Total pages in book: 152
Estimated words: 144979 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 725(@200wpm)___ 580(@250wpm)___ 483(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 144979 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 725(@200wpm)___ 580(@250wpm)___ 483(@300wpm)
Once everyone has said hello, Nonna doesn’t waste any time.
“Come, come. You must be hungry,” she says.
Everyone laughs because it goes without saying—food is how Nonna expresses her love.
“She’s been waiting six years to feed you,” Mariella remarks.
Nonna leads the way up the staircase adorned with massive urns and sculpted topiaries. It’s a long ascent to the portico, but Nonna is surprisingly agile for her age. We pass through the Corinthian columns and into the open-air courtyard. This is one of the central gathering spaces for the family over the summer, and much like the rest of the exterior, it pays tribute to the Vitales’ Italian roots. Two long colonnades of dramatic arched glass frame each side of the courtyard, and at the center of it all is a fire feature, accompanied by plenty of plush white seating. Over the years, this area has been the stage for many of the gatherings hosted by the Vitale patriarch.
At the end of the courtyard, Nonna pauses at the wrought-iron double doors and turns to Angelo.
“Lift.” She gestures at me.
“Right,” he utters. “It’s tradition.”
I barely have time to comprehend the meaning of that before he sweeps me up into his arms and carries me across the threshold, much to Nonna’s delight.
“It brings good luck,” she says.
Rather than setting me on my feet, Angelo pauses inside the foyer, taking it all in. With the exception of a few minor updates, little has changed over the years he’s been away. The entryway of the Vitale home is the picture of elegance, with vaulted ceilings and a marble butterfly staircase. The wrought-iron railings extend all the way up to the balcony of the second level. And on the ground floor, Romanesque arches and Classical columns lead into the central areas of the home.
Lost in his thoughts, Angelo carries me beneath the archway, past the library, and into the grand salon before he finally pauses and glances down at me.
As tension creases his brows, I can’t help but wonder if he just realized he’s still carting me around in his arms. Or perhaps he felt far too comfortable doing it.
He sets me upon my feet, and I smooth out my dress. All eyes are on us, and I’m grateful when Nonna Vitale breaks the stilted silence by ushering us out to the backyard. Much like the rest of the house, this space is the epitome of Mediterranean luxury. A series of arched colonnades wraps around the al fresco dining area, offering a perfect view of the resort-style pool, expansive green lawns, and manicured hedges.
In the dining area, Nonna Vitale has the long table dressed with a feast fit for a king. The spread includes all her classics—antipasti, stuffed zucchini flowers, fresh-baked focaccia, three kinds of pasta, and of course, pizzelles and cannoli.
Even though we had a sizeable brunch on the jet and I didn’t think I was that hungry, my stomach rumbles at the sight. I never miss an opportunity to eat Nonna’s cooking, and when she tells you to eat, you eat.
“Sit.” Nonna pulls out the chair at the head of the table for Angelo, and he lingers for a moment, his eyes falling over the space with an unreadable expression.
That was his father’s chair. Now, it will be his.
A heavy silence descends over the family as an ache unfurls in my gut. A quick glance around me confirms the swell of grief rippling through the siblings as they acknowledge the significance of the moment Angelo takes his place.
Nonna squeezes his shoulders and grabs his plate, dishing up a little bit of everything for him as the rest of us sit down. I take my place at Angelo’s right side, with Mariella beside me, while the rest of the Vitale men fill the remaining seats. Nonna dishes up heaping plates for all the men while Mariella and I exchange a smile and serve ourselves before she gets a chance. If we don’t, she’ll give us each four pounds of lasagna and then ask us why we don’t like her food when we can’t finish.
Rafe and Cristian pass around the carafes of wine, and everyone pours a glass except for me, which seems to delight Nonna.
She takes her seat on the other side of Angelo and glances between us, making a sprinkling gesture. “Did you tend the garden?”
“Dio mio, Nonna.” Mariella sighs. “You can’t just go around asking that.”
“Why not?” Nonna shrugs.
A flush creeps down my neck as Angelo’s gaze burns a hot path over my face.
“Don’t worry, Nonna,” he tells her. “We tended the garden many times.”
I bury my face in my palms and die of embarrassment as a few of Angelo’s brothers chuckle.
“So I guess that was never the issue.” Romeo stabs an olive with his fork and shoves it into his mouth.
“Filter, Romeo.” Rafe elbows him.