Chapter 26
LUCY
He’s so good to her. Why does he have to be so good to her?
Enzo listens to his grandmother while she tells stories he’s probably heard countless times. Then he tells us about what he’s been doing for Hidden Italy, giving credit for his plans to me—probably because he likes seeing a scowl on my face.
When we’ve finished eating the chowder and cornbread, he clears the dishes—all while she tells him it’s unnecessary and she’s still very capable of looking after herself.
“He’s such a good boy,” Mrs. Cafiero says with a note of pride once he’s in the kitchen with the dirty dishes.
Enzo had insisted on personally attending to the dishes before we finish making dessert. The suspicious part of me wonders if he wanted his grandmother to sing his praises, the way any loving grandmother would. Maybe that’s true, but there’s no denying the love in her tired brown eyes.
“He’s always been a good boy,” she continues. “I counted on him too much when he was young. We all did.” She shrugs. “You know about his mother leaving, of course.”
I nod, feeling self-conscious and guilty.
In the half hour I spent here before Enzo arrived with his duffel bag, she didn’t once mention her daughter-in-law.
I certainly didn’t bring her up either. We discussed Hideaway Harbor, and she asked me about my family, tsk-tsking when I told her that I didn’t have much of one anymore.
“Eileen’s my family,” I’d said, feeling defensive, the same way I would respond whenever anyone brought up arguments about blood or genetics. “And my friend Charlie.”
To my surprise, she’d nodded staunchly. “Good. I am sorry about your mother, though. I will light a candle for her at church.”
It’s hard to reconcile this woman with the angry shop owner who put up that BANNED flyer months ago. But I remember what Enzo said about her hot temper and her struggle to stay in the present.
She’s a tough woman. Difficult. But she’s also devoted and loyal. Capable of kindness. The Cafiero family is full of people so complicated, a guidebook should be issued for each of them.
Mrs. Cafiero is watching me now, waiting for a response regarding Enzo’s mother.
“I shouldn’t have brought her up the other day,” I say haltingly. “I wouldn’t have said anything if I’d known it would upset you.”
“Madonne, that’s not what upset me. It was the thought of my boy leaving again. As if I could hope to forget that woman. Who could leave four young children like that? My son wasn’t a good father or husband, anyone will tell you that, but at least he didn’t leave.”
I glance at the doorway leading into the kitchen. Is Enzo listening? Do I want him to be?
She follows my gaze to the kitchen and sighs.
“He was always strong, my Enzo. But we relied on him too much. Now, he doesn’t know how to turn it off.
Always working. Always scheming.” A surprisingly mischievous glint appears in her eyes.
“You tell Eileen this. He needs a woman who’ll remind him to have fun.
A woman who will challenge him. Not like that Rachelle, always asking for this or that.
Never satisfied. No. Not for my Lorenzo. ”
I clear my throat, feeling like a butterfly pinned in a box. “Uh. I’ll tell her.”
“You do that, cara,” she says, her expression almost…smug. “Now, come. You’ll learn the art of cappuccino, and we’ll finish those cookies.”
I help her out of her chair without asking, and we walk into the kitchen together.
Enzo’s already taken out the ingredients for the cappuccinos. He watches us eagerly, his eyes taking in everything.
Confusion twists me up inside. What does he want?
He made it very clear that he hates Hideaway Harbor, and he also said he was looking for no-strings sex.
But he left me that adorable stuffed cat, and now we’re making dessert with his grandmother.
No part of this scenario feels stringless.
I can practically feel a web of connectivity entangling us, pulling us closer together—and a big part of me wants to let it happen, even though I know Enzo isn’t the sort of man I’m supposed to want.
Francesca Cafiero steps forward with purpose and stops in front of her espresso machine. “Watch very carefully,” she says in her firm tone. “I only do this once, and then you do it.”
“What about the Italian Stallion for a name?” I ask, sipping the almond cappuccino we settled on as the featured drink for Hidden Italy’s collaboration with the Sip.
Enzo and I are sitting side by side in the swing on his grandmother’s enclosed front porch, next to a space heater. It’s peaceful out here, and Christmas lights twinkle from the houses surrounding hers.
His grandmother excused herself after teaching us the “art” of cappuccino.
I was expecting some big secret that only Italian or Italian American people know, but honestly, it wasn’t much different from what we do at the café.
I’m beginning to think I got hosed by both of them, and that Mrs. Cafiero asked me to come over for an entirely different reason.
