Alison Roberts - Dreaming Of… Italy

He checked on dinner before showering and changing into trousers and a white shirt, which he left open at the throat. No tie. No sport coat. Nothing to make her feel—what had she said? Less than?

When she arrived in the dining room he had the Sangiovese breathing. She immediately noticed only two places had been set at the table and she stopped a few feet away from her seat.

Her gaze swung to his. “Just you and me?”

Downplaying the significance of that, since he didn’t want her running before they had a chance to talk about that kiss, he walked over and pulled out her chair. “It seems Maria’s gotten herself into some trouble with her mother. Constanzo has to smooth ruffled feathers.”

She laughed lightly as she sat. “It’s kind of funny to think of Maria as being in trouble with her mom. She doesn’t seem like the kind of woman who answers to anyone.”

“Everybody answers to someone.”

She laughed again. “Yeah. With my parents I think I know that better than anyone.” She paused until he sat at the place across from her. “You do know they came to check up on you the day they visited New York?”

This time he laughed. “I’m sure I made a stellar impression.” But even as he said that, an odd realization came to him. He’d never met a girlfriend’s parents. Not one. Because he didn’t really have girlfriends. He had dates—lovers.

“Good enough that my parents trusted me to go to Italy with you.” She winced. “Of course, I had to do some persuading, but in the end they trusted you.”

He sucked in a breath. Strange feelings tumbled around in his gut. No parents in their right minds should trust their beautiful, naive daughter to him—

Unless they expected him to behave like a gentleman? To them, Olivia wasn’t a “date” or a “lover”. She was their daughter. Their little girl and they would expect him to treat her as such.

The maid brought their salads and garlic bread. After she was gone, Olivia tasted her salad and groaned. “That is fantastic. I’m going to have to diet when we get home.”

“Then you probably don’t want to know that our main course is spaghetti Bolognese.”

She groaned again and set down the garlic bread. “I’ll focus on the salad so I have room for the spaghetti.”

They ate in silence for a few seconds, then she glanced around. “My mother would probably love Italy.”

More talk of her parents, more of those uncomfortable feelings. “Really?”

“My mom likes things with roots. Family recipes. Older houses. She researched our house after she and Dad bought it. Found relatives of the woman who had owned it, and got some of the family recipes.” She took a bite of salad, chewed and swallowed. “She said preparing those dishes was like keeping that family alive, too. She respects the sense of continuity.”

He smiled, but discomfort graduated to awkwardness. He didn’t even know who his parents were. He’d tried to find them a few years back, but there were no clues. He was a baby left alone in a church. Generic blanket. Department-store bottle and diapers. There was no way to find them. He had no parents, no pictures. No old family recipes. No sense of continuity.

“That—” He paused. Not having a normal family had always bothered him from the perspective of not having a support system. But from the way Olivia talked about her mother it was clear she was her friend. They were close. Loving. Impossible for him to comprehend. “That sounds nice.”

“It is nice.” She laughed. “She’s quite the mother hen.”

He poured more wine. “What about your dad?”

“Oh, he’s our big teddy bear. He doesn’t say a lot but we always know he loves us, you know?”

He didn’t. He’d never known anyone loved him. In fact, in spite of the declarations of a few lovers, he didn’t think anyone had actually loved him.

“He’s also a card player. When we lose electricity in an ice storm, he always starts a candlelight game of Texas Hold’em or rummy.”

Which explained why she had been so comfortable playing rummy with Constanzo the day she’d met him.

“Your dad gambled with you?”

“We’d play for candy.”

“Sounds nice.” Again. He could envision her family huddled around a table, playing a game by candlelight. Laughing. Just enjoying each other’s company. The thought twisted his heart but teased his imagination.

“What about holidays?” He really shouldn’t ask. Hearing her stories only reminded him of what he didn’t have, but he couldn’t resist. In the same way she tempted him, so did thoughts of a family. He’d longed for one as a child, considered the possibility of having one when he tried to track down his parents, then closed the door when he couldn’t find them.

Now here he was longing again, just like a little boy with his nose pressed up against a candy-store window.

“My mom’s favorite is Easter. She loves pastel colors. Hiding Easter eggs. Going to the Easter-egg hunt sponsored by the volunteer firemen. And though most Americans don’t wear hats anymore, she still gets a new one every year for church on Easter Sunday.”

He laughed and took a sip of wine.

“But even though she likes Easter the best, my dad’s the Christmas freak. Have you ever seen those movies where people try to outdo each other with outdoor lights?”

“I’ve seen a few.”

The spaghetti came. The aroma filled the room and she inhaled deeply. “Wow. That smells fantastic.”

“Constanzo promised you some really good food in return for sharing that leftover Chinese food. So far he’s made good on his promise.”

She winced. “He probably thought I was such a dork. I didn’t even have a plate for him. He had to eat out of the box.”

“I think he was too hungry to care. Besides, a lot of people like eating food out of boxes. It reminds them of their childhood.”

“Does eating food out of boxes remind you of your childhood?”

His chest tightened. He should have realized that she’d turn this discussion to him. She was too polite to monopolize a conversation.

“I don’t remember a lot of my childhood.”

“I’m sorry. I probably shouldn’t have brought that up.”

“It’s fine.” It wasn’t. He’d convinced himself to believe his lonely childhood had strengthened him, made him into the strong man he was today, but strength wasn’t the only quality a person wanted to have. Knowing her had resurrected his longing for a connection, a place, a real place where he wasn’t just wanted and respected, but where he could be himself.

“I’m sure growing up in foster care had to have been difficult.”

“It was.”

“I shouldn’t have brought up Christmas.”

“It’s fine. Really.” He cleared his throat. To salvage his pride, he couldn’t let her feel sorry for him. “Some foster families really tried. But they don’t get a lot of money from the government to care for the kids they take in so they can’t do everything. As a foster child, you adjust.”

The room fell silent again. He toyed with his spaghetti. Worried that she still felt bad, he caught her gaze. “But I had some nice Christmases.”

Her face brightened. “Did you?”

“Yes. Two. One year when I was about six I really wanted a certain video game. My foster parents already had the game box in the family room that could play the game, so I asked for it knowing I probably wouldn’t get it, but they got it for me.”

Her eyes warmed. “That’s nice.”

He thought back to that day. The one day in his childhood when he actually thought life could be wonderful. “It was nice. But because my foster parents had spent so much on the toy, I didn’t get the usual clothes I would have gotten as gifts and my jeans wore thin. I spent the rest of the winter wearing shoes with a hole in the bottom.”