“No, no, no, bella. I’m not talking about your figure. Which is perfect, by the way. A woman should have curves, in my opinion.” He tapped his forehead. “I mean, you got smarts. And heart. Your idiot husband screwed things up, but you didn’t crumble. And I’ll tell you—” He leaned onto his elbow and lowered his voice. “My Matteo, he’s got heart, too. A huge one. Smart, handsome kid like him coulda found another job in Seattle like that.” He snapped his fingers. “But he came here to help his old uncle. He puts people first, you know?”
So did she. The trouble was, her kids had to come before all the other people in her life. Herself included.
For a long moment, they sat in silence, watching the swallows’ acrobatics in the gathering dusk. Sal’s cozy little yard was a good place to sit with her thoughts and feelings—just breathe it all in, along with the scent of summer green and salty ocean.
Upstairs, a door slammed. Sal chuckled. “My nephew’s making himself pretty for you.” He stabbed an olive, then wagged his fork. “I’ll give you a little free wisdom before dinner. Take it or leave it.”
She nodded. Without Sal’s invitation to the Sons of Italy banquet, she probably would have spent her vacation holed up with paperbacks and boxed wine. If he wanted to pontificate, she’d gladly listen.
He popped the olive into his mouth, chewed thoughtfully for a long moment, then pointed again with his fork. “Life’s too short.” His warm chestnut eyes lasered into hers. “You know what I mean?”
“Too short for what?”
His lips hitched in a melancholy smile. “Just too short. Don’t waste it. If you love something, make time for it.”
“If you love someone, you mean?”
He shrugged. “A person, a place, a hobby, a passion. Whatever you love, fill your life with that. Because life’s too damn short.” He dabbed his lips with his napkin, then blotted his eyes. Her heart squeezed.
Matteo thundered down the stairs and trotted to Sal’s side, smelling of soap and sandalwood. He’d traded his stained work clothes for a dark blue dress shirt, ivory linen pants, and leather flip flops. He spread his arms and rotated in a slow circle. “Okay, Zio. Am I worthy of Fran’s cooking?”
“Much better.” Sal leaned onto his elbow and hooked a thumb over his shoulder. “Che bel ragazzo, eh? What a handsome guy.”
She grinned. “Like his uncle.”
They dug into their feast. The creamy, subtle tonnato sauce, studded with briny capers, was the perfect foil for the tender braised turkey breast. Manners be damned. She mopped up the last bit of sauce with her bread. While they ate, Sal regaled them with stories about their family—Matteo’s snarky, artistic sister who lived in Portland with her girlfriend, also his mom, who’d found love with—gasp!—a non-Italian and moved to California. “Only six months after her husband died. Che scandalo.” Sal scooped more salad onto her plate. “But I say—well, you know my position.” He winked.
Matteo shrugged. “LeVon’s a good guy. He treats her well. She deserves to be happy.”
Sal pushed back from the table. “I’ll clean up. You youngsters stay and talk.” He inclined his head toward a small balcony above the patio. “Nice view up there. You can see the dunes.”
Matteo rose and extended his hand. “What do you say, bella? We’re trying a new gelato flavor, salted caramel with hazelnuts. Got some in my freezer.”
She didn’t bother hiding her wide smile.Pretty sure we’re going to share something much tastier than gelato.
Chapter Eleven
Wednesday Night
Holdingherhand,Matteoled her up the stairs. “Sorry about Sal. He’s as bad a matchmaker as the nonnas. Shoulda told him about my promise not to pressure you.”
Matteo was right, but she couldn’t resent the old guy for his loving intentions. “He means well. He loves you and wants you to be happy.”
Clasping her hips, he danced her through the doorway. “You know, I’m pretty damn happy at the moment.”
Danielle kicked off her sandals beside the front door and surveyed Matteo’s home. Though small, the apartment felt airy and open. An eclectic mix of paintings, posters, and photos covered the walls. A squashy leather loveseat and chairs clustered around a colorful Kilim rug, facing one of those ski-chalet mini fireplaces. The sitting area, dining table, and kitchenette took up two-thirds of the space, separated from the bedroom by a divider of wooden crates holding vases, bowls, and other artsy knickknacks. She stroked the glossy wood. “Clever. Your work?”
“Yeah. Got a good deal on crates from a defunct cannery. Amazing what you can build with these. End tables, desks, platform beds, you name it.” He switched on a small speaker, and soft jazz filled the apartment. He stepped up behind her and trailed his fingertips down her ribs to the swell of her hips. “Didn’t have much time to clean up, so don’t peek under the furniture.”
Sighing, she leaned back into his embrace. “I don’t care if you have dust bunnies the size of Texas.”Do you have any idea how amazing you are?she added silently.
He planted a soft kiss on her temple, then moved to the kitchen where he scooped gelato into earthenware bowls. “Shall we eat this outside? We can watch the sunset.”
She followed him through French doors onto a balcony just big enough for two rattan chairs and a small table. He lit a pair of hanging lanterns suspended from the latticework roof. Golden flame danced behind frosted glass inscribed with stars and moons. Below, the fountain burbled, and a rising breeze stirred wind chimes suspended from trees below, a tinkling farewell to the sun’s last rays. Over the rooftops and sinuous curves of the dunes, the horizon bloomed a vibrant fuchsia that faded to orange, then indigo.
So different from her yard in Tacoma, with its giant trampoline and patchy lawn that demanded constant mowing. How sweet it would be to sit here with Matteo, watching the sunsets change as summer rolled into golden autumn, followed by stormy winter.
Right. And the kids would be where, exactly? Playing video games on his TV?
