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“That’s kind of sweet,” I say. “But … no offense, but I kind of have to agree with Bree on thisone.”
He gives me a crooked smile. “No argument here. It’ll be all right, I promise. Just rememberthat.”
“What are we going to feed them all?” Quinn wonders.
“Oh, they’ll bring food,” he assures her. “Lots ofit.”
With her usual equanimity, Quinn says, “Then we’d better bake some more cookies.”
* * *
Lando brings the pizza anyway,because he said he would, and he wasn’t sure what else his family might show up with. It’s a good thing the farmhouse is big; I don’t think we wind up with a hundred visitors, but it’s way more than a dozen.
And the amount of food they bring is truly impressive. Every kind of pasta dish imaginable, not surprisingly, but also soups, seafood dishes, roasts, salads, side dishes … it’s mind-boggling.
Every available flat surface in the downstairs area is soon covered with serving dishes. Our desserts reign supreme in the kitchen area, drawing oohs and ahhs from the stream of visitors, and lots of warnings from moms to kids that they need to eat dinner first.
Then there’s Bianca. She’s tall, dark and gorgeous, like every Adamo, apparently, and she takes one look at our array and says, “To heck with dinner. I’m eating dessert first.”
“There’s ice cream, too,” I tellher.
“Stop. I’m dying here.” She takes a nibble of a double fudge brownie and her eyes roll back in her head. “Anjelica,” she calls. “Come tastethis.”
Another Adamo woman joins her — her sister, maybe? — and together they sample the brownie, a lemon bar, a cranberry almond cookie, a bread pudding muffin, a sliver of spice cake, and some of our blackberry ice cream. Then they round onme.
“Are you selling all this in town?” Bianca demands.
“Um … no.”
“Why not?” Anjelica chimesin.
“Down, girls.” Romero’s arm circles my waist protectively. He’s stayed within earshot of me all evening, and it’s left me feeling supported, but not hoveredover.
“Rome,” Bianca says. “Have you tasted any ofthis?”
“Most of it, yeah.”
“It’s amazing. All of it.” She turns back to me. “People would pay good money for this kind of quality.”
“Well …” I can’t even begin to imagine the logistics of trying to set up shop in town. I’d need a business degree or something.
Romero says in my ear, “Bianca is the owner of, you guessed it, Bianca’s.”
“Oh. Oh!” I’ve window-shopped her high-end boutique more than once. “Your clothes are amazing.”
“Thanks.” Smiling, she gestures to Anjelica. “Anj runs Bel Fiori.”
“Ohh, I love your jewelry.”
“Thank you. The point is,” she says gently, “we understand retail. We could help you write up a business plan, make contacts in town, even get funding.”
My eyes are suddenly full of tears I can’t hold back. When they spill over, I blurt, “Excuse me,” and turn to bury my face in Romero’s chest. Gentle pats on my back tell me that my new friends aren’t offended.
Romero’s arms come around me, his lips grazing the top of my head. “All right, sweet girl,” he murmurs.
I look up at him, and he gently brushes the moisture from my cheeks. “Did they mean it?” Iask.
“Everyword.”
