The tree in the corner drips with tinsel and ornaments and has so many lights that I’m pretty sure it’s visible all the way to Honey Hollow.
The dining room table stretches to its absolute limits under the weight of the Feast of the Seven Fishes, the traditional Italian Christmas Eve extravaganza that my mother prepares with the precision of a military operation. Platters of fried smelts, stuffed calamari, octopus salad, shrimp scampi, clams casino, mussels marinara, and the aforementioned baccalà cover every inch of tablecloth not occupied by wine glasses, bread baskets, or arguing relatives.
The smell of garlic, olive oil, and seafood permeates the air so thoroughly that I’ll probably still be detecting notes of anchovy in my hair three shampoos from now. The sound of multiple conversations in varying degrees of volume creates a symphony of Italian-American holiday cheer that’s simultaneously heartwarming and headache-inducing all at once.
And yet, somehow, we’ve achieved the Christmas miracle of gathering both the Canelli and Lazzari families around one table without a single gunshot. So far.
“I still can’t believe you invited both families,” I whisper to my mother, who’s busy refilling wine glasses as if alcohol poisoning is the only thing that could prevent a mob war at her dining table. And she might be right.
“Family is family.” She shrugs, topping off my glass with enough Chianti to drown my inhibitions. “Besides, your father and Santino were friends before all this turf war nonsense.”
I glance down the table where my father, Big Tom, is engaged in animated conversation with Cooper’s father, Scary Santino. They’re discussing cement versus concrete with the passion most people reserve for religion or politics.
“It’s not the material, it’s the application,” my father insists, hands gesturing expansively.
“The aggregate makes all the difference,” Santino counters, his infamous scar crinkling as he smiles.
Next to them, Luke Lazzari—the infamous rival crime boss to my uncle’s empire—is somehow engaged in what appears to be a civil discussion with Jimmy “The Candy Man” Canelli about the merits of different cannoli fillings. If the FBI could see this, they’d think they’d stumbled into an alternate universe. Come to think of it, so do I.
“Ricotta with chocolate chips, now that’s traditional,” Uncle Jimmy argues, pointing his fork for emphasis.
“Yeah, but custard with a hint of limoncello is more sophisticated,” Luke rebuts, looking more like someone’s kindly grandfather than a man who allegedly once had someone concrete-shoed for stealing his parking spot.
Cooper slides into the chair beside me, his warmth a welcome presence against the chaos. His hand finds mine under the table, giving it a gentle squeeze.
“Your family gatherings make the precinct’s drunk tank on New Year’s Eve look organized,” he murmurs into my ear.
“Just wait until Aunt Cat starts with the Christmas carols,” I warn him. “Last year she did ‘Santa Baby’ as a dramatic interpretation. Three neighbors called the police thinking someone was being murdered.”
Cooper chuckles. “I like your family.”
“That might be a sign of early-onset dementia,” I reply, but I can’t help smiling back at him.
Watson snoozes beneath the Christmas tree as his golden fur collects fallen tinsel. A mountain of presents awaits us, wrapped in paper ranging from tastefully elegant (my sister Serafina’s contributions) to looks-like-it-was-wrapped-by-raccoons-on-a-bender (definitely Nico’s handiwork). And I can’t wait to get to them all.
“Smart dog,” Cooper observes, following my gaze. “Strategic position.”
“He’s been taking lessons from Nona Jo.” I nod toward my grandmother, who has positioned herself at the head of the table where she can simultaneously monitor all conversations and have first access to every dish.
As if summoned by our attention, Nona Jo taps her glass with a spoon, the chiming sound somehow cutting through the dozen simultaneous conversations like a hot knife through burrata.
“Attenzione!” she commands, rising to her impressive height of four-foot-eleven. “I would like to propose a toast.”
The table quiets, all eyes turning toward the matriarch who, despite her diminutive stature, commands respect in a way that military generals would envy. Her black dress with its traditional lace collar stands in sharp contrast to her snow-white hair, styled in the same beehive she’s worn since the Kennedy administration.
She raises her glass of vino and the deep red liquid catches the light from the chandelier overhead.
“To Effie and Cupertino,” she begins, using Cooper’s given name with the satisfaction of someone who knows it makes him squirm. “Two young people who have brought our families together at last.”
“Through food, not firearms,” my brother Nico calls out, earning him an elbow from Serafina.
“May the new year bring health, happiness, and many, many Italian babies,” Nona Jo continues, while for reasons unknown forgetting all about the holiday at hand. “At least five, I think. Start with twins to be efficient.”
Cooper waggles his brows my way. “Play your cards right and by this time next year, we could be drowning in triplets.”
“Now that sounds like a threat.”
“To Cooper and Effie!” Nona Jo concludes, raising her glass higher. “Merry Christmas to one and all!”
