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“You want a highball, Dad?”

“Why not?” Dad sits in his chair at the head of the table. It’s the only chair with arms and a cushion on the seat because Dad doesn’tfit in the booth and the pitch of the straight-backed chairs gives him sciatica. “What’s new?”

Uncle Louie looks at me. Before I can stop him, he announces, “I’m taking Jess to Italy. On business. Lil doesn’t want to go. She can’t do without her stories, and I don’t know if the satellite picks them up in Italy.”

“I could tape them,” Lil offers. “I just don’t feel like traipsing. Autumn is for hunkering.” Lil folds her arms as though she’s cold; by contrast, I’m sweating like I’m fighting typhoid fever in the hot kitchen.

Mom claps her hands together. “Your dad and I will join you on the trip. We never hunker.”

“It’s a business trip, and we—” Uncle Louie begins.

Mom cuts him off. “We’ll ask Joe and Connie. They’ll bring the kids. They’re still small enough to pull out of school without repercussions. We’ll stay in B and Bs. Or we can do one of those Mediterranean cruises. They have family plans! You want to stay on the boat? Stay! You want to get off and explore? Get off! Our Return to Our Italian Roots trip! This is my dream! Even movie stars are flocking. Lorraine Bracco bought a house in Sicily. And Stanley Tucci ate his way through the mainland. Italy is a hot destination! What is Social Security for anyway? Nobody lives forever.”

“You are not invited.”

Mom, Dad, Aunt Lil, and Uncle Louie look at me oddly. Maybe they think I’m drunk. (I wouldn’t be the first Cap or Baratta woman who drank while she prepped Sunday dinner.) I don’t care! I will not let this trip turn into someone else’s idea of an Italian adventure before I have one of my own. It’s just too important. The most horrible phrase in the English language is notunexpected turbulenceorfreak accidentorloose skin. It isfamily vacation.

“Well.” My mother puts her hands in her lap.

“I mean it.” A hush falls over the kitchen table. The only sound is the gravy as it simmers in the pot. “You can’t come.” I clutch a slotted spoon in one hand and a serving fork in the other like weapons. “This is my first trip to Italy. I’m not sharing her.”

“It’s acountry, for God’s sake.” My mother looks hurt. “It’s for everyone.”

“Not this time. It’s abusinesstrip. There won’t be time for sightseeing and shopping. Right, Uncle Louie?” My voice cracks. I look to him for reinforcement.

“We may do some bartering, and that can get ugly.” Louie plays along. “Just me and Jess this time.” Uncle Louie motions for me to put down my weapons. “This is strictly business and we have a lot of ground to cover.”

Mom throws up her hands. “All right. We won’t go. I’ve never felt so dismissed in my life. I thought we were fun.”

My mother is a black arrow; her straight nose and full lips are offset by her thick eyebrows. She didn’t overpluck in the 1970s, and now that she’s almost seventy, resisting the urge has paid off. She looks youthful even though her hair resembles Nero Marquina marble, ebony with white strands, but only because she’s due for a dye job.

“Philly, look at this like a scout for the next trip, where everyone can come. Jess and I will go and scope out the situation. I promise I’ll get you over there. But for now? Two-man operation.”

Thankfully, my sister, Connie, her husband, and their three daughters push through the front door, making a commotion.

“The Dominguez family has landed. Shoes off, everybody!” Mom hollers from the kitchen. She lowers her voice and turns to me. “I’d like to see how you’re going to tell your sister that you’re going to Italy without her and her husband and children. Not going to go well.”

I shoot Uncle Louie a look of desperation. He pats imaginary dough on the kitchen table.Don’t react. Don’t bite, Jess.

“I can’t tell you how hard it is to get three girls ready for Sunday dinner,” Connie announces as she comes into the kitchen, looking effortlessly chic in beige slacks and a silk blouse. Despite three births, her stomach is concave, like the flour well we dig on the marble cutting board when we knead the dough to make fresh macaroni. “Ma, you’re a saint. I don’t know how you did it.”

“It wasn’t easy. Believe me.” Mom sips her highball.

Connie makes the rounds kissing everyone. She’s slender; her dark blond hair, blown straight, cascades over her shoulders without frizz.

“Thanks for having us.” Diego shakes Dad’s hand and gives Mom a kiss. He’s tall and slim, with a small nose and thick eyebrows. He wears glasses, which give him the look of a very smart professor, even though he’s in finance. “Girls, say hello to Nonna and Nonno, Zio Louie and Zia Lil.”

Alexa, Alicia, and Abby are ten, nine, and eight and could be triplets. They have brown eyes and wild dark curls, which they inherited from me.

“And don’t forget Aunt Jess,” Diego tells his daughters.

“Don’t come near the stove. I’ll come to you,” I tell them.

“You girls have Aunt Jess’s hair,” Diego says.

“I’m sorry.” I kneel and deliver a group hug to the girls.

“No, we love curls, don’t we?” Connie glares at me. “When God sent the girls down from heaven, he wanted them to have curls in their hair, like the kind you find on top of a present. Curling ribbon, right, girls?”