Romano's Revenge. Sandra Marton
on it, unless some crazed nutritionist had suddenly decided olives and garlic were the equal of cauliflower and, even worse, carrots.
A table that had looked, to his suspicious eyes, very much like it looked tonight.
Joe fought back the desire to flatten himself against the wall as he checked the room, but no one else was there. Certainly not Maria, and she would have been difficult to miss.
“Joseph.” Nonna smiled a bright smile and bustled around the room. “Sit down, sit down, mio ragazzo, and have some antipasto. Prosciutto, just the way you like it. Provolone. Genoa, sliced thin as paper…”
“We’re alone?”
Nonna clucked her tongue. “Of course. Do you think I have someone hidden in the broom closet?”
Anything was possible, Joe thought, but he didn’t say so. Instead, he pulled out a chair and eased into it.
“No matchmaking,” he said carefully. “Right?”
“Matchmaking?” Nonna laughed gaily. “Why would you even ask such a thing, Joseph, huh? You’ve told me how you feel. You aren’t ready to marry a nice Italian girl, settle down and raise una famiglia, even though it’s the one wish of my heart. So, why would I try and play matchmaker?”
Joe rolled his eyes. “Anybody ever tell you that you have a way with a phrase?”
“I have a way with food.” His grandmother poked a finger at the platter of antipasto. “Mangia.”
“Yeah. Sure.” Obediently, he dug in, transferring what had to be a billion grams of fat and an equal number of calories to his plate.
“Good?” Nonna asked after a minute.
“Delicious.” Joe reached for the basket heaped with garlic bread, hesitated, then snagged a piece and mentally added two miles to his morning run. “So, what’s this all about?”
“What is what all about?”
He tried not to wince as his grandmother filled two water glasses with the elegant Chianti he’d brought and shoved one at him across the heavy white tablecloth.
“Come on, sweetheart. You made every dish I ever loved. You didn’t even try and disguise carrots and cauliflower the way you always do in hopes you could slip them past me. And there are Italian words falling out of your mouth. Something’s up.”
“Non capisco,” Nonna said.
Their eyes met, his the blue of the Mediterranean, hers as dark as the hills of Sicily. Joe grinned, and his grandmother blushed.
“All right.” Her voice was prim, her shrug small but eloquent. “Perhaps something is, as you say, ‘up.’ But it has nothing to do with matchmaking. Believe me, Joseph, I have given that up, completely.”
Good manners, but mostly the knowledge that his nonna probably wasn’t above boxing his ears, kept him from pointing out that he saw her cross herself as she rose from the table and went to the stove.
“I’ll bet you have,” he said pleasantly. Joe shoved his chair back from the table and folded his arms. “So, I can relax? Some eager female isn’t going to come sailing through that doorway with a tray of cannoli in her arms?”
Nonna swung towards him, a pot of espresso in her hand. “Certainly not. I know full well that you prefer your dimbos to real women.”
“Bimbos,” Joe said, trying not to laugh. “And they aren’t. They’re just pretty young women who enjoy my company as much as I enjoy theirs.”
Nonna sighed as she put the pot on the table. “Monday is your birthday,” she said, taking cups and saucers from the cupboard.
The sudden change in conversation surprised him almost as much as the information.
“Is it?”
“Yes. You will be thirty-three.”
“Now that you mention it, I guess I will.” Joe smiled. “Of course. That’s the reason for the feast.” He grabbed her work-worn hand and brought it to his lips. “And here I thought you were up to something. Sweetheart, can you ever forgive me for being so suspicious?”
“I am your nonna. Of course, I forgive you.” Nonna sat down and poured their coffee. “But, ah, this meal is not your gift.”
“No?”
“No. Surely, a man’s thirty-third birthday deserves more than food.”
“Sweetheart.” Joe kissed her hand again. “This isn’t just food, it’s ambrosia. I don’t want you to spend your money on—”
“You and Matthew give me more money than I could ever use in this lifetime. Besides, I have spent nothing.”
“Good.”
“But I am giving you a gift, nevertheless.” Nonna beamed at him over the rim of her cup. “Giuseppe, mio ragazzo.”
Joe’s eyes turned to slits. In a boardroom he’d have leaned towards the guy trying to scam him and said, bluntly, “Cut the crap.” But this wasn’t a boardroom, and this wasn’t some smart-ass dude in a pin-striped suit. This was his grandma, and he loved her, so he sat up straight, folded his arms over his chest again, and fixed her with a steely look.
“Okay,” he said, “let’s have it.”
Nonna looked pained. “Have what?”
“You’re trying to con me.”
“Con? What does this mean, this ‘con’?”
“It means you want to convince me to do something I don’t want to do.”
“How can you think such a thing, Joseph?”
Joe arched one eyebrow. “How?”
“Yes.” Nonna lifted her chin. “How?”
“Maria Balducci.”
“Oh, not that nonsense again. Honestly, Joseph—”
“It was February,” he said calmly, “and it was snowing. I showed up for supper and you plied me with steak pizzaola, shrimp scampi—”
“What is this ‘plied you’? Did I grab that handsome nose of yours and drag you to the table?”
Joe plucked his napkin from his lap and dropped it on the table. “You know exactly what I’m talking about, Grandma.”
“Grandma? I am your Nonna, and don’t you forget it.”
“You’re the biggest matchmaker in North Beach,” Joe said, shooting to his feet. “You dazzled me with goodies that night and then you brought out the big guns.”
“I brought out espresso, as I recall.”
“And Miss Italy 1943.”
Nonna stood up, too. “Signora Balducci was your age, Joseph.”
“She was dressed all in black.”
“She is a widow.”
“She had one giant eyebrow that stretched across her forehead.”
He saw his grandmother’s mouth twitch. “It was two eyebrows that merely needed plucking.”
“How about that long hair growing out of the mole on her chin?” Joe’s mouth also twitched, but he wasn’t going to laugh, not yet. “I suppose that could be plucked, too?”
“You see? That’s your problem, Joseph. There is no way to please you. That time I introduced you to Anna Carbone—”
“The teenybopper at that festival you dragged me to last summer?”
“I did not ‘drag’ you,” Nonna said with dignity. “I merely said I needed you to drive me there. It was coincidence