Chapter 4 Bambalina
Bambalina
The echo of chattering and laughter in the kitchen below fills the house with warmth. I reach the foot of the stairs and follow the voices of Papa and Antonia as they finish preparing dinner and setting the table.
Antonia looks up as I walk into the kitchen. “Hi Bambi, love. I made maple yams for you. Your papa said they’re your favorite.”
They were my favorite when I was ten, but I don’t have the heart to say this, especially when Antonia has been nothing but nice to me since she moved in.
“Thanks,” I mutter, instead. “Can I help with anything?”
“No, everything’s done. We just need Nicolò to come home. I told him only this morning we’d be sitting down for d—”
Papa silences her with a hand on her arm. “He’ll be here.”
A smile passes between them and I realize she’s nervous. This is the first time the four of us have sat down for dinner together as a family. It seems the newlyweds have finally got the travel bug out of their systems and have chosen to settle at home for a little while.
I wander into the dining room and see my face reflected back in a series of highly polished knives and forks. Tapered crimson candles are burning, and Joni Mitchell is playing softly through the speakers.
I glide my fingers over the lace tablecloth and look out of the window.
Summer has been cruel to Mama’s rose bush and invasive vines have grown up around it. I should have noticed sooner and cleared them. I make a mental note to get outside on the next clear day and remove them, so the roses can at least bloom again next year.
I feel Nicolò’s presence before I hear the front door close behind him. My spine prickles with awareness and my stomach flutters. When I turn around, he’s standing in the doorway.
The last time I saw him I was still recovering from the possibility he heard me pleasuring myself. I’m almost over that now, but I still can’t think of a single word to say to him that won’t end up sounding juvenile and silly.
“Hey,” he says in a bored tone as he unbuttons his tailored woolen coat. My eyes follow the movement of his fingers. I observe how slender they are, how deftly they move down the luxury garment, gracefully freeing each button.
I swallow and claw my gaze back to his. He’s watching me with a neutral expression.
“Hi,” I say, quietly.
He breaks eye contact to hang his coat in the hall closet, then mutters something about dinner smelling good and walks briskly past me to the kitchen.
He’s wearing his usual dark suit with a black shirt and eye-wateringly expensive shoes.
I look down at my own outfit and grimace.
Since it’s only family, I haven’t dressed up.
I’m wearing low-cut boyfriend jeans and a cropped knitted sweater which shows a little of my stomach, including my pierced naval.
My socks are three years young and I have one of Tess’s old scrunchies tying my hair up in a knot.
“Everyone sit,” Antonia calls from the kitchen.
I take my usual place at the table and inspect my reflection in the dinner knife.
Papa comes in first and sits beside me. He places a glass of white wine opposite him and my chest tightens.
Antonia only drinks white wine so she’ll be sitting opposite Papa, which means…
I drop my gaze again as Nicolò enters the room and pulls out the chair opposite me. I focus on sliding the knife back to its spot on the right side of my plate—anything to delay my inevitable glance upward only to see the subject of my fantasies sitting directly across from me.
“This looks delicious, love,” Papa says as Antonia sets a serving platter in the center of the table.
A roasted porchetta wrapped in prosciutto glistens in the candlelight, and the scent of garlic, rosemary and fennel fills my nose.
Aunt Allegra, who looked after me and my sisters for years, is a good cook, but pasta has always been her forte, so this is a real treat.
Antonia passes a carving knife to Nicolò. “Would you do the honors?” she asks, giving him a gentle nudge.
Without a word, he takes the knife and gets to his feet. I never fully comprehended his height before, but now that I’m sitting and he’s towering over the table with a long, sharp blade in his hand, I’m momentarily speechless at just how large he is.
I try not to stare too hard at him or the food as he drives a fork into the joint and proceeds to slice through the herb-stuffed meat as easily as if it were butter.
He’s removed his suit jacket, and now, in the periphery of my vision, I can see his pectoral muscles flex through his shirt with each slice.
The knife pauses and juices ooze from the rested meat. Then, when I realize no one is moving or saying anything, I peer up and see him staring at me expectantly.
