Page 108

“Do you need a bag?” Dad asks.

“Eat something,” Connie says nervously. “Crabbie?” She shoves the tray in my face.

“Didn’t you tell her?” Mauro looks at me.

“I haven’t had a chance.”

“Ah.” Mauro nods his head slowly.

I turn to Angelo.

Before I can say hello, Angelo says, “You left without saying goodbye.”

“My aunt died suddenly.”

“No note? No text? No call?” he says softly.

The women sigh, aligning themselves with Angelo. I ignore them.

“I left Smokey with your mother.”

“You didn’t tell her where you were going either.”

“Who the hell is Smokey?” My mother fans herself with a stack of cocktail napkins. She turns her back to me and faces Angelo. “And how do you know my daughter?”

I keep my eyes on Angelo. “I have a rule. I don’t leave death announcements on phones. Didn’t Conor call you?”

Conor and Gaetano come through the front door.

“I parked in Weehawken,” Conor grouses. “People, when it’s over fifty guests at a party, you need a valet. Jersey rule.”

“Who are these people?” Mom cries out. “They’re multiplying in my house like sea monkeys. This luncheon is invitation only. And there’s plenty of parking on the lake side,” she says to Conor defensively.

“Jiminy, Phil. There’s enough food. There are two boxes of crabbies in the kitchen. All are welcome,” Dad says to our guests.

“You should answer your texts,” Angelo says to me as though all of Lake Como isn’t listening. “Are you returning to Italy?”

“She has made no decisions,” my mother says loudly. “Can’t you see we’re in crisis here?” She turns to her Sodality chums and mouths,The nerve.

The guests move closer to the Italians from the other side and into formation. They lock arms as though they are waiting for the downbeat to perform an Apulian folk dance and snap dish towels to the drum.

“Is that true?” Angelo looks at me. “You’re not coming back?”

“Who are you again?” my mother asks Angelo. “We have no idea who you are.”

“This is Angelo Strazza. He’s an artist.”

“The guy who said the stupid thing about tradition?” Mom sneers.

“No, he’s a gilder from Carrara.”

“You make picture frames?” My mother makes a face.

“I was worried about Giuseppina,” Angelo says quietly.

Mom turns to me. “You didn’t tell me you were making picture frames.”

“I’m not. And neither is he,” I explain.