Page 89 of Falling for Mr. October

“Tell me a story, Giovanni. Tell me a story while I cook.”

He launches into a story about how his nonno won the building for Hidden Italy from a rich landowner in a game of cards. Toward the end of his life, his nonno had confessed to the landowner that he’d cheated, but by then they were good friends and the other man claimed he’d always known.

I’m laughing as I plate the eggs with a couple of pieces of toast.

Without asking, he pulls out the silverware and napkins, because of course he’s gotten to know this kitchen better than I do.

As we sit down at the table to eat, I say, “Your grandfather was a special man. I remember him pretty well. He was kind.”

He smiles and lifts a hand to his shirt, his fingers skating over the small bump beneath the fabric.

“What’s on that pendant, anyway?” I ask.

“It’s a cornicello,” he says, pulling it out to show me. “My nonno gave it to me. It’s for luck.”

I nod and wait for him to continue. I’m certain he’s about to. Most of my patients have been on a short path toward death, and I’ve found that people faced with the facts about mortality are more inclined to share. Maybe it’s the souls of our hunter-gatherer ancestors living within us, who kept the past alive by sharing it aloud. So I can usually tell when someone is about to tell me something important. It’s there in Giovanni’s eyes, deep and thoughtful, and in the quirk of his brow. It’s even visible in the way he’s fidgeting with his silverware.

“He gave it to me,” he says, holding it in a loose fist. “I wasn’t doing so good in school after my mother took off. My brother Enzo was a model student, of course, so it didn’t help to be next in line. My father barely cared, but my nonna was furious with me. She told my nonno to take me to task, but he brought me to the docks to go fishing instead.

“‘I know you’re disappointed in me,’ I told him. ‘But I’m not smart like Enzo.’

“‘No,’ he said. ‘You’re not smart like Enzo. You’re smart like me. You’re good with people, Gio. You know how to speak to the soul. Don’t let anyone tell you you’re stupid because you can’t finish their foolish tests.’

“Then he clapped me on the back and gave me the necklace off his own neck, as a reminder that we were two cuts from the same cloth.”

Tears well in my eyes, the way they always do when someone shares a meaningful story about a person who’s left us. “Thank you for telling me. He was a very wise man.”

Except when he asked his grandson to make him an unkeepable promise, but I won’t say that. I would never speak ill of the man he loved so much—a man I also respected. I know better than anyone that people can do desperate things in their last moments.

Instead, I pause and add, “Maybe the secret to your problem is that you should listen to your own advice. You already know what to do.”

“You sound awfully sentimental, Bianca.” He’s teasing, but there’s a wistful look on his face, as if something more than a memory has been awakened in him too.

I poke my fork at him. “Just wait until you taste these eggs. They’re probably bad enough to cure anyone of sentiment.”

“I’ll bet they’re delicious.”

He says it with the confidence of a man who hasn’t tasted his food yet.

He must see that thought written on my face, because he takes a big, overconfident forkful. After tasting them, he hums in pleasure, as if the simple eggs I made him are a culinary treat.

“Don’t overdo it,” I say, nudging his foot under the table. But there’s a pleased edge to my voice. “I can make eggs just fine. My sister taught me. Isabella’s the only real cook in the family, out of us grandkids. Obviously, Nonna Rose is the best of all of us.”

“Anyone can learn to cook anything they like,” he says. “I firmly believe that.”

“Will you teach me?” I ask before I can see sense and stop myself.

“What do you want to learn how to make?” he asks. He seems revved up by the thought, like he just downed some espresso.

“Apple pie. I want to make the apple pie for the contest with you.”

“We forgot to ask Luanne for help.” He frowns, his mouth puckering. “Do you think it’s a good idea for us to do that at The Rotten Apple after what happened today?”

“You think the fire department has their eye on me?” I ask, laughing.

“I do, yes.” He grins. “You’re definitely on some watch list. Is Luanne allowed to leave?”

I burst out laughing. “It’s not a prison, Giovanni.”