142

    142

    CATERINA

    “Where’s the ricotta?” I could have sworn I pulled out of the fridge while gathering the rest of the ingredients.

    “Right here.” Gianni slides the container my way. low can I help?”

    It’s sort of adorable that he wants to help, so I don’t want to turn him down. And with my nerves as fried as they are right now, I could use the help. If I’m not careful, I’ll end up knocking the baking dish on the floor instead of putting it in the oven. The thought of tomato sauce sshing across the white tile and shiny stainless steel makes me wince-Sheryl would never forgive me if I didn’t leave this kitchen looking better than she left it. I love her, and she seems to like me a lot, but there are lines you don’t cross.

    “Can you please crack two eggs and stir them into the ricotta?” I wish I had a written recipe, but Mom never worked that way. Everything she cooked, she eyeballed. A meal could taste totally different depending on her mood that day, but it was always delicious.

    Noodles are boiling on the stove, along with marinara sauce Sheryl made a while back and had kept frozen. That’s thawed now, bubbling slightly beside a pan of browned sausage. Everything’s in ce. So why am I so nervous?

    Oh, that’s right, because depending on how things go between a pair of stubborn, pigheaded men, this could be the final meal for one of them. I’ll have to keep them from wing each other’s

    throats out.

    “Stir the noodles, please?” I feel like my head’s going to explode from everything buzzing around inside. I have to prep the vegetables toyer with the cheese and sausage and make sure the noodles don’t get overcooked-there’s not much I hate more than mushy pasta.

    He dips a pair of tongs into the boiling water, stirring gently. “Do you want to hear something that will shock you?”

    I blow out a breath, “Oh god, I don’t know, yes, maybe.”

    Gianni grins, and I swear I’ll never get over how devilishly handsome he is. “This is kind of nice.”

    “You’re right, I’m shocked.” Somehow I manage to take a break from stressing out to kiss him. And it is nice. It’s the sort of thing I would always like to do. Working as a team, watching as he does his best to be helpful and positive. I know I’m being a real pain in the ass, freaking out, wanting everything to be perfect. He’s been nothing but patient even though I know he can’t be looking forward to having dinner with Dad.

    “Did you ever do any cooking for yourself?” I ask while finely chopping herbs to be mixed in with

    the ricotta.

    Shrugging, he says, “I mean, I had to eat, so yeah.”

    “That’s not what I meant. Do you have any signature dishes? Something you fall back on?” Ugh, did

    142

    he ever make something special for Amalia? I’m starting to wish I hadn’t asked.

    “If you count cereal and instant ramen, sure.” I slow my chopping, looking at him. Finally, he shrugs. “We didn’t have any money when I was a kid. I told you that.”

    “Yes, I remember.”

    “So I made do with what we had. Once I was on my own in the world, I didn’t have much money either. What do they call that? The sd days?”

    “I have no idea what that is but sure.”

    “Every penny I made went to survival, and that’s what food was then. I ate because I had to if I wanted to live. There was nothing about pleasure or enjoyment.” He snorts, and I notice his gaze moving around the spacious, gleaming kitchen. “Hot dogs chopped up in a bowl of ramen noodles was as fancy as it got.

    “That doesn’t sound too bad, actually.”

    “When you live on it for a week straight, you might feel a little differently.” He’s smiling about it, so I guess it’s easy to smile when you’re on the other side.

    Once I’ve dered the noodles a minute shy of al dente, he drains the pot and rinses the pasta ording to my instructions. There’s a sd already prepared in the fridge and garlic bread waiting to be ced in the oven once thesagnaes out.

    “I have to hurry,” I fret once I start putting everything together. “Thesagna needs to sit for a while to set up, or else you slice into it and it falls apart.”

    “I’m learning so much tonight.” He pours himself a ss of wine from a bottle he opened for the asion. “However, you need to take a breath. No matter what you make him, he’ll love it.”

    “How would you know?” I ask with a breathlessugh.

    “It’s part of being a father. I know what I’m talking about.”

    His choice of words stirs my curiosity as Idle sauce into the bottom of a casserole dish. “Did Tatiana tell you where she’s going tonight? I told her about dinner, but she said she already had ns.” I can’t put my finger on it, but something about that doesn’t seem right. She’s spent weeks festering in bed, locked in her rooms, and now she has ns she doesn’t want to share with me.

    “No, she didn’t want to give me any details, but she seemed happier than she’s beentely, so I didn’t want to give her shit about it.” He kisses my temple, probably because he sees my worries written across my face. “She’s a big girl. I learned a long time ago which battles to pick, and this one’s not worth it. So long as she’s starting to get out in the world again, that’s all that matters. Plus, I have Roger tailing her for her safety.”

    He’s right. I need to stop worrying about everyone else and their lives. I have more than enough on my te, anyway.

