Chapter 12
Iknead the dough beneath my hands, confident in the one job Nana has let me do for years. There are certain dishes she still teaches me . . . Violet, we only use the best olive oil . . . not like that. It’s not a race. Be gentle, dear . . . now add the sauce. Perfecto.
But kneading dough is one of the first jobs she gave me, and I’ve been a pro since I was ten. The mindlessly repetitive work—and it is work—lets my mind wander. Right back to Ross.
The moments keep flashing in my head. The way he looks at me.
The way he pulls me close to kiss me even when nobody is around.
The way he talked me down after the meeting.
The way I catch him following me with his eyes as we get ready for bed.
The way I feel more relaxed with him by my side, even when my body is begging for more each night.
I want to believe it’s real. All of it.
Yes, I know the physical attraction is there. Which is surprising after a lifetime of calling each other names. But I know if I so much as make a hint of a gesture that I’m open to that, Ross would be on me. And I secretly want that.
If only it were that easy.
But it’s not. Mixed in with all that chemistry and desire is a heaping load of emotional baggage and drama.
Because he’s good at this . . . at flirting with me, at making me feel like I’m the only thing that matters in his life, at being in a relationship with me.
The big gestures and the little ones, like bringing me coffee in bed in the morning.
And that I know is fake. Or at least it doesn’t hold the meaning that some small part of me wishes it did.
But Ross is a good guy, so playing house and being nice isn’t a hardship for him. It’s just never been our MO, and having him be his usual self to me is doing weird things to my heart. Things I can’t trust.
This is just pretend, I remind myself. A means to an end.
And right now, in the kitchen with three generations of Russo women, I need that reminder of why I’m doing this.
“For the love of Susan Lucci, I’m telling you for your own good . . . Sofia, you put too much salt in with the tomatoes!” Nana says in an argument with her sister that can be traced all the way back to . . . well, before I was born, that’s for sure.
“Don’t you dare invoke the great Susan Lucci on me!
Bah! You know nothing about how to make the sauce,” my great aunt, Sofia, shoots back as she points a red-tipped, arthritic hand toward Nana.
She glares as she tosses another sprinkle of salt into the bubbling pot of tomato sauce on the stove.
“It’s why your marinara is as bland as boiled potatoes! ”
Oh, hell, it’s on now. You can call Nana a lot of things, but if you criticize her housekeeping or her cooking, you’re in for it.
“Did she invoke Susan Lucci?” Mom whispers, her brows clenched together.
“Never thought about it, but I think I prefer Sophia Loren.” She smiles like I’m in on a secret joke between the two of us and bumps my shoulder.
“I think we should just hang back and roll out the pasta,” Mom says under her breath as her mother and aunt go at it, forgetting their English to start with spicy, liquid Italian.
I’m quite certain that it’s one advantage of the Latin languages over English.
You can argue and curse at someone a whole lot faster and with a lot more imagination.
“Mom, about tonight’s dinner.” I try to sidestep my way in to telling her about Colin and Ross as we start rolling out the dough and slicing the fresh pasta sheets into the right shape for Nana’s big cast iron pan, but before I can, Mom looks up and sighs dramatically.
“Mama! Sofia! Come on, now, this is supposed to be a night of amore, not war! Violet’s bringing her man for dinner, not WrestleMania!”
Sofia, who lived in New York’s Little Italy until her husband Giuseppe died a decade ago, turns to us with a dreamy sparkle in her eyes.
“WrestleMania? Child, you know nothing of wrestling. Giuseppe used to take me on dates to the Garden where we’d watch a real wrestler, Bruno Sammartino!
Now if Bruno had asked me out . . . well, you’d have had a different uncle, that’s for sure.
” She winks, or at least I think that’s what she’s trying to do, but both eyes close at the same time, so it’s more of a saucy blink.
“God bless my Giuseppe’s soul,” she finishes as if she didn’t just say she would’ve picked another man over her beloved husband of forty years.
“About that—” I start, but Nana and Sofia are back at each other in Italian, half arguing, half reminiscing. I catch some of it, honestly. While I’ve tried to keep up with my Italian, I’m nowhere near fluent.
I sigh, glancing at Mom, who’s got stars dancing in her eyes. “The dress. Did you find the dress?”
My face falls. “Mom . . .”
She bumps my shoulder again, smiling broadly.
“Oh, don’t you worry, baby girl. You’ll find it.
