Epilogue
epilogue
Colt
28 years after Paris
13 years and four months since our wedding.
Ten years since our daughter was born.
“Stop fidgeting.” She never stops moving.
“Papà, è disgustoso e non lo mangerò. Voglio solo straccetti di pollo.”
“In English, please. And no, you may not have chicken strips.” Not that I can’t understand my daughter fluently, but she needs to work on her English.
Our food is placed in front of us, and I can’t help but guffaw. Charred octopus. It’s the first thing I put on the menu thirteen years ago. Nice to see she brought it back.
“Ew. I’m so not eating that.” Maggie grins and leans over to our ten-year-old daughter, Pippi. Her official name is Pipistrello. It’s a beautiful Italian word that means, bat.
She grins and says behind her hand pretending we can’t hear, “Me, neither. Never been a fan.”
The chef puts her hands on the back of our chairs and says to her little sister. “And what’s the rule?”
“I don’t have to eat it, but I have to try it.” An enduring rule for our family.
The nest has always been full for us, much like Maggie’s Villa. Full of animals, then her brand of sunshine, then our family, and now guests who return year after year to help harvest lemons or walk the restored grounds. Even the old caretaker’s cottage is booked out a couple of years. Chiara and her husband now work taking care of cooking pastries for the morning. But cocktail hour is always an appetizer I come up that day paired with limoncello. The Brothers book two weeks for fall break every year and bring everyone. And all the Boston sisters, as we’ve dubbed them. The next gen of us turned out to be predominantly girls, and they swarm around the property in a pack like all good cousins should.
The sweet smell that runs through our life is lemons. And now the nest is overflowing because she’s come back to Lucca. There’s a man sitting alone at the back table that we only ever seat people at if we have to. It’s close to the kitchen and has no real view of the piazza. I make a mental note to tell Daisy they should have pulled out the tiny café table and set it close to the edge of the restaurant if it was just him, solo.
Daisy’s only been back in Italy for a week after four years in DC and in Jose Andres kitchen. And she discovered, in the VP’s old age he’s mellowed a bit and they enjoyed each other’s company.
Maggie’s fussing with her meal, and her hand finds my knee. It’s standard for us. We can’t go for more than five minutes without touching. We’re still as disgustingly happy and touchy feely as we were in Paris. That’s not to say we don’t fight or stand up for ourselves, but I can say she makes the best limoncello in the world. Making the best of the lemons that come our way.
We sell her actual limoncello at the café and it’s hard to keep it in stock. There’s a man sitting by himself that keeps arranging empty plates. Daisy gaze keeps drifting to him. She should have sat him out here instead of that shitty table near the kitchen. She’ll learn.
Daisy came home because she wants a more active role in the restaurant. Which is nice since we want to travel with Pipi a little bit and the restaurant and bed-and-breakfast business is no joke. Days off are rare but if Daisy is up to it, we could take a few days. But I wouldn’t trade a moment of it. She places some Brussel sprouts down and seems nervous.
Maggie pushes her chair back and crosses her arms over her chest, glaring at our oldest daughter. “Spill it, Daisyfeld.”
She shakes Maggie off and fidgets with her apron. Daisy scurries away muttering ‘nothing’ under her breath. I’m confused by Maggie as she stands up and walks to the solo diner. She puts out her hand and says, “Hello. I’m Maggie Andrews, you must be Jasper Bishop.”
He stutters, pops up and shakes her hand. “Yes, ma’am. I am. I am him. Hello. It’s nice to meet you. I’m not supposed to be here until tomorrow. Sorry.”
“I love your mother’s books. And you’re a hell of a political writer like your dad.” The name is familiar but not. “Thank you. I’m moving into more global writing, um, different, uh. Sorry. I’m so nervous, ma’am.” He looks for someone to save him, but Maggie’s got him boxed in. I stand and grin over her shoulder, intrigued by this situation.
“You want to be on my good side? Drop the ma’am stuff. It’s Maggie, and there’s really no reason for nerves.”
“Yes, Maggie, ma’am.” He shakes his head. Why the hell is this guy so nervous?
“Stop making me feel like a grandma.” Maggie lets out and huge laugh and turns toward me. But I’m focused on how wide this Jasper’s eyes just got, and his desperate searching the room for something.
And then Maggie sees it too. All heads snap to Daisy as she drops a clattering tray of saucers. Some skitter on the tile and out to the street onto the cobblestones. I bend down to grab the smashed plate pieces.
Sloane appears from the connecting door to our wine bar. She runs the tasting room and the little wine door selections are always unique and totally her. She’s finally found a subject that hasn’t exhausted her. She just finds different wine regions to be obsessed with.
She pops her hip and gathers her hair into a messy bun on her head. “Oh, so you told them. Hey, Jasper.” He sheepishly puts his hand up. Sloane yells for her fiancé, “Ernesto, get out here, you’re gonna want to see this”
The boy comes running as he always has where Sloane is involved. “Did they tell them?” he asks.
I place my hand on Maggie’s shoulder as she slaps her hand over her mouth. Pipi laughs from the table.
Sloane quickly taps out something on her phone, then stares at me smugly. I give her some side eye as my phone lights up, and I cross the restaurant to grab it.
Maggie is now holding Daisy’s hand and a tear is running down her face. For once she’s understanding something long before I can figure out what’s happening.
Sloane says, “I’d check your phone.” In a panic, I pick it up thinking something is terribly wrong.
Law: Sloane said you’re not taking it well.
Dax: Congrats PopPop!
Hayden: And you all said Jena would be first. Fuck. I lost like 3k on that one.
Tony: I mean Daze is the oldest of the next gen.
Robbie: What the fuck is up? How much did I lose in the GP pool? Seriously, I thought Jena was a lock. She was the first married, though.
Colt: How the fuck does everyone know something I don’t?
I glare at my family and now Maggie is full on crying and holding that Jasper kid’s hand. I mean they’re not kids, they’re twenty-eight, but still.
My daughter approaches me, and I see her very serene but determined face. Daisy takes my hand and places it on her stomach. She smiles at me, and I swear she looks like she’s four years old.
My heart melts as she says, “It’s a happy accident, Dad. A very happy accident.”
The End.