Sandra Marton - Romano's Revenge

“Uh-huh. When the signora just happened to arrive at the door with dessert.”

“And the mole.”

Joe and his grandmother looked at each other and smiled. He sighed, took her in his arms, and pressed a kiss to her forehead.

“Okay,” he said, “let’s have it.”

“Have what?”

“I want to know what ‘gift’ you’re giving me for my birthday, and why you’re buttering up me up beforehand.” He looked over her head, at the door. “Is my dessert arriving by female express?”

Nonna made a face. She bustled past him, opened the freezer and took out a bowl. “Gelato. Just so you know that your dessert is not climbing the porch steps.”

Joe smiled and sat down again. “Homemade ice cream. Nonna, you’re going to spoil me.”

Nonna smiled. She waited until he’d spooned up a mouthful. “Good?”

“Wonderful. The best you ever made.”

Her smile tilted slyly. “Good. But I didn’t make it.”

Joe looked up. “You must have. Not even Carbone’s has gelato this delicious.”

“You’re right. Signor Carbone would kill for this recipe.”

“Well,” Joe said, “if you didn’t get it at Carbone’s and you didn’t make it, who…” The words caught in his throat. Slowly, he put down his spoon and looked at his grandmother. “All right,” he said grimly. “Let’s have it. And don’t embarrass either of us by giving me that wide-eyed, I-don’t-know-what-you’re-talking-about look.”

Nonna folded her hands on the white tablecloth.

“I worry about you, Joseph.”

Despite what she’d said before, here it was. They were going to go over the same old thing again.

“Nonna,” Joe said patiently, “we’ve been all through this. I’m not lonely. I don’t want a wife. I’m happy with my life, just the way it is.”

“You remember once, I asked you who sews the buttons on your shirts, huh? Who irons them?”

“And I told you,” Joe said briskly. “The guy at the laundry. And he does a great job.”

“Yes. And you told me your house is cleaned by a cleaning service.”

“That’s right. The same service I wish you’d let me send here, so you don’t have to bother—”

“I prefer to clean my own house,” Nonna said primly. She leaned forward. “But, Joseph, who cooks your meals?”

Joe sighed. “I told you that the last time around, too. I don’t eat home much. And when I do, there are all these terrific little take-out places a couple of blocks away…What?”

Nonna was smiling, and something about the smile made him want to get out of the chair and run for his life.

“I have accepted that perhaps you will never be ready to marry, Joseph, and that you are happy to let strangers iron your shirts and clean your home. But I have never stopped worrying about your meals.”

“There’s no reason to worry, sweetheart. I eat just fine.”

“I will not worry from now on.” His grandmother dug deep into the pocket of her apron. “Happy birthday, Joey,” she said, and thrust a folded piece of paper at him.

Joe took it and frowned. “What is this?”

“Your birthday gift.” His grandmother was beaming, her eyes bright with joy. “Open it.”

He did. Then he looked up. “I don’t understand. This is just a name.”

“Sì. It is a name. Luciana Bari.”

The vowels and consonants rolled off his grandmother’s tongue. Joe’s jaw tightened.

“And just who in hell is Luciana Bari?”

“Do not curse, Joseph.”

“And don’t you try and change the subject. We just spent an hour talking about teenyboppers, overage widows and your sneaky attempts to marry me off. If you for one minute think you can get away with this—”

Oh, damn. His grandmother’s eyes filled with tears. Joe grabbed her hand.

“Nonna. Sweetheart, I didn’t mean to call you sneaky. But after all we discussed, for you to imagine I’d be pleased by—”

“Luciana Bari isn’t a woman,” Nonna said. “She is a cook.”

A tear rolled down her cheek. Joe took out his handkerchief and gave it to her. “A cook?”

“Yes. A talented one.” Nonna dabbed at her eyes. “She made the gelato and even you admit it was delicious.”

Joe sat back. Trapped! Warning bells began to sound in his head; lights flickered and flashed before his eyes.

“Well,” he said slowly, “yeah. It was. I mean, it is. But what does this Luciana Bari have to do with me?”

“She is your gift, Joseph. “ Nonna’s lip trembled. “My gift to you. And I am saddened that you would think I was trying to, as you say, ‘con’ you.”

Dammit, she was. Joe knew she was—but her lip was still trembling and her eyes were still glittering. And, to be honest, the lingering taste of the gelato was still in his mouth.

“My gift,” he said carefully. “So, what does that mean, exactly? Is this Luciana Bari going to cook me a birthday meal?”

Nonna laughed gaily. “One meal,” she said, waving her hand. “What good would that be? I would still worry that you were not eating right. No, Joey. Signorina Bari is going to work for you.”

“Work for me?” Joe got to his feet. “Now, wait just a minute—”

“She will cost you very little.”

“She will cost me?” His eyes narrowed. His grandmother had reduced him to playing the role of a not terribly smart parrot. “Let me get this straight. You give me a cook as a gift, and I get to pay?”

“Of course.” Nonna stood up. “You wouldn’t want me to spend my money on your cook’s salary, would you?”

Joe’s eyes got even narrower. There was something wrong with her logic. With this entire thing, for that matter…

“What if I say no?”

“Well,” Nonna said, and sighed, “in that case, I suppose I’ll have to phone Signorina Bari and tell her she has no job. It will be difficult, because she needs one so badly.” She turned away and began clearing the table. “She has debts, you see.”

“Debts,” Joe repeated. It was parrot-time again. “She has debts?”

“Yes. The poor woman has not been here long. Just a little while and—”

“She’s from the Old Country?”

Nonna squirted dishwashing detergent into the sink and turned on the hot water.

“The poor soul only came here five, six months ago. She knows nothing of our ways. As for money, well, you know how expensive it is in this city, Joseph, especially for someone new. And she is not young, which makes it even more difficult to start over.”

Joe sank down in the chair, turned his eyes to the ceiling and huffed out a breath. A little old immigrant lady, probably with no more than a dozen words of English, alone and adrift in the complex seas of San Francisco…

“Not to worry, Joseph.” Nonna cast a sad smile over her shoulder. “I’ll tell her I made a mistake, offering her a job with you. I’m sure she can convince her landlord to permit her to stay on in her apartment another month. Not even he would be so cruel as to put her out on the street.”

“Her landlord,” Joe muttered, and shook his head.

“Yes. He wants her out by Monday, so she was thrilled when I said she could have that extra room in your house.”

Joe blinked. “Now wait just a minute—”

“Hand me that pot, would you? The one on the back burner.”

Slowly, like a man holding an impossibly heavy weight on his shoulders, Joe got to his feet, handed his grandmother the pot and reached for a dish towel.

“Ah, Joseph, just look at you.” Nonna put her hand on his. “I’ve taken the smile from your handsome face.”

“Yeah,” he said gruffly. “Well, I hate to think of some little old lady out on the street.”

“That’s because you have a kind heart.” Nonna sighed. “But, truly, this is not your problem. I was wrong to tell the signorina you would employ her, I know that now. Not to worry, bambino. We have so many wonderful things here in America. Soup kitchens. Welfare offices—”