Page 51 of The Guardian

“We are going to correct that,” Henry vowed.

Mrs. Santorini swung her kind gaze over to him. “I heard Miss Selena refer to you as Sir, that you are a Knight.”

Henry opened his mouth to deny this.

Raising her hand up, she shushed him. “Silenzio. It is an endearment. Si, she explained that to me. But I can see why they call you this.” She motioned over at the counter. “The plates are there and you simply choose what you want.” She squeezed my hand and added, “Bless you, Maya Angel.”

I blinked at her and smiled a bit. “You have been talking to the twins.”

She laughed as she dropped my hand. “Si, I have. Much like Sir Henry, you have earned this name. Ti auguro buona fortuna, angela.” I wish you luck, angel. Turning, she gave Michael a nod. “If they need anything please let me know? Grazie, Mikey.” She gave him a warm smile and a fond look as well. She then headed across the kitchen and out the door.

“She reminds me of my mother, so much,” I spoke softly. “She is also a fabulous cook. Then the sayings and advice. It is how you say, inquietante …uncanny.”

“Well, she is like a guiding light here,” Michael said. “Alberto lost his wife when the kids were all very young. She has been more than just a cook or housekeeper. She is the keeper of the house, period.”

“I can see that,” I told him. “I’ve only seen her a few times now and every time she has made me feel better.”

Henry agreed, “A very comforting person. I even feel better when she comes around.”

Rain smirked. “That is a compliment for sure coming from Mr. Grumpy here.” He motioned at Henry. “I am also glad to see…” he paused. “That you found your angel, Henry.”

Henry stared at Rain for a full minute as if he was waiting for the joke or the taunt to come. When none came, he looked surprised and covered it as he chuckled. Then he did as I noted before whenever he was upset or moved by something, he quoted a poem, “While there, they'll talk you dead. For fools rush in where angels fear to tread.”

Chapter Seventeen: The Magical

Henry

“Ever the poet,” Michael said as he grinned at me. “I sort of missed that.”

I shook my head at him and at Rain. “I liked you two better when you were attempting to razz me.”

“I said sort of, not a lot,” Michael added as he laughed.

I rolled my eyes.

“No really, is the poetry a British thing?” Michael clarified. “Or is it just your personal mechanism for coping? Like to be or not to be, that is the question.”

“That was a good one.” Rain raised his hand to high five Michael.

It felt odd to have them getting along so well. My semi-nemesis Rainmaker and my smart ass brother. I wasn’t sure if this was a good thing or nor. For me, probably not. I grinned at them.

“Da, I always wondered that too,” Rain said. “Like do lots of Englishmen do that? Is it required in college? You memorize like a hundred poems by your countrymen and then you get to graduate?”

“Then are the classes called Pansy Ass Poetry?” Micael joked.

Rain flat out laughed at this one.

I gave them both a smirk. “Now this is more like it.”

“Órale, I think it is beautiful. His poetry,” Maya said. “Figata. Like how Americans say cool.”

I wrapped an arm around her shoulder and gave them a huge grin. “Figata. You hear that? I am cool. So that proves it finally. You two have always been jealous.”

My brother and Rain both laughed together now.

I pointedly ignored their rude amusement and took Maya over to the counter get a plate. “This looks…” I took a quick glance down at my phone and read the words out, “Tanta roba! Sembrano deliziosi.” Really good. Very delicious.

Pausing as she dished fruit onto her plate, she looked up at me. “You are learning Italian? Aww grazie, dolce Henry.”