Page 121 of The Holiday Hate-Off
He’ssogood to her. Why does he have to be so good to her?
Enzo listens to his grandmother while she tells stories he’s probably heard countless times. Then he tells us about what he’s been doing for Hidden Italy, giving credit for his plans to me—probably because he likes seeing a scowl on my face.
When we’ve finished eating the chowder and cornbread, he clears the dishes—all while she tells him it’s unnecessary and she’s still very capable of looking after herself.
“He’s such a good boy,” Mrs. Cafiero says with a note of pride once he’s in the kitchen with the dirty dishes.
Enzo had insisted on personally attending to the dishes before we finish making dessert. The suspicious part of me wonders if he wanted his grandmother to sing his praises, the way any loving grandmother would. Maybe that’s true, but there’s no denying the love in her tired brown eyes.
“He’salwaysbeen a good boy,” she continues. “I counted on him too much when he was young. We all did.” She shrugs. “You know about his mother leaving, of course.”
I nod, feeling self-conscious and guilty. In the half hour Ispent here before Enzo arrived with his duffel bag, she didn’t once mention her daughter-in-law. I certainly didn’t bring her up either. We discussed Hideaway Harbor, and she asked me about my family, tsk-tsking when I told her that I didn’t have much of one anymore.
“Eileen’s my family,” I’d said, feeling defensive, the same way I would respond whenever anyone brought up arguments about blood or genetics. “And my friend Charlie.”
To my surprise, she’d nodded staunchly. “Good. I am sorry about your mother, though. I will light a candle for her at church.”
It’s hard to reconcile this woman with the angry shop owner who put up that BANNED flyer months ago. But I remember what Enzo said about her hot temper and her struggle to stay in the present.
She’s a tough woman. Difficult. But she’s also devoted and loyal. Capable of kindness. The Cafiero family is full of people so complicated, a guidebook should be issued for each of them.
Mrs. Cafiero is watching me now, waiting for a response regarding Enzo’s mother.
“I shouldn’t have brought her up the other day,” I say haltingly. “I wouldn’t have said anything if I’d known it would upset you.”
“Madonne,that’s not what upset me. It was the thought of my boy leaving again. As if I could hope to forget that woman. Who could leave four young children like that? My son wasn’t a good father or husband, anyone will tell you that, but at least he didn’t leave.”
I glance at the doorway leading into the kitchen. Is Enzo listening? Do I want him to be?
She follows my gaze to the kitchen and sighs. “He was always strong, my Enzo. But we relied on him too much. Now, he doesn’t know how to turn it off. Always working. Always scheming.”A surprisingly mischievous glint appears in her eyes. “You tell Eileen this. He needs a woman who’ll remind him to have fun. A woman who willchallengehim. Not like that Rachelle, always asking for this or that. Never satisfied. No. Not for my Lorenzo.”
I clear my throat, feeling like a butterfly pinned in a box. “Uh. I’ll tell her.”
“You do that,cara,” she says, her expression almost…smug. “Now, come. You’ll learn the art of cappuccino, and we’ll finish those cookies.”
I help her out of her chair without asking, and we walk into the kitchen together.
Enzo’s already taken out the ingredients for the cappuccinos. He watches us eagerly, his eyes taking in everything.
Confusion twists me up inside. What does he want? He made it very clear that he hates Hideaway Harbor, and he also said he was looking for no-strings sex. But he left me that adorable stuffed cat, and now we’re making dessert with his grandmother. No part of this scenario feels stringless. I can practically feel a web of connectivity entangling us, pulling us closer together—and a big part of me wants to let it happen, even though I know Enzo isn’t the sort of man I’m supposed to want.
Francesca Cafiero steps forward with purpose and stops in front of her espresso machine. “Watch very carefully,” she says in her firm tone. “I only do this once, and thenyoudo it.”
“What about theItalian Stallion for a name?” I ask, sipping the almond cappuccino we settled on as the featured drink for Hidden Italy’s collaboration with the Sip.
Enzo and I are sitting side by side in the swing on his grandmother’s enclosed front porch, next to a space heater. It’speaceful out here, and Christmas lights twinkle from the houses surrounding hers.
His grandmother excused herself after teaching us the “art” of cappuccino. I was expecting some big secret that only Italian or Italian American people know, but honestly, it wasn’t much different from what we do at the café. I’m beginning to think I got hosed by both of them, and that Mrs. Cafiero asked me to come over for an entirely different reason.
Like maybe shewantsme to be with Enzo.
Again, it would have seemed impossible weeks ago, but she saw me in that scarf, and I know she’s been talking to Eileen…
The possibility intrigues me, but I’m conflicted. As if someone cleaved me in half, and my heart is trying to choose a side.
“Yes,” he says, rocking the swing with his heel. “There’s nothing I love more than a stereotype.”
Rolling my eyes, I nudge his arm. “Soyoucome up with something. But it has to have a romantic name.”
