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“You find my process of grief funny?” Mom looks at us.

“Of course not. Let me cheer you up, Ma. The town of Carrara told me that I could name the street.”

Mom looks around. “They should. You’re the only house here.”

“I’m calling it Via Giuseppina Capodimonte. For you-know-who.”

Mom clasps her hands in the prayer position. “You honor your heritage! I have not been a total failure as a mother.”

“Don’t say such things!” Signora Strazza, my mom’s new partner in crime, says in her defense. “You are a good mother.”

“You should frame these blueprints, Jess,” my sister, who’s always had good taste, offers.

“Great idea,” Dad agrees. “You’re the artist.”

“I will frame them for you.” Angelo puts his arm around me.

“I thought you didn’t do picture frames,” Mom pipes up.

My father hits his head with the palm of his hand. “Do you people see what I live with? She forgets nothing.”

“Like you have it so bad, Joseph Baratta,” Mom chides him. “Laura understands me.” Mom turns to Angelo’s mother. “The mother is the family historian. We forget nothing in order to preserve it. We are also practical. Was it too much to hope that my child could build a home on a plot of land where she won’t be eaten alive by rabid animals?”

“I won’t be, Ma. I am, however, going to be eaten up.”

Mom squints out the window to the woods. “Let me guess. By a wild boar?”

“Joy. Garden-variety joy.” I grin.

We hear a car horn outside on the street. We go the window.Conor and Gaetano get out of the van carrying pastry boxes tied with string from the bakery.

“Let’s go, people. We have a tour on the mountain!” Marina, the travel agent who found her voice, holds up her umbrella.

“Who wants acornetto?” Conor says.

The kids run outside and climb into the van.

“Do these guys get us or what?” My father nods in approval. “We are carb people.”

My family, along with Signora Strazza, gathers around Conor and Gaetano as they distribute the pastries.

Inside the house, Angelo and I are alone.

“That went well. Except for the part where Mom said it’s too isolated and I’ll be murdered in my sleep.”

“Your mother is not a very positive person.”

“Not in the least, but I love her anyway.” I take Angelo’s hand. “I have to show you something.”

We climb the stairs to the second floor.

“Kitchen here.” I walk through an arch. “Bedroom there.” As if I have to point out the neatly made bed with the pale blue velvet spread.

“The window placement is good. Very open,” Angelo says.

“The bathroom. Didn’t they do a beautiful job? Carrara marble.”

“Of course.” Angelo laughs. “No bathtub?”