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It’s essentially a log cabin on steroids. I don’t know about square feet, but it’s as big as a small hotel and decorated like a Georgian plantation, accented with bold modern artwork and expansive windows.
An original Miro hangs above the buffet to my left and a matching set of black and orange Rothkos fill the opposite wall from floor to ceiling.
There are always fourteen candles in sterling candelabras standing in line down the center of the table, at lunch and dinner. They flicker and give off the scent of persimmons and oranges.
There’s a tick in the muscle above my grandfather’s left eyebrow, the furrows in his brow deepen as we enter. He’s perfectly still wearing a white t-shirt and jeans, his hair and beard thick and calling for my fingers to weave through and whisper all my secret wishes into his ear.
My toe bells give off one last jingle, and I don’t need to look at the Ormolu gold leaf table clock on the buffet to know we are late.
“It’sherfault,” Lucy announces as she slides into her chair at Grandpa’s right side.
His blue eyes make my heart speed, blood pumping through my veins in a greedy rush to swell the knots below my belly button.
His gaze drifts over my chest, a flicker passes over his sharp features as my braless nipples tighten, flirting with him from under the thin fabric of my shirt.
God help me, I’m so turnedon. My horny body is making promises to him I could never keep, but the heat in my core is hopeful.
He lifts his hand, gesturing to the seat to his left and I slide into my place as Mama bumps her round rear into the swinging door separating the dining room from the kitchen, pushing it open with a gigantic silver tray in her hands.
“Always late, you two. You should not make your grandfather wait. It shows disrespect.” She chastises in her thick Italian accent as she shuffles toward Papa with a thin smile, her white lace-edged apron pulled tight across her bosom, setting the tray down on the buffet before presenting a bowl of pasta fagioli to my grandfather.
He gives her a nearly imperceptible nod of approval and she sets down the bowl, then brings one to each of us before scurrying back through the door, muttering to herself in Italian. A few moments later, she returns with a carved bread bowl full of steaming rolls covered in two white linen napkins.
Once she’s satisfied with the placement of the bread in front of Papa, she fists her hands on her chubby hips. Her hair is always pulled tight into a gray bun at the back of her head, with pearls adorning her neck and bright red lipstick.
“Your tutors delivered your grades today.” Mama locks her jaw, shooting a glare my way while I watch Gennero deliver the ornate silver soup spoon to his perfect lips and draw in the broth from the soup and oh God, I want to be that spoon.
As he swallows, his Adam’s apple moves in his throat south of where the line of his silver-gray beard stops on his neck. He holds his spoon frozen in place above the steaming bowl of pasta and vegetables, turning first to Lucy, then to Mama.
“And?” He asks, dipping his spoon back into the rich red soup, scooping up two curled fusilli and a sliced carrot as I stare at his perfect fingers. “How were their reports?”
Lucy and I have not been to school since we arrived here. Our grandfather arranged for tutors and even though we both have technically graduated high school, he insists education never ends. Since we are stuck here with only rare and supervised contact with the outside world on approved outings, our studies have continued into broader and more challenging territories.
Like contemporary art, which I enjoy.
But, also Latin. And the study of economies and how money flows around the world.
Or, equally as entertaining the corruption of the world bank and who really is in charge of the federal reserve.
Gag. But what Papa wants, Papa gets.
I only wish that was me.
“Well.” Mama reaches for the last bowl left on the tray, waddling to the other end of the table and placing it on the linen placemat, then sliding the chair out and settling in the seat with a wiggle.
She trades a hard stare with Lucy, who shrugs going back to her soup, grabbing a roll with her other hand, nodding at me to push the crystal butter dish her way. Mama sniffs, the corners of her mouth turning south, then goes back to her soup for a single slurp before spearing me with her dark eyes and I freeze.
She holds me there for a long moment that seems to stretch into eternity as I imagine my Latin tutor, exasperated and nearly in tears because I can’t conjugate worth a fuck.
Then she pinches her fingers to her lips on a kissing sound, and breaks into a rare smile, showing off her crooked teeth with a missing incisor.
“Perfecto.” She grins, winking at me, and I throw up my hands with relief.
Papa looks my way with stern approval and my insides melt into warm honey. Lucy doesn’t even acknowledge his nod as the heat between my legs turns molten and I soak the seam of my pants considering the no-underwear choice may have been a bad one.
His gaze sticks on my chest and I thrust out my tits instinctively , while Lucy and Mama start back on their ongoing argument about whether the table decorations for the party tomorrow night should include variegated poinsettias or not. Mama says they are an abomination. And Lucy says plain red is for old farts.
Papa’s shoulders square as he sits up, his shirt pulling across the flat muscle of his pectorals, his eyes still on my chest, tongue on his lower lip as my nipples do battle with the red snowflakes on my shirt, his spoon is sinking in his fagioli, a torn piece of bread pinched between his fingers as time seems to stop.