    ***

    142

    “Everything is perfect.”Gianni shakes his head and whistles in appreciation once he pulls thesagna from the oven. “It’s nice that you made this but what did you make for you and your father?”

    “Stop ttering me.” I give him a look, cing my hand on my hip.

    “That is not true. This is the most gorgeoussagna I’ve ever seen.” I have to admit he’s right, it’s perfect, and the aroma of garlic hangs in the air once the garlic bread starts baking in the oven. Just a few minutes ago, I was too nervous to even consider eating, but now my stomach is growling.

    I run both hands over the front of my polka-dotted dress. It’s cute, simple enough for a family dinner. “Do you think I should have set the dining room table? Is eating in the kitchen too casual?”

    “Rx, or I’ll make you rx, and you know how that works.” He cups my shoulders and gently kisses my forehead. For his part, he looks gorgeous in a white polo shirt that sets off his tan skin and dark hair. “We could always eat in the dining room if you want, but if we’re trying to convince Charles of how normal things are around here, the three of us sitting at a table built for eighteen might seem a little much.”

    “That’s true. Good thinking.” He’s right. I just need to take a breath. It would probably be easier to do that if I were sure of the kind of attitude Dad would have when he gets here. He seemed pleasantly surprised at the invitation and asked if he could bring anything. I told him to bring an open mind. He didn’t seem to think that was funny.

    “I think we make a pretty good team,” Gianni announces, setting the sd on the table along with a small te of cured meat, cheese, and olives. “I should give Sheryl the night off a few times a month. It’ll give us the chance to cook together.’

    “Nothing would make me happier.” And I mean that with all my heart. I could never have guessed we woulde this far, happily fixing a meal together while music ys and we n for the future. It almost feels too good to be true, and it’s easy to imagine a time when our children will run around underfoot.

    Please, Dad, don’t ruin this.

    Henry already knows to expect him, so there’s no call announcing his arrival. There’s only the ringing of the doorbell at ten minutes to seven. “He loves to be early,” I exin, untying my apron and heading for the front door. My heart’s pounding, and my palms are slick with nervous sweat, but I somehow manage to ster on a smile when I open the door.

    He looks good, like he wants toe off as presentable tonight. His blue polo matches his eyes and looks brand-new. So do the gray cks he’s wearing. Actually, he looks like he got a haircut too.

    “I hope you’re hungry,” I tell him after kissing his smooth-shaven cheek. “I made enoughsagna to feed an army.”

    His lips stir in a faint, almost disbelieving smile. “Lasagna. Your mom’s favorite.”

    “Charles. Thanks for joining us tonight.” Gianni ys the part of the charming, gracious host, extending a hand to shake. Here we go. My heart’s in my throat, and I’m afraid I might throw up as I wait to see what Dad’s reaction will be.

    $15 BONUS

    He hesitates for a split second, then extends his own hand for a firm shake. “Thank you for having me. I appreciate it.”

    “After all, we have someone inmon, don’t we? He raises an eyebrow. “Would you like a tour of the house?”

    “No, thank you. That’s not necessary.” The way Dad makes it sound, Gianni just invited him to have a root canal.

    That’s my cue. “Dinner’s ready. Thesagna is cooling slightly, but we have sd and antipasto.”

    “That sounds terrific.” Gianni leads the way to the kitchen while I sneak one look after another toward Dad. He doesn’t have to say a word-I can read how his eyes move and his jaw twitches. He’s looking around at all this luxury and thinking about how the money was made. When he catches me looking at him, I grimace and fold my hands like I’m begging him.

    Please, don’t mess this up for me.

    “What can I get you to drink, Charles?”

    “I think I’ll have water with dinner or iced tea if you have any.”

    “I made sure there was some in the fridge.” Gianni pours the drinks while I sit down with Dad, who’s still peering around, taking everything in.

    “This is a beautiful home,” he observes in what, for him, is a neutral tone of voice. “Very nice.”

    “Your daughter isfortable here,” Gianni says, cing a ss of iced tea on the table. “And safe.”

    “I sure hope so.” Their eyes meet, and I hold my breath. Dad only takes a sip of his tea and keeps his thoughts to himself.

    By the time we settle in with our sds, some of the tension has dissolved. I guess when you’re eating, there’s less time to be angry or resentful. “Did Caterina ever tell you about the first time she tried to make dinner?” Dad asks out of nowhere looking my way with a twinkle in his eye.

    “Oh, my God, can we not tell that story, please?” I groan while ring at him.

    Gianni sets down his knife and fork, grinning. “Okay, now I must know.”

    “She wanted to make spaghetti,” Dad exins. “Mind you, she had never cooked before and had only ever watched her mother.”

    “I was seven years old,” I grumble, spearing a cucumber with a bit more force than necessary. “ What did I know?”