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Angelo pulls me close. The guests make a coo sound, like a bunch of pigeons waiting for crumbs in Saint Peter’s Square.

“Oh my God, you’ve found someone.” Lisa barrels through the crowd, drunk. “I’m so happy for you! He’s a looker.” Lisa sizes Angelo up and down Jersey girl–style. “Jess, I’ve been going out with Bobby since Ash Wednesday. We met on an app. It’s called the Clasp. I wanted to write to you or call you, but your mom said to leave you be, that you had put everyone in Lake Como on the Island. Including me.” Lisa begins to cry. “I wanted to tell you, but I respect the Island.”

“Don’t fob this off on me, Lisa Natalizio,” my mother says. “I told you that Giuseppina would let us know her life plans in due course. We were giving her space. Naturally, she chose the longest distance between two points on any map, with an ocean in between, but who am I to judge? It’s her life and she’s living it. We stand by and await instructions like thestunodswe are.”

I can hear the syncopated breathing of every mourner in the room. I look around. They anticipate my reaction. And why wouldn’t they? Any family gathering on our street is an excuse for an impromptu barbecue or a roadhouse brawl. I choose neither and face Lisa.

“I think it’s wonderful,” I tell her.

“I thought you’d be mad at me. At Bobby. At both of us.”

“Why would I ever be mad at you? You gave me a haircut that transformed my life. I’m just sorry Uncle Louie wasn’t here to see it.I’m happy for you.” I embrace Lisa. “Does this mean you want your dress back?”

“You can keep it,” Lisa says, holding me tightly.

“Might as well keep the dress; she got your ex-husband in the deal,” Mom says wryly as the entire membership of the Sodality nods in agreement with her.

“Ma. Why didn’t you tell me about Bobby and Lisa?”

“I didn’t have a chance,” she says. “So, we’re even?”

“Don’t get mad at Mom. I knew too,” Connie says.

“We all knew!” Patti Ciliberti, vice president of the Sodality, raises her glass, toasts herself, and sips. “We want our butcher to be happy. How can we make a decent Sunday dinner without Bilancia Meats? Get real, people. Some of us have to live in this town.”

Bobby Bilancia joins us from the kitchen. “It was completely accidental. I meant everything I said in Italy. At the time. I came home, and I wasn’t looking. Lisa wasn’t looking.”

“Except online.” Patti toasts herself and sips.

“Cut off Patti’s liquor, please,” Mom orders. “When she’s plastered, suddenly she’s theStar-Ledger.”

“I am notdrink. Drank. Drunk,” Patti says. “Are these gentlemen on Clasp?”

Mauro, Angelo, Conor, and Gaetano go the bar.

Patti ignores their migration and, using her cocktail glass as a conductor’s baton, she says, “I would like to know how this all unfolded.”

“We all went to school together,” Lisa says slowly, trying to sober up.

“We all loved Bobby Bilancia,” I admit. “But Lisa the most.”

“Is that true?” my mother asks.

“Not then.Now.” Lisa goes on. “I wrestled with this. I almost started smoking again from the guilt.” Lisa wipes the tears from hereyes on her sleeve. “I was so scared to be happy. I was afraid you’d be angry. I don’t want you to be angry. But Idowant to be happy.”

“I am not angry. I am happy for you. Both of you.” I hug them. I think back to when we were kids, and when I picture my childhood, Bobby was always there, and so was Lisa. It’s natural that they found each other. They are the last two singletons in their mid-thirties left standing in Lake Como. Their relationship makes as much sense as the annual Feast, the swell of summer tourists in July, and the inevitability of beach erosion. It was bound to happen.

“I told you Jess would understand,” Bobby assures Lisa.

Lisa looks up at him with her beautiful green eyes, the color of martini olives.

“Jess is a good girl.” Bobby smiles at me.

Good girl.The most prized compliment in all of Lake Como. One I have hopefully outgrown.

“No need to smoke, Lisa,” I tell her.

Lisa takes my hands in hers like we’re about to skip rope double Dutch, the way we used to do in the schoolyard on the macadam at Saint Rose. “Are you sure you’re not upset with us?”