Page 54 of Out of the Shadow

She giggles. “You have no idea. It’s sort of organized chaos, all centered around the main attractions—food and baseball.”

A breath ripples through my body and all my unease about being around her family surfaces. I blurt, “I’ve never really done the family dinner thing before.”

Angie twists in her seat and places her hand on top of my leg, which tenses at her touch. She rubs my khakis and I relax a little. “You’ll be fine. We joke around a lot.” Her shoulders raise in a shrug. “Think of us as a multi-generational group of friends. That’s what we are, only we’re related by blood.”

“It’s the blood I’m worried about.”

She squeezes. “Just relax and have a good time. We’re not going to bite.”

I wink. “What if I ask you to?”

Swatting my leg, she returns to her normal position and mumbles something I can’t hear. Despite my anxiousness about this afternoon—or maybe because of it?—I’m looking forward to spending more time with this woman. And learning more insights about her from her family.

“YOU CAN SIThere, King.” Nonna—as she insisted I call her—pulls out a chair across from where Angie’s standing. Not daring to contradict this forceful sprite of a woman, I walk over to the indicated spot. She’s already regaled me with stories of her husband, some of which bordered on inappropriate, but who am I to judge?

The rest of the family fights to sit next to me. Not surprisingly, Nonna claims the chair on my left. I’m helping her get settled when Lisa, Francesco’s eight-year-old daughter, bounces into the seat to my right. With her mass of brown curls and permanent smile, she makes me feel right at home.

Home?

Leo passes a platter stacked with meats and cheeses to his grandmother while addressing me. “Mama went all out today, King. Antipasto, macaroni, and roast beef. We hit the trifecta.”

“I wanted him to feel welcome,” his mother protests. The rest of the family talks at once, poking fun at their mother. Me? I’m honored she went to all this trouble. No one ever has before.

Smiling at how loud it is in here, I take a couple of garlic knots and hold the basket for Lisa to select hers. She points and I put her choice on her plate, then hand the basket over her head to Francesco. While he’s far from quiet, he’s the most subdued of all the Romanos. I get the feeling he’s working up a profile on me. After all, he is a hostage negotiator with the NYPD.

Shrugging aside the possibility that Angie’s eldest brother could find some skeletons in my closet, I focus on getting to know everyone. After sipping the wine I brought for her mother—a delightful red from her hometown in Italy—I sample a bit of all the food. I’m not used to homemade dinners, but this meal is better than anything I’ve had in a long, long while.

Angie’s father cuts through all the noise by asking me, “King. That’s a very regal name. Is it in your family?”

I let my fork rest on my plate. “Actually, it’s not.” I shrug. “My parents just liked it, I guess.”

The little girl sitting next to me turns her head. “I’m named after my great-aunt, Angelisa.”

Her sister, barely five, chimes in. “I’m named for my mommy’s mommy, Maria.”

And they’re off. Everyone sitting around the table tells me where they got their names. Most of them are named after relatives from previous generations. When the round-robin finishes with me, I decide to add in some humor. “I guess you can say I got my name from England.” Everyone laughs, and an unnamed emotion washes over me.

When the meal is finished, Lucia—Angie’s mother—directs clean up. Everyone in the family gets a job. Even Lisa and Maria are given the small chores of throwing away the napkins and picking up the placemats.

But not me. I know it’s silly, but I feel left out. I approach Lucia. “What can I do?”

She shakes her head. “No, no, no. You’re our guest today. Next time, you work.”

Her response brings a wide smile to my face. So she thinks there will be a next time? I track Angie’s progress as she picks up the serving dishes, squabbling with her sister.

I raise my hands in surrender. Before I can say another word, Alfredo, the patriarch, calls me into the family room. A Yankees game is on the TV, the volume low, and he sits in a big recliner that’s obviously his throne. I choose the end of the sofa nearest him. He’s about as round as he is tall, but with a full head of graying hair and a welcoming demeanor. I like him. I like all of them.

“So tell me, King, how are you liking it on this coast? Angie told us you live in LA.”

“I actually like it a lot. I grew up in LA, but for some reason I feel more at peace here than I ever did out there. Now, don’t get me wrong, I love the weather and palm trees in California, but the people here—for the most part—are more…” I trail off. “Real.”

He nods. “We pride ourselves on authenticity. We work hard and have high expectations for ourselves and those around us. But New Yorkers get a bad rap, I think. We’re just honest.” He chuckles. “Sometimes brutally so.”

“I’ve seen some of that, too.”

Alfredo places his hands on his knees and leans forward. “And here’s some of that brutal honesty. What are your plans concerning my daughter?”

Surprised, but not shocked, at his question, I mirror his position. “I, uh, well—”

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