“Oh!” I lift my plate and he lays two slices of porchetta onto it, watching me as he does.
As soon as he’s done, I lower both my plate and my gaze and wait until it’s time to help myself to vegetables. After Papa has said grace, we all dig in. A gentle chatter accompanies the sound of silverware clinking against porcelain and my nerves dissolve as my stomach is filled.
Conversation covers Papa’s work at the port, and Antonia regales us with accounts of their visits to the Colosseum and the Sistine Chapel.
I secretly harbor a desire to travel so I listen eagerly.
I don’t know if I’ll ever get the chance to travel but just thinking about the photographs I could take sends my imagination running wild.
Now though, given the level of security we all need, I doubt Papa would let me go anywhere alone.
A small ache of sadness grips my heart. Maybe when I’m married I’ll be able to fulfil my dream. Assuming my husband is happy to let me travel, or accompany me.
I hate that we’ve become one of those families—where the girls are destined for made men and we always need to look over our shoulders.
I don’t know who Papa has in mind for me, or if he even has anyone in mind for me.
We used to have long heart-to-heart conversations before Antonia came along.
Maybe I could orchestrate another, so I can find out what he’s thinking.
I’m so preoccupied with these thoughts, I’m not paying too much attention to the movement of my cutlery. When my knife slips against the porcelain, a screeching sound fills the room, and I wince. The first thing I see when I un-squeeze my eyes is Nicolò’s smirk.
“Everything okay over there?” he asks in a mild, mocking tone.
Heat creeps up my neck. “Fine,” I mutter.
“You sure? It looked as though you were trying to saw the plate in half.”
Antonia must see the redness in my cheeks and cuts in. “Nicolò… Don’t pretend like you haven’t done that a million times yourself.”
He doesn’t answer her. Instead, he just leans back in his chair, the candlelight catching on the angle of his jaw, his smirk only deepening.
It turns the heat in my cheeks into a hot fury in my throat.
My infatuation with him, in this second, feels a little sour.
I’ve been lusting over this man for months and it takes nothing for him to make me feel like an idiot.
Papa lifts a napkin to his lips. “Are you kids ready for dessert?”
Nicolò’s jaw hardens. I’m betting he doesn’t appreciate being referred to as a kid. “I’m good, thanks.”
Antonia laughs softly. “You won’t be saying that when you see what is.”
She reaches over and actually ruffles his hair. I work very hard to bite back a grin but when he throws his gray gaze my way I can’t help but let it loose.
“Mom,” he chides between clenched teeth.
“What?” she says, the picture of innocence. “It’s your favorite—buttered biscotti and pistachio gelato.”
Nicolò likes ice cream? I knew he liked pecan and maple pancakes, and to be honest, that was surprise enough.
I still struggle to equate an immaculately dressed, gun-toting businessman with a fondness for sugary treats.
Still, I don’t dwell on this fact because it sounds delicious and I stare eagerly as Antonia brings out dessert plates filled with the yummy biscuits and creamy gelato in crystal bowls.
The gelato is divine, so I don’t care when my spoon slips and I make another scraping sound with my eating utensils.
Antonia glares at her son. “Nicolò…” she warns, before he can comment.
But then the table falls quiet and a look passes between Nicolò and his mother. It is noticeable enough that I stop chewing my food.
Then, as if nothing has happened, Antonia turns to me. “Do you have plans on Saturday, Bambi?”
Her question catches me off guard and my mind goes blank. “Um, no, I don’t think so.”
She snaps a biscotti in two. “Great! We should have a girlie day. Maybe go get a manicure, do some shopping, have lunch… What do you think?”
I think it’s the kind of thing a mother and daughter would do. And Antonia—as nice as she’s turning out to be—is not my mother. Mama died before I reached an age where we could do those things together. My gaze turns to the rosebush outside the window, and I swallow a hard lump in my throat.
I’ve always felt I don’t have as much of a right to grieve my mother as my sisters do.
