Page 71 of Falling for Mr. October

“You know Nonna has an agenda.”

She’s told us many times that she wants to see all of her grandkids married before she “meets her maker.” As my little sister pointed out, Nonna isn’t giving us an incentive to settle down—we all need her to live forever.

“Of course she has an agenda,” Enzo says. “She’s a Cafiero. But we all saw the photo. We know something’s going on.”

“Lucy’s changed you, and not for the good,” I say. “You’re becoming an old gossip. You should go ahead and join that crocheting group in town.”

“Maybe,” Enzo admits, sounding amused. “But you’re forcing me into it, you know. You should be ashamed of yourself. If you’d just tell us about our future sister-in-law outright⁠—”

“Look, it doesn’t matter if I like her.”

“I knew you did,” Nico mutters.

“I’m not staying here,” I continue, “and she’s not going anywhere. She’s lived here since she was a little kid, and all these people rely on her. Besides, I don’t want to mess things up for Nonna Francesca. She’s happy here, and if things went south between Bianca and me, we could end up with another apple fight.”

“Some things are worth a potential apple fight,” Enzo says. “Finding the right woman is one of them.”

“I’m hanging up now,” I say. I’m really about to, but then I remember the mystery of the gray sweatpants. “Hey, wait a sec. Why do women like gray sweatpants?”

“Your idea of romancing a woman is wearing sweatpants?” Enzo says. “Madonn’, you need help.”

“Bianca liked them, though. She said women would faint if I wore them in public, and for once, she wasn’t fucking with me.”

“I got nothing,” Nico says. “Enzo, why don’t you ask Lucy?”

I hear muffled conversation on the other end of Enzo’s line, followed by laughter.

“Lucia says it means she was checking out your dick.”

“No,” I say, although I like the thought for obvious reasons.

“Did you stuff an eggplant down your pants?” Nico asks, laughing.

“Very funny. You know I’ve got no need.”

“But you do like impressing women,” Nico banters back.

Not really. Not anymore. But I wouldn’t mind impressing Bianca.

Wouldn’t mind it at all.

On Friday, I get up before anyone else in the house—a real feat when you’re staying with two women over eighty—and start making graham crackers in a T-shirt and my gray sweatpants. I’ll wear those sweatpants until they’re ragged if Bianca likes me in them.

There’s a real surprise for me when I open the fridge to reach for the butter and milk—a covered glass dish.

Bianca made the marshmallows last night.

I’m grinning as I finish the graham crackers.

I get the dough chilled and rolled out, and I’ve just put it into the oven when the nonnas come into the kitchen. They make us all cappuccinos, God bless them. Nonna Rose fusses over me, asking questions about how I’m sleeping—Is the mattress too soft? Is the room too warm? Do you have enough blankets?—before asking what I’m currently doing. When I admit I’m making graham crackers because Bianca and I will be practicing our s’mores today, the nonnas exchange a pointed look.

Seconds later, they’re grabbing their handbags and preparing to leave.

“It’s not even eight o’clock,” I point out as I watch them hustle toward the door. “Where are you going?”

“To visit, Ted, God rest his soul,” Nonna Rose says, making the sign of the cross. “Your nonna hasn’t seen his final resting place, and the light in the graveyard is best at this time of morning.”

“Isn’t it a little early for that?”