“And I’m officially nervous.”
We stopped abruptly, him scrunching down so our eyes met. He took my hands in his, bringing them both to his lips, and whispered, “Don’t be nervous. They will love you,” against them.
“Let’s skip dinner,” I told him, and I was serious. Before I could whisk him away to an olive grove to have my wicked way with him, a woman carrying a pitcher called out to him.
“Are you ready?”
I squeezed his hand and said a silent prayer.
An older man sat at the head of the table, his hand wrapped around the woman’s hand to his right. He was handsome, tan with a thick head of salt-and-pepper hair. I could have seen him anywhere in the world and known he was Marcello’s father.
As we approached, he kissed the woman’s hand and stood slowly, rubbing a spot on his hip. One of the few differences between him and his son was their height. Marcello towered over him to the point of it being almost comical.
“The height comes from my mother’s side,” he joked just as his father pulled him into a crushing hug.
“Ciao, bella!” he said, dropping a light kiss on each of my cheeks. In the most delightful broken English he introduced himself as Angelo Bianchi and he was, “so happy that you are here.”
He pulled me away from his son by wrapping my arm in his.
His father took the time to introduce me to his parents, then it was on to Marcello’s three brothers, the in-laws, and all of twelve kids before we got to aunts and uncles, cousins, and second cousins. I’m pretty sure some of these people were random strangers they invited to dinner, because who has a family this big?
The one I was dreading was Marcello’s mother. You hear stories about Italian mothers and how inherently disapproving and overprotective they are, especially to a foreigner who is sleeping with her youngest son. Susanna Bianchi was a diminutive woman with a shock of inky black hair and a bright smile that could rival her son’s. She was wearing an apron and had an honest-to-God wooden spoon tucked into one of the pockets. I watched her chase the grandchildren and give her husband a quick kiss before she came over to us.
“Sweetheart,” she said, before pulling her son down to her eye level.
“Mamma.” He squatted down and picked her up to kiss her cheeks. “I missed you.”
Setting her down, he took her hand and turned to me. “This is Avery.”
I expected the sizing-up once-over. I even expected the knowing look when she saw Marcello’s hand wrapped protectively around mine.
What I didn’t anticipate was her pulling me into the sweetest hug this side of my own mother’s arms and dropping two quick pecks on my cheeks.
Bitsy only wanted the dainty handshake or air kisses. I wasn’t sure if she ever actually hugged Daniel. I’d been scared of Marcello’s mother for no reason at all.
“Come, you sit by me,” she insisted, pulling me along to an empty chair. “Marcello, he no bring anyone home, he tell you that?”
“Oh, Mamma, no,” he protested, laughing when his brothers began to tease him in Italian.
“I heard something like that, yes,” I answered, sitting in the chair I was directed to.
“My son, he a romantic, si?”
I blushed, but nodded.
“So okay. He bring you here, you must be good girl, si?”
“Yes,” Marcello answered, and getting the frown of the century from his mother for answering for me.
“My son bring you here, I think you a good girl. Now, you hungry, si?”
I watched as the biggest bowl of ravioli I’d ever seen was placed on the center of the table in front of me, waves of tomato-scented incredible wafting toward me. “Oh my yes, hungry.”
And with that, everyone tucked in. Marcello’s mother and two of his sister-in-laws hovered nearby, never sitting, just making sure that everyone had what they needed. Most of the people around the table spoke Italian only, but a few words of broken English filtered through and I surprised myself when I could pick out more of the Italian than I thought I would. I mainly focused on the food . . . and Marcello.
Watching him with his family was fascinating. His mother hovered over everyone certainly, but seemed to linger a little longer behind him. A hand on the shoulder, an extra meatball or two, it was clear that the son who had left for the big city was revered when he came home.
“You okay so far?” he asked when his mother and sisters brought out another round of food. Pastas, veggies, salads, meats—it was a veritable smorgasbord.
Family dinners in Boston were quiet, reserved affairs where we spoke in low voices and never yelled across the table, let alone down the length across twenty other people.
This was boisterous, energetic, and physical at times when Marcello’s sister and brothers would poke and prod him. The sense of family was so strong here, so connected, that even though I didn’t understand half of what was being said I never felt like an outsider.
When dinner was over, everyone pitched in to clean up and watched the kids chase the animals through the grass.
“Was this a good day?” he said, taking my hand and leading me away from little prying eyes.
“It was the best day,” I answered.
WHEN I WOKE, the bedroom was filled with the scent of an Italian breakfast. I didn’t know what treats were made, but I couldn’t wait to find out. Marcello was oblivious to it, snoring softly behind me, his arm wrapped around my middle. Rolling over carefully, I smoothed my fingers over his forehead and down his arm, loving the wake of goose bumps that formed. I spent a few minutes staring at him, memorizing his face in the morning light. Suddenly, all thoughts of a hearty meal weren’t as important.