And no more apologies about going with your friends.
I completely understand that if you invited me, those two would want to tag along.
” She tilts her head toward Nana and Aunt Sofia.
“And then Colin’s mom would want to go. It’s a domino effect and we’re a lot to handle.
It’s right that you go with your friends, and I know you’ll look beautiful in whatever you choose. I got my dress! Did I tell you?”
She rambles on about the mauve pleated gown she chose, not letting me get a word in edgewise, though I try several times.
Somewhere after the third time I try to interject, Mom tsks. “But Violet, we must send the invitations out immediately. At this point, they’re nothing more than a formality since everyone already knows the day and time, but it is still the proper thing to do.”
“Mom, about that . . .”
“Violet, finish browning the sausage, will you?” Nana says to me, pointing to a skillet on the stove. “And Maria, lay out the first layer of pasta and cheese while we get this sauce right. I need to fix what this nincompoop has done.”
“Nincompoop? I’ll show you a nincompoop!
” Aunt Sofia shoots back, which is almost funny coming from a gray-haired woman who goes to Mass three times a week.
Especially because, to them, nincompoop is apparently the utmost in insults when it’s not even close.
Not that I can imagine my Nana or Aunt Sofia busting out with some of today’s barbs.
Though that might trigger the silence I need to spill my guts about the bomb about to go off in this house.
Nana and Aunt Sofia start back up again, the battle of tomato versus salt, round one hundred and three, going full-throttle in the small kitchen.
Which gives me zero opportunity to say anything.
I know I need to, can feel the sand running out in the hourglass, but one more minute of relative peace is so much . . . easier.
Mom looks over at me. “Come on. If we don’t get this done soon, your man’s going to arrive and be sitting around waiting on dinner. That can’t happen!”
“He’s . . . Mom . . .” I try one more time, but she shushes me, literally putting a finger to her mouth.
I hear Ross long before he arrives, my blood turning to ice in my veins.
It’s too soon. I haven’t told them yet! Shit!
This isn’t downtown, where Ross has his penthouse and big noise is normal. This isn’t the Hills, where the Andrews Estate rests separated from their neighbors by huge stretches of land.
This is Oakridge, the planned neighborhood of the city where you can reach out your kitchen window and smack a fly on your neighbor’s wall if you’ve got a fly swatter.
It’s a subdivision of wooden privacy fences and prefab swing sets jammed into back yards so tightly that you stop playing on them by the time you’re eight or so.
Not that it’s a bad place. Far from it. The neighbors are nice, and every July Fourth there’s the Oakridge Independence Barbecue, with a dozen grills going, games, and fireworks in the cul-de-sacs, the whole shebang.
But it’s quiet and quaint. Things that Ross’s loud Camaro are decidedly not. Hell, half the neighborhood is probably peeking out their windows to see who this interloper is, because sure as Nana’s lasagna is going to be delicious regardless of any salting issues, Ross is an outsider.
Mom looks to me. “Did Colin get a new car? I thought he had a Mercedes.”
I bite my lip, shaking my head as I plead with her with my eyes. “I tried to tell you, but you kept cutting me off.”
Mom’s face has gone straight and strict, and her voice is tight. “Tell me what?” I can feel Nana, Papa, and Aunt Sofia looking at me expectantly too.
I steel my back and force confidence into my voice. “Colin and I broke up.”
“Dio Mio!” someone says as pandemonium breaks out, everyone asking me questions at once.
Mom claps sharp and quick, corralling the craziness into a hushed anticipation. “Violet Antonia Carlotta Russo, who is coming to dinner?” she asks but doesn’t wait for an answer, running to the window to peek out. Nana and Aunt Sofia follow suit, and after a quick heartbeat, I do too.
Out the window, Ross’s blue sportscar is parked against the curb. He gets out and walks around the back bumper, his eyes scanning the address and then landing on the window where four female faces peer out.
He looks good. He’s changed from the custom suit I saw him leave in this morning, replacing it with navy slacks and a pale blue button-down shirt that’s open at the neck.
Cognac dress shoes and a matching belt complete the outfit.
I wonder for a second if he chose the outfit after listening to me say his black and steel office was cold and sterile, because right now, he looks warm and friendly and sexy as hell.
He does that hot-boy two-finger wave, and I feel like my very own Jack Ryan is coming to get me. God, if only he could rescue me out of this mess.