Chapter 32 #2
Fire crackles in the hearth to the Italian songs playing in the background, but the real hearth is Carmela herself—handing plates, commanding the room like a general who isn't afraid to hold her children's hands, no matter how old they are.
I almost snort at the contrast with my own mother, her affection locked in glass cabinets, and the first meeting with Richard's parents in their ski chalet. It was polite silence, expensive tea and conversation I barely remember. This? This is unforgettable.
Carmela flicks her hands. "Sit. Sit," she says, and we obey. I sit between Ben and Mara.
My eyes catch a photo on the wall: buzzcut Ben with teethy grin and a trophy raised high.
"What did he win?" I ask.
Carmela glances at it and her face melts into soft pride. "Ah. State math competition. Was nine years old."
"Nine? He looks thirteen," I echo, stunned, studying it. Then I lean close to him. "You clearly weren't bullied then."
He shakes his head. "No. I had a reputation."
I pull a face. "You mean your reputation in the locker rooms?"
He snorts and shakes his head. "Not that. No one dared to mess with me."
"True," Mara chimes in. "Ben was bullying the bullies."
Carmela finally sits down and jumps in the conversation. "Ben takes after my father. He's got the good genes."
Antonio and Mara roll their eyes in unison. "The good genes," they groan. Clearly an old line.
I see why. Mara and Antonio have those round, romantic features. Ben and Carmela are made of angles and firelight.
Honestly, Carmela's eyes are the only reason I'm not hyperventilating because when I look into them, I see Ben.
"Don't listen to her, bambina," Antonio says to Mara. "She's just jealous I aged like wine and she like vinegar."
The table gasps in laughter the second the comment is made. Mara shrieks, laughing. It seems normal since Carmela swats Antonio's shoulder, but she's laughing too.
He grabs her hand, kissing all of her fingers.
Oh. I feel myself melt a little because that's how Ben kisses my hands.
"I joke! I joke! She's my vinegar—sharp, strong, makes everything better."
Antonio grins and claps his hands. Then gives me a smile that's supposed to calm me down I guess. "We give short thanks first, okay?"
I nod and pretend it's fine, that I'm not nervous. Last time I celebrated Thanksgiving was when I was eight or nine and it was just me, Mom and Dad.
Antonio starts. "Lord, we thank You for those not here with us tonight but forever in our hearts—"
"Nonna Gia." Dino cuts in, raising his glass. "Mio amore, Lucia. We miss you."
"Bless all the hands that prepared this meal," Ben says, squeezing Carmela's hand.
"We're very grateful for every member of this beautiful family," Mara beams, meeting each face just as Paul pulls her closer and kisses her cheek devotedly.
"And for the blessings we didn't see coming," he says.
Everyone turns to Carmela with sudden anticipation because we all know it's her blessing we need.
My stomach twists so hard I'm not sure I'll manage a bite.
It doesn't matter what Ben told me, I can compare Carmela's behavior to the wedding and there's definitely a distance now. I can't blame her, but I desperately want her to like me.
She closes her eyes and takes a big breath. "Lord, give us patience for our stubborn children. Give us wisdom to understand that mistakes are made, that life is not always simple. Please teach us to walk Your path with grace." She pauses there for a beat and looks at Ben and me.
I can feel my heart up my throat while Ben watches her intently.
She clears her throat, closes her eyes and says softly, "But mostly thank You for these big hearts you gave us, Lord. That we may love everyone whom You put in our path. Especially those that make us love more."
Oh... that's beautiful...
Ben kisses her hand again like a weight got off his chest just as she smiles at him, and my throat locks. Emotions swell behind my eyes and my vision blurs.
I sniffle it away without anyone noticing and croak, "Can I... Can I say something too?"
Carmela nods at me. "Absolutely. You should."
I draw in a breath and push it past the lump in my throat.
"I just wanted to say, thank you for meeting me.
I've heard about your kindness and compassion for years, and I'm grateful to finally experience it.
I didn't grow up with a family like this, so the space you've made for me—it matters, more than I can say.
And I know it matters to Ben, which means everything to me. "
I swallow the rest of my sobs and thank god, Carmela saves me—she reaches for my hand and squeezes it once, her silent approval stamped into my skin.
"Bene. Amen. Mangiamo." She gestures over a ridiculous amount of food she made.
Ben smiles at me like I just passed the only test he's ever cared about.
The storm breaks then—forks clatter, glasses raise.
Naturally, I drop my spoon straight onto the floor before I even start eating.
Ducking under the table, I mutter apologies into the fringe of the tablecloth, and when I pop back up, Ben's hand is braced against the edge, close enough to shield me from hitting my head.
