, her laugh both nervous and joyful as she follows me in her sandals.
‘Rod,’ she says between steps, looking up at me with the biggest glow on her face. ‘This is beautiful!’
It is. At every family gathering, every wedding, every party on Ma’s side we’ve been to, they do it, and it never fails to baffle me how this stunning part of our culture has survived so long. It’s definitely beautiful. It’s just not what catches my eye in that moment.
Her hair dances around her shoulders, her cheeks flushed from the wine, the tarantella and the heat. Her palm is warm against mine. She smiles with her teeth, blinding, carefree.
‘It is,’ I tell her.
She chuckles, but slowly, her smile turns from unencumbered joy to one of inquisition, of curiosity, as her chocolate eyes search mine.
The wine-blush on her cheeks only grows, and she nods, turning back to her left as we continue dancing, our tarantella circle turning until the sun dips below the horizon.