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When you’re usedto living alone, trying to sleep in a noisy house, and worse, an unfamiliar place, is unnerving. Kroydon Hills is a surprisingly sleepy suburb of the city. My street isn’t busy at night, so I’m used to a certain set of noises.
What I’m not used to is people moving around all night long. I can’t ignore the hushed voices talking at two a.m. or the not-so-hushed ones drifting up the stairs sometime around four-thirty. I spent hours counting the rotations of the ceiling fan, willing myself unsuccessfully to fall asleep. When that failed miserably, I started counting the different masculine voices floating through the halls.
Uttering words like “retribution,” “retaliation,” and “act of war.”
Then there was a new voice added to the mix this morning. A feminine voice.
I guess Nonna is up.
What I didn’t hear was Bash coming in.
I guess Sam didn’t have a problem letting him stay at the hospital.
When I finally give in and get out of bed, I’m tired and cranky. I don’t exactly smell amazing, and one look in the mirror tells me I look like I haven’t slept in days. I’m tempted to say screw it and leave. Just go home. Shower in my own shower with my own shampoo and be baking cookies in Sweet Temptations before the morning rush is over. But I promised Sam I’d stay.
Damn it.
Taking a quick peek around the bathroom, I find shampoo and conditioner. It’s the good stuff too. No wonder this man’s hair always looks amazing. Inhaling deeply, I close my eyes and let Sam’s scent relax me. Fresh and crisp and all man.
A hot shower and an old tube of toothpaste have me feeling brave enough to search through the walk-in closet for something I can wear that might be a little more comfortable than the clothes I picked so carefully for my date last night. No need for my boobs to be on display for Nonna today. Luckily for me, tucked in the far corner of the closet is an old plastic bin full of clothes I’m guessing high-school Sam owned.
Jackpot. There’s an old faded Kroydon Prep hoodie and sweats.
Guess this will have to do today.
When I slip it over my head, I relax in the soft material and try to picture a teenage Sam wearing it, but I can’t.
There’s no surprise to be had when I make my way through this giant maze of a house to find every chef’s dream of a kitchen and come across Nonna taking a batch of biscotti out of the oven. I thought that’s what I smelled, but I wasn’t sure.
She places the hot tray down on her eight-burner Viking range, and I think I may weep with how much I want that in my kitchen one day. Nonna reaches her arms out for me, gripping my shoulders tightly until I lean over and let her kiss my cheeks. “Principessa. Sit. I have fresh biscotti.”
She doesn’t ask me any questions about why I’m here.
Why I’m in Sam’s old clothes.
Or even where Sam is.
I don’t think she’s oblivious. Just the opposite.
I think she’s aware something is very wrong and is waiting to be filled in.
She doesn’t need to ask. She already knows.
We sit, chatting about baking, something we both love. And cooking, something I’m not very good at but Nonna is convinced she can help me with.
I guess with a kitchen like this at your disposal, why not?
Lifting the cookie to my lips, I take a small bite and let the taste explode in my mouth. It’s exquisite. Crispy on the outside, but it somehow melts in your mouth. A touch of almond and something I can’t quite place coming together perfectly.
“Of course, it is, principessa. These are not recipes that can be found in books. Bring me to your kitchen one day. Let me see you work. Let this old woman feel useful again. I may even share a recipe or two.” Nonna fills our coffee cups, then sits back down next to me at the table.
Our quiet morning is interrupted when Bash’s bulldog, Butkus, comes trotting into the kitchen, letting us know Sebastian is home. He marches over to Nonna on stubby little legs and starts whining until she gets up and finds him his puppy treats she’s got hidden away in the pantry. Once Butkus is happy, she offers Bash a contented smile. “Prupetta. Come. Come. There are biscotti for everyone.”
An awkward laugh bubbles up in my throat. “He looks more like a string bean than a meatball, Nonna,” I raise my eyes to Sebastian’s and find a surprised smile. I don’t think he expected me to understand Italian. After a moment, that silly smile disappears from his face. Knowing what needs to happen next, I excuse myself to call Lyla, wanting to give Bash and his grandmother some privacy.
He doesn’t need an audience for the news he has to share.
No one should ever have to bury their child. No matter their age.
