Going out to dinner with some new friends tonight. Hope you’re having fun.
Olivia’s reply pinged seconds later.
Pretty. Get dangly earrings, and don’t wear those ugly sandals.
Noah’s text came next.
Mom’s got a date? I’m telling Dad.
He added a wink emoji.
A wiser woman would tell her ten-year-old son it was just a potluck dinner with a bunch of strangers and the old gelato salesman. But in her heart of hearts, she hoped he would tell Jason. Maybe imagining her with another man would wipe that smug grin off her ex’s face.
On her way back to the rental house, she passed Auntie Annabelle’s Antique Attic, a sprawling shop that took up two adjacent houses. Bittersweet memories flashed across her mind’s eye—trawling Trappers Cove’s second-hand shops with her kids, hours of giggling as they tried on vintage hats, marveled at tin wind-up toys, and flipped through old comic books. Jason would grumble about “useless trinkets” and “worn-out junk” before leaving them to find a bar. It seemed with each passing year, he tried harder to spoil their fun.
And now he had. How could a rinky-dink beach town compete with Disneyland and Universal Studios? Though the shopping bags she carried weighed very little, her shoulders slumped—until she spotted something that jerked her upright.
Propped in the window behind cut-glass vases and creepy porcelain dolls sat a guitar. Not just any guitar, a gorgeous acoustic dreadnought, dark walnut with mother-of-pearl edging. How long since she’d played? Ten years? Fifteen?
Back in college, she was good enough to earn a hatful of tips on Saturdays in the little park behind Pike’s Place Market, or in coffee shops near campus.
But her garage band fizzled, her coursework grew more demanding, and Jason claimed her free time. Then came marriage, work, and kids. Music receded into the background, just another thing she used to do.
She glanced at her fingers. Once upon a time, she’d sported short nails with sturdy callouses on her fingertips. Now she had a standard-issue gel manicure, just like all her suburban mom friends.
A slow smile stretched her lips.New chapter. New beginning. She squared her shoulders and strode into the shop. Half an hour later, she emerged with a vintage denim jacket, dangly beaded earrings, and the guitar. And she’d swear the sun shone a bit brighter as she sashayed toward home. Well, home for now, and she was damn sure going to enjoy it.
Chapter Four
Sunday Evening
AsDanielleenteredthelow cinderblock building on Salvatore’s arm, a blast of sensation slammed her: loud voices, laughter, and rich scents of garlic, cheese, fresh bread, and tomato sauce wafting from serving tables along the wall. Her stomach rumbled.
All dolled up for a party, the meeting hall was stuffed with big, round tables decked with flickering candles. On the low stage, Italian and American flags framed a D.J.’s table. People streamed through the entrance, greeting each other with hugs and backslaps. Kids dashed about, peeked from beneath tablecloths, and poked fingers into dishes. Mamas and grandmamas smacked little hands away from the feast. At a smaller corner table, old guys gesticulated over a dice game. Above the din, Dean Martin crooned, “Come back to Sorrento.” Family, friends, food, fun—like all the best parts of Thanksgiving transplanted to June and sprinkled with Italian seasoning.
Danielle sighed. Her kids would love this. Over the years, she’d often wondered what it would be like to live full time in Trappers Cove. Tonight’s party offered her a taste.
Salvatore tugged her toward a table in the center of the room and pointed to a folding chair.
“That’s Matteo’s jacket. Where’s that boy gone to?”
Danielle scanned the crowd. “There he is.” She hoped Sal didn’t notice the fierce flush climbing her cheeks.
Backing through a side door and giving her a view of his broad shoulders flexing beneath a snug dress shirt, Sal’s nephew carried an enormous, steaming pan, which he set on the buffet table. A petite nonna bussed him on the cheek, and another squeezed his biceps. As soon as his cargo was situated on its chafing dish stand, more grandmothers flocked to him like hungry sparrows, patting his cheeks and pointing to their own dishes of food.
Salvatore chuckled. “See? Those nonnas will tear him apart. Each one wants him for her own daughter or granddaughter, and Matteo’s too polite to chase them away.” He nudged Danielle with his elbow. “That’s your job, bella.” He stuck two fingers in his mouth and let fly a piercing whistle.
Matteo’s head snapped toward the sound. His brows flicked upward, and his smile widened.
Her heart skipped a beat or two, then thumped in time to his steps as he crossed the room. Despite the hands clutching at him, the hugs and backslaps, he kept his gaze trained on her—until a tiny princess in a poufy taffeta dress planted herself in his path, raised her arms, and demanded, “Up.”
He scooped the toddler into his arms, smooched her forehead, and carried her to the table where Danielle waited, barely breathing.
“Hi,” the little girl announced with a serious expression. “I’m Sophia. I’m this many.” She held up two fingers, then three. “You’re pretty.” She patted Matteo’s broad chest. “Down.”
He raised a single eyebrow.
The little one heaved a comical sigh, shrilled, “Pleeeeeease,” and was promptly set back on her feet.