"I should bubble-wrap you," he says, fighting his smirk.
His gaze sharpens into that magnetic pull and he leans so it's only between us: "Actually, I've got a helmet upstairs. Matte black. Sexy."
"No. I want your hand to protect me. Otherwise, I might die in the stupidest way possible."
"True. Protecting you is already a full-time job. Lucky for you, I'm devastatingly committed."
"Good." My fingers squeeze his thigh under the table, tight enough that a startled, low rumble escapes his chest.
When I squeeze tighter, he closes his eyes and murmurs against my ear, "Careful, Emma. If you keep your hand there, I might have to pull you back in that bathroom and add one more dish to your menu."
I bite my lip, but keep teasing him because I know he can't do anything here.
Then Paul clears his throat pointedly and my hand flies back to my lap.
When I glance at him, red all over, his face screams, "gotcha."
Ben gives him a smirk, and Paul smirks back—their usual silent bro-code conversation.
Then Ben bites into his steak and, unfazed, asks, "How was Italy?"
Paul shrugs his lips, chewing too. "Loved it. Except the sun gave me stage-two burns."
Ben makes a face. "How do you even get burns in November?"
"I'm as white as it gets," Paul says, shrugging. Then snorts a laugh. "The priest said it was the holy light, though."
We all laugh—except Mara, who's busy meddling with the bow on her dress. She doesn't notice even when Paul sneezes and the whole table blesses him in chorus.
"You should bless your husband," Ben scolds her with that big-brother authority, his eyebrow raised.
Mara shoves the bow aside, frustration flickering across her face, then lifts her chin, and gives Ben a look. "Can you see who sits next to him? He's already been blessed."
Ben rolls his eyes, but Paul chuckles—the man's hopelessly in love, defending her with every grin.
Then Paul launches into Italy stories about piazzas, wine from Montepulciano, gelato, and all the reasons why they should move there.
"You aren't moving anywhere," Carmela cuts him off with her quiet authority. "Now even Ben is moving back finally."
I jerk my gaze to Ben, whose head whips at Carmela.
"Mamma. Un attimo, per favore," he snaps, instantly exasperated. "What did I tell you? We had this conversation."
Her shrug is all wide-eyed virtue. "What? You said Emma loves New York. Don't you, Emma?" She turns to me and the table goes quiet.
My pulse trips and I stutter. "I do. I mean—"
"Good," she cuts in, smiling, then looks at Ben like I just proved her point. "We do Sunday lunch every week, like this. Wouldn't you like that?"
I give her a small, fond smile. "I would love that."
"So?" She shrugs and puts more potatoes on my plate. "You wouldn't live here?"
"I don't know," I say, trying not to notice their expectant looks. "I've always been a West Coast girl, but I like it here. It's just that moving isn't the first thing on my mind right now. I can't go."
"You divorce?" Carmela's tone changes into concern and she frowns.
"Mamma—" Ben cuts her off again, his tone impatient.
"It's okay," I tell Ben, then look back at her. "Yeah. I filed already. I want it clean, and as soon as possible."
"Good." She nods, lips pursed. "Ben will file, too. Soon. You cannot live split lives. You must be serious with my son. Not like girls these days—"
"Mamma, basta." Ben’s voice rises, and he fixes her with a look—eyes flashing, jaw tight.
Carmela snaps to Antonio: "How come you never taught your son to shut his mouth?"
Antonio shrugs, cool as the carving knife in his hand. "Apparently, he has your genes. Lost cause."
"Mamma." Ben exhales steadily. "Emma and I—we need space. Privacy. It's fresh. Believe me, I'll do everything right."
Carmela lifts her hand, her eyes curious now. "Okay. I'm just saying—nowadays people are all over the place and I taught you better. But... what do you mean by right?"
Ben's gaze softens on me, then sweeps back to his mother.
"Just leave it to me," he raises his hand when Carmela opens her mouth to object. "I've learned my lesson, and found my person."
My heart melts at how determinedly he says it. "And you are my person, and I love your New York."
"Oooh! Cutie!" Mara coos, waving at Carmela. "See? She's perfect for him. She makes him look better than he is."
Ben shoots her a dry look. "I didn't ask you for your PR campaign." His eyes drop to the food on the table. "And why did you ruin the only thing you can cook? Who puts chicory in tiramisu?"
"We're trying to be healthier!" Mara raises his voice defensively.
"It tastes vile," Ben declares flatly, just to get back at her.
"I like it," Paul says, squeezing her shoulder, and his other hand drifts to hover over her belly. When he catches me staring, he slides his hand back into his lap, too fast.