Frankie #2
They aren’t the only ones who are welcoming Ash with open arms. Dina’s dark eyes light up when she sees I’ve arrived with
him in tow. She barely waits long enough for Troy and Mark to drag him into the den before she grabs my arm and whispers,
“So? How was it?”
This is exactly why I did not want to bring Ash to Sunday Gravy. “How was what?”
Dina smacks me in the shoulder. “You know exactly what I mean.”
I give up and grin. “Amazing.”
“Frankie!” she squeals. “I’m so excited! I knew you two were going to hit it off.”
“You did?”
“Sure. When someone hates another person as much as you claimed to hate Ash, it’s usually only because they’re secretly attracted
to that person—”
“Dina!”
“Well, it’s true.”
“No, that’s not true. Where is Angie really?” I ask in an attempt to change the subject. “She never misses Sunday Gravy.”
Dina shrugs. “I don’t know. I figure some client got a bad dye job in the city, or something, and needs her to fix it.”
“On a Sunday?”
“Maybe. Who knows? You have emergency appointments with your clients on Sundays sometimes.”
“True, but—”
“Mangiamo!” Mom cries, emerging from the kitchen with a sizzling platter in her oven-mitted hands. “Tutti a tavolo! Come on, guys, time to eat, come to the table, please.”
Ash’s eyes light up when he sees what’s on the platter.
“Grapes and sausage!” he cries. Troy has pressed a bottle of beer into Ash’s hand, and Mark has mischievously steered him
toward the empty chair beside mine. Not that I mind. “Mrs. G, you shouldn’t have.”
Mom beams. “Of course I should have. It was my pleasure. Only the most sophisticated palates appreciate my salsicce all’uva.
But don’t you worry, there is plenty more to eat besides that.
When Francesca called this morning to say you would be coming, I was already making a nice gnocchi, as well as my parmigiana di melanzane.
So sit, sit and eat. And please, call me Mama. ”
“Yes, ma’am.” Ash sits, but not before giving the table a look I recognize: it’s the same look he gave me last night right
before we kissed. Ash is going to devour this meal the same way he devoured me.
“My turn to say grace,” Portia says, and reaches for Ash’s hand. There’d been a slight struggle between my nieces over who
got to sit by the guest of honor, from which Portia, older and more ruthless, emerged the victor.
“In this house,” she explains to Ash as sweetly as if she hadn’t just reduced her little sister to tears, “we hold hands when
we say grace.”
“Nice,” Ash says
“Are you Catholic, Ash?” my mother asks with deceptive casualness. I duck my head because I know what’s coming . . . or think
I do, anyway.
But Ash surprises me by saying, “Sort of, ma’am. I was raised Coptic. That’s—”
My mother needs no further explanation. Her eyes shine as bright as stars. “That’s the Egyptian orthodox church! That means
you’re Catholic!”
“I guess you could say that.” Ash has slipped his other hand over mine. His fingers are warm and strong.
But instead of clasping them to my heart, like I want to, I bow my head and try to ignore his grin . . . and my mother’s delight
over the fact that her eldest daughter has finally, finally made her dreams come true by bringing home a good Catholic boy.
“Ma.” Thank God for Mark, who is for once the voice of reason. “The food’s getting cold. Can we say grace already?”
“Certamente!” cries Mom.
Portia wastes no more time. “Bless-us-oh-Lord-and-these-Thy-gifts-which-we-are-about-to-receive-from-Thy-bounty-through-Christ-our-Lord-amen,”
she rattles off with authority. Then she raises her head and shouts, “Buon appetito!”
The usual mealtime chaos ensues. But this time it’s punctuated by Ash gushing to my mother over how much he loves her food,
and her pressing more servings of it on him. By the time dessert rolls around—torta della nonna, naturally—I’m convinced she’s going to try to adopt him.
It’s as Mom is serving cake and coffee—with gelato for the kids—that the front door finally opens and Angie calls, “I’m here!”
“There’s Mommy,” Troy says, relief written all over his face. “At last.”
“Hi, guys.” Angie comes in, twisting off her scarf. “Sorry I’m so late. You’ll never guess where I—” She breaks off as her
gaze falls on Ash. A sly grin spreads across her face. “Well, hello there, Ash.”
Ash grins back. He has no idea what’s behind my sister’s grin. But I do. “Hi,” he says. “Nice to see you again, Angie.”
“Nice to see you, too.” Angie reaches for an empty plate and heads to the sideboard to fill it, but not before giving me a
knowing smirk. “What a surprise to see you here, and looking so . . . relaxed.”
“Well, it’s Sunday,” Ash replies mildly before I can grab the salad bowl and dump it over my sister’s head. “Isn’t Sunday
the day of rest?”
Before Angie can reply, Portia cries, “Yeah, Sunday is the day of rest! So why were you working, Mommy?”
“Because I had to,” Angie says. “I was doing a favor for someone who really needed it.”
“Who?” her other daughter demands.
“Meg Boucher.” Angie’s eyes are glittering with excitement. “I was at the hospital cutting her hair.”