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I realize the mouthwatering aromas are coming from the ovens and something simmering on the stove. As I notice this, I hear women’s voices to my right.
“Gabriele, they saved the cooking spoons and knives for you. Sinead, come join us.”
I recognize Paola’s voice. I look up at him, and he’s grimacing. I follow his gaze, and my eyes widen. There are at least six butcher’s knives, four paring knives, a bread knife, and probably twelve large spoons on the counter beside the sink. It’s obvious no one soaked them, and the food is already caked on them. It’s going to take some real scrubbing. Marco walks over, an apron dangling from his fingers.
“Be sure to take care of those dishpan hands before you head home, Gabe.”
Gabriele shoves Marco. Hard. But the man barely shifts. Instead, he laughs at Gabriele, who mutters something in Italian that I don’t understand.
“Gabriele!”
“Yes, Auntie Lotta.”
“I heard that.”
“Yes, Auntie Lotta.”
There’s no way she heard anything. Even with supersonic hearing. The woman just knows these guys. When I hear snickering, I find Massimo, Salvatore, and the man I realize must be either Domenico or Cesare laughing at Gabriele. The same voice carries to the kitchen again.
“Mimmo!”
“Yes, Lotta.”
“Be nice to him.Non mettete in imbarazzo il povero ragazzo.”
I look up at Gabriele, and I think he’s blushing. Or maybe it’s annoyance because he’s scowling as more of the guys laugh. I wait for him to interpret, but he says nothing. Serafina walks up behind me and takes mercy on my confusion.
“She told her husband to not embarrass the poor boy.”
“Mimmo?”
I whisper because I don’t want to be rude, but I’ve never heard that name before. Serafina nudges me and gestures toward the living room. I glance up at Gabriele again.
“Go. Dinner will be ready soon.”
“They haven’t eaten yet? I thought those were leftovers for us or something.”
“No. Aunt Sylvia won’t serve dinner without the kitchen being clean first. There will be a mountain by the time we’re done, and she says she doesn’t need an avalanche to clean up. We do the dishes, and she and my aunts cook. We’ve tried it the other way around, and we realized we’d starve.”
I smile and follow Serafina.
“Mimmo is what Auntie Carlotta calls Uncle Domenico. Only she calls him that. The rest of us call him Uncle Domenico or Uncle Dom. Only Carmine calls me Fina, but everyone else calls me Sera. Only Luca calls Olivia Livy.”
“And only I call Matteo Matty.”
As Maria approaches, I notice she bears a striking resemblance to Luca, Lorenzo, and Marco now that I know the men too. But she’s decidedly feminine even though I know she used to be a tomboy. I remember the stories she told me in the hospital. Her smile spells trouble with every letter of the alphabet. A man’s voice travels from the kitchen.
“Sinead, don’t encourage Bambi. And don’t be fooled by how innocent she looks. My wife will lead you to hell and hand you a fan.”
“Bambi?”
“Yes. It’s short forbambina. He used to call me that when we were kids until I beat him at the fifty-yard dash. Once we got together, he went back to calling me that, and I went back to calling him Matty.”
I enter the living room with Serafina and Maria, and it’s a little overwhelming to see all the women together. I don’t know why it intimidates me more than a kitchen filled with linebackers. They all look so friendly and kind, and if they’re like Carlotta, who I remember visiting me in the hospital, I’m sure they are. But it’s nerve-wracking.
“We don’t bite, Sinead. Promise.”
The most elegant woman I’ve ever seen stands up and offers me her chair. Her Italian accent is as thick as Serafina’s. But they’re not quite the same. This woman’s is a stronger version of Gabriele’s diluted one.