Trilby was in the car when Mama was killed—of course she is the most affected of all of us.
Sera and Tess are both older than me and had more time with Mama, more memories, more things to miss.
But, what they all seem to forget is that I was the baby.
Mama’s baby. I would still, even as a ten-year-old, crawl onto her lap, push my face into her neck and let the sound of her heartbeat soothe me to sleep.
Papa did his best to make up for the loss. He filled my world, leaving very little room for sadness to creep in. He cushioned me when Trilby left, and although I was older when Sera married, he still held me close and made sure I had someone to hug, someone to talk to.
It was only when he started to get serious about Antonia that Papa began to step back. It was gradual, like rust eating away at the hull of a boat, almost too slow to be noticed, until it’s too late.
The marriage announcement hit me like a ton of bricks. I hadn’t expected it and I felt betrayed. I felt that as the youngest and most vulnerable daughter, the last one to fly the nest, and the one who’s had to live with our father’s grief the longest, I was owed at least a heads up.
And he was replacing Mama. He was moving another woman into Mama’s home—her bed, her room, the spaces Mama’s voice still echoes in whenever we speak of her. It all happened too fast and felt disrespectful.
I couldn’t bring myself to speak to Papa for weeks after he married Antonia, despite Aunt Allegra and my sisters’ encouragement.
Of course, I had to eventually.
It happened in a boring, mundane way. I simply forgot my silent protest one morning and offered Papa a coffee. We stared at each for a long moment, then I burst into tears. I’d missed him so much, and no amount of resentment could compete with the longing I had for our old relationship.
I opened myself up to Antonia that same day, and although I still don’t feel completely comfortable living with a stepmother, I appreciate her kindness and warmth.
“You don’t have to let me know right now,” Antonia says, sensing my hesitation.
I turn back to face her. “No, it’s fine.” I wring my hands together under the table. “I’d like to.”
“Wonderful. Do you have any plans this week before school starts up again?”
I finish chewing my biscotti and swallow. “Yes actually. I’ve been chosen as one of the official photographers at ChefCon. It’s voluntary but it’ll be great experience to put on my resumé.” I turn to my father. “Actually, Papa, I was going to ask if you’d be able to give me a ride.”
“Sure, if I’m free. What day is it?”
“Thursday. I need to be there for ten a.m.”
Papa checks his watch. I’m relieved he hasn’t gone down the stereotypically mafia-esque Breitling route and insists on keeping a smart device on his wrist. “Sorry love. I have a meeting all that morning.
“Can you take her, Nicolò?” Antonia suggests.
Both Nicolò and I speak at the same time.
“It’s okay, I’ll get the subway—”
“I’m pretty sure I’m busy—”
It’s in this moment I see just how formidable a woman Antonia is. She levels Nicolò with a look that has him bristling. “Thank you for offering to take your stepsister to the convention, Nicolò. I appreciate it.”
I shift back in my seat and look across at my stepbrother.
I have a feeling Nicolò is going to hate me for this.
As if to prove my suspicion correct, he doesn’t return my gaze at all for the rest of the dinner.
In fact, barely five minutes pass before he excuses himself and leaves the house, claiming he has ‘business’ to attend to, despite it being ten p.m. on a Sunday night.
Frustration is still curling around my chest when I enter my room and close the door behind me. My journal is the first thing I see, so I reach for it and begin to write.
After I’ve emptied my guilt about planning to spend ‘momtime’ with someone who isn’t my mom, my thoughts veer again to my stepbrother.
His intimidating form standing over the table, the way he sliced through a joint of meat like it was made of air, the way his gaze rested on mine and not the plate he was placing food onto.
It was only a few seconds, but long enough to heat my blood and for me to feel it wend its way to my core.
Before I know it, I’ve written down, in minute detail, what I wish he would do with the same hands he used to serve my dinner tonight, and the tongue he used to tease me.
I read over the words, using my fingers to bring myself to another—quieter—climax.
Then, I silently close the journal, thanking God it’s mine, and only mine.
And reassured that no one else in the world is going to read it.
Ever.