Page 136 of Say It Isn't So

I didn’t need to be reminded of that one. I thanked God every day that my path had crossed with Regina’s. If it weren’t for her, I didn’t know where I would’ve been today. Any man who didn’t attribute his fortunes to the woman in his life was a fool. They were the backbone of everything.

Angelina turned before walking in her house. “Do you want to come inside? I just made coffee cake.” Another part of our routine, but truth be told, my answer usually depended on my schedule.

Her eyes looked between mine, as though searching for the answer in them. She didn’t need to do that, though. I was stoic but decisive and I never had trouble speaking my mind. “I’d love to.” I paused as she unlocked her door and let us in. “Do you have any pepper cookies?”

“Ah,” she answered as she led us straight to the kitchen, “you’re in luck! You and Frankie love those pepper cookies. I always have them made.”

I let out a roar of laughter. “Your son has excellent taste. Maria hasn’t mastered those yet. Those orcuccidati.”

“Oh, I love those fig cookies. I have a recipe around here somewhere. I’ll try to make them for you next week,” Angelina said, washing her hands in the sink.

“Grazie.I’d love to taste them again. It’s been so long. Bakeries rarely offer them these days. And Maria insists my mother must have left out an ingredient because they never taste the same as hers used to.”

Angelina laughed, the sound hitting me straight to my core. Her laugh was angelic, almost a mix between a giggle and a high-pitched laugh. It was beautiful. “My mother did the same thing. Must be an Italian thing. I’ll call her with my recipe if she wants it, see if she can compare.” She opened the pantry and began collecting the pepper cookies and coffee cake. “Please, have a seat.”

“Are you sure I can’t help? I make a mean pot of coffee.”

“You’re a guest in my home, there’s no need for you to do anything. But thank you.”

I placed my coat on the back of the chair and took a seat at the round table in her kitchen. “Do you have a recipe book for Frankie?”

She shook her head, placing two plates on the table. “No. If I ever make one, though, I will give it to Perla.”

“Bah!” I teased, chuckling at the prospect. “It would be wasted on Perla. She tries her best, all my daughters do, bless their hearts, but Maria is the only one that can cook and bake like an Italian.”

Angelina cut into the coffee cake and placed a generous square on the dish with two pepper cookies before turning to take two mugs down from the cabinet. “It’s not easy. When I first met my husband, Joe, I had never cooked a meal. And as far as baking went,” she paused, and waved a hand in front of her face, “I couldn’t get the measurements right to save my life.”

I lifted a pepper cookie to my lips and blinked. I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. “You would never know from these,” I responded, lifting the cookie higher. I took a bite, savoring the taste. “Would you believe I found a new Italian restaurant in Smithtown that has these cookies on the dessert menu? They don’t offer takeout”—I frowned—“and I was so close to enjoying them the other night.”

She raised a brow. “The other night? Were you supposed to go to the restaurant?”

I nodded, harrumphing as I thought back to the nightmare that my dinner had become. Knox—that kid could ruin Epiphany, a day meant to celebrate the end of Christmas and baby Jesus being presented to the three Wise Men. He was terribly skilled in pissing on happy times like that. “Oh, I went, but left before dessert.” Or finishing my dinner, but that was neither here nor there.

Angelina poured our coffees and eyed me, obviously waiting for me to explain.

“I had unexpected company.”

She carefully nodded, but then gave me a hard-pressed look. “Angelo Morelli, what are you not saying?”

“It’s nothing, really.” I actually preferred not thinking about it.

She smiled and laughed. “Then why do you look like you’re stewing?”

That was nonsense, something ridiculous Regina would have told me. How was it the women in my life knew me so well? I sighed. “Bianca is giving me more gray hair than I need at my age and it’s all because of that boy she’s seeing. Knox Rhodes.”

“Knox Rhodes,” she said his name, as though thinking on it. “American.”

I rolled my eyes. Didn’t I know it. “From Minnesota.”

She nodded as if understanding me. “And you always thought your daughters would date and marry Italian men?”

The way she said it made it sound like a bad thing. Here I thought she understood me. Was I such a bad guy for wanting what was best for my daughters? In my opinion, Italian men were good, strong, reliable options. They had good heads on their shoulders, and we were Italian, for crying out loud. We had traditions and family values that a boy like Knox would never understand. Would he even want to understand them?

Not letting me answer, she went on, “You can’t expect all your daughters to be like Perla and marry an Italian boy like my Frankie. That was pure happenstance, Angelo.”

“Coincidence,” I mumbled, shaking at the word. “I don’t need them all to marry Italians, but why can’t Bianca find a better man, someone more suitable for her?”

Angelina blinked rapidly. “What’s wrong with Knox? Is he a convicted felon?”

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