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“What? No.” Mateo pulls a face. “He was a horrible person.”
Now that everyone’s done chasing each other, and the Precio family ‘normal meter’ has once again gauged up a few decibels, we’re enjoying a ceasefire at the grand farm table on the patio deck. Tía Lucy, ever so dramatic, has declared she’s too faint to dine with the rest of us, and is still resting. Between the way my brothers are inhaling the ribs, Dad sneaking scraps under the table for Brownie and Lulu, and Tío Pedro serving himself an obscene amount as an excuse to take leftovers home, I doubt there will be much food for Tía Lucy when she decides to emerge.
“All I’m saying,” says Francesca, “is Rigoletto was so obsessed with revenge, he didn’t listen to his daughter when she said she loved the Duke. He basically called her a silly woman. If he hadn’t been so blind with hate, she wouldn’t have died.”
“No, no no. Gilda died from her own stupidity,” cries Mateo.
Olive asks me, “What are they talking about? Bridgerton?”
“An Italian opera. They’ll be at it all night.” I chuckle to myself, watching her trying to listen intently to my siblings. “Clearly, you’ve never seen Bridgerton.”
She blushes. “Oh, heavens, no. Have you?”
“Heck no. But I’m pretty sure the girl doesn’t die.”
Sebastian waves his baked potato, having just taken a bite. “Isn’t that the one where the guy’s in a bar and the whore has a knife under the bed?”
“Language, Sebastian,” Mom cries. I didn’t even think she was paying attention to the conversation. “And use your fork.”
“We’re eating ribs, Ma.”
“You can use your hands for the ribs, but your fork for the potato.”
“I’ll just get the fork full of barbecue sauce,” he argues.
“That’s what napkins are for.”
I lean over to conspire with Olive. “Just watch. Now we’ll have a whole etiquette conversation on top of the opera conversation.”
“Oh, the irony.” She nudges me with her elbow—even that benign touch sends my heart racing.
“Do you see now why I was trying to spare you from my family dinner?”
She shrugs and beams at me with that million watt smile. “I don’t mind.”
“‘La Donna è Mobile’ is all about how the Duke was heartbroken when she left,” continues Francesca.
Mateo practically chokes on his corn on the cob. “You’re kidding, right? He’s a complete rake.”
“Yes, he’s a cad, but he was willing to change for Gilda. That line where he says how he could become a faithful man for her because she’s so pure…” Francesca clutches her heart. “It’s the classic bad boy trope.”
“You’re too romantic and trusting for your own good,” says Nate. He’s referring to that movie star Francesca brought over for dinner two Christmases ago—who happened to be… wait for it… a rake. They were engaged for a hot minute—until Edmund decided he (cue the puking) suddenly liked my sister after all these years of being just friends. Jealousy works like that for fickle guys like Edmund. And Francesca wonders why my brothers and I don’t trust him. Still, she did dodge a bullet. Her movie star fiancé was outed by the ‘Me Too’ movement not long after she broke off their engagement. Some actress claimed he was her baby daddy and then all sorts of women came out of the woodwork with their own stories. Francesca swears he never touched her, but if I would have been able to find him, there wouldn’t be much left of his face.
“Nothing wrong with being romantic,” says Edmund, giving my sister googly eyes. I notice just then how my other brother, Dante, hardens his stare at Edmund.
“Trusting is another matter altogether,” he grunts, taking a vicious bite of ribs, eyes pinned on Edmund.
Mom calls to him from the other end of the table. “Dante, there are no vegetables on your plate.”
It’s true. Dante’s plate is piled high with barbecue ribs and nothing else. Not even a baked potato.
“What happens to the Duke?” Olive asks Francesca. “Is he sad when the girl dies?”
“We never find out,” says Francesca. “The play just ends when she dies.”
“He doesn’t give a flying fig if she dies,” cries Mateo. “The Duke’s too busy doing it with the assassin’s sister.”
“Mateo!” cries Mom.