Like maybe she wants me to be with Enzo.
Again, it would have seemed impossible weeks ago, but she saw me in that scarf, and I know she’s been talking to Eileen…
The possibility intrigues me, but I’m conflicted. As if someone cleaved me in half, and my heart is trying to choose a side.
“Yes,” he says, rocking the swing with his heel. “There’s nothing I love more than a stereotype.”
Rolling my eyes, I nudge his arm. “So you come up with something. But it has to have a romantic name.”
He raises his eyebrows. “Calling it the Italian Stallion is romantic?”
“That’s what people used to call Sylvester Stallone. My mom had a huge crush on him back in the day.”
He laughs. “Do you know why they called him that?”
“Because he’s an attractive Italian guy. Isn’t it obvious?”
His perfect eyebrows wing higher, and I trace the lines of them before I can stop myself.
The smile on his face says he’s pretty pleased with himself, but I don’t regret it. I don’t regret last night either. Or Sunday morning.
But you might regret it, a voice in my head whispers. You might regret all of it.
“Would you like me to be the one who tells you?” he asks. “Or would you prefer to be embarrassed by your search engine?”
“What are you talking about?” I scoff.
“The name’s from a porno he starred in.”
“No, it’s not. You’re messing with me.”
He shrugs. “If you want to name our cappuccino after a porno, I’m all for it. Then even the people who don’t read Lady Lovewatch will know exactly how it is between us.”
I give him another shove, and he wraps his arm around me.
I don’t try to remove it, because I’m too busy laughing. “You’re saying my mom watched a porno with Sylvester Stallone in it?”
“I’m guessing she did, yes. Don’t shoot the messenger.”
I sink back into his arm, wanting more of his warmth. “Actually, I’m kind of glad to hear that. I hope she had fun. I hope she had all the experiences she wanted to have while she could still have them.”
He looks down at me, his eyes warm and appreciative, and I feel a pulse of such powerful longing in my heart that it almost makes me gasp.
“She was lucky to have you,” he says, running his fingers across my cheekbone.
“We were lucky to have each other.”
He nods. “Of course. I feel the same way about my grandmother. I know I said this earlier, but I’m glad the two of you get along. It means a lot to me.”
“She still terrifies me.”
A smile crosses his face. “She terrifies me too.”
We rock for a moment, his arm still wrapped around me, and the moment is so pleasant, so purely enjoyable it feels stolen.
“You lived in Asheville before,” he says after a while. “I’ve been there. It’s a beautiful little city.”
I don’t ask how he knows where I’m from. Probably the same way I found out about his mother.
“I couldn’t stay,” I say, my throat tight. “Everything back home reminded me of losing my mom.”
“I remember what you said about her illness the other night,” he says. “I’m sorry for your loss.”
I nod. “Thank you. It’s been tough. I’m sure it sounds stupid, but one of the hardest parts is living alone.
I never have before. I keep waking up at night to check on her, only to remember that I’m by myself.
There’s no one to check on, no one to talk to.
Just me. That’s why I wanted a cat.” I shrug, trying to act like it’s no big deal.
Like the cavernous emptiness of the apartment doesn’t feel like it’s swallowing me in every time I walk in.
Those letters from my neighbor have helped.
There was one waiting for me when I stopped by the apartment earlier, but I haven’t opened it yet.
A part of me didn’t want to. I’ve been picking at that feeling for the last several hours, trying to understand it, but it’s only now, sitting next to Enzo, that I really get it.
I’m not afraid my neighbor’s a geriatric old man; I’m afraid he’s not. I’m afraid he’ll be everything my mother wanted for me in a man—because I’d rather see where this goes with Enzo than pursue Mr. Perfect.
Enzo shocks me by weaving his fingers through mine. “You’re not alone, Lucia. Eileen would do anything for you, and so would your friend, Charlie. She threatened me with physical harm if anything happened to you the other night.”
“There’s been a lot of that going around,” I mumble.
“You belong in this place. More than I do.”
It’s everything I wanted him to say a couple of weeks ago, but hearing it now, it feels wrong.
Because I want him to belong here too.
“Hideaway Harbor has room for anyone who wants to be here,” I say.
“Realistically, no, it does not. But it’s a nice sentiment,” he says with a smile. Then, as if he’d like to move the conversation along, he says, “Can I see your app?”
“My project for class?”
“Yes, but I’d also like to see the other one. The reason you’re taking the classes. You told me a little about it the other night.”