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“I’ve worked with him,” Conor says. “He’s a perfectionist.”

“And he’s the kind of guy that if he had a good personality, he’d be dangerous,” I say.

I’ve met my first Italian man fromthe other side. Now I understand why Grandma Cap warned me about them.

The morning sundrenches Piazza Alberica in a blanket of tangerine velvet. The sky has been a different color every morning since I arrived, or maybe I’m just looking at the world differently. I sit at the small table on the terrace and draw the piazza as Carrara comes alive.

I put down my pencil and pick up the cup of hot coffee. I close my eyes and sip. Why is my morning coffee more delicious in Italy? Italians, whether you’ve just met them or known them a lifetime, know the importance of a good cup of coffee. I found a shop on the piazza where they sell finely ground beans. The cream is fresh from a farm near town.

A small brown sparrow drops out of the sky and lands on the table. He looks at me.

“I’m sorry. I have nothing for you to eat.”

The bird cocks its head and flies off.If you want a man to stay,feed him, Grandma Cap used to say in Italian. I remember the day her bird Oscar Hammerstein flew away. I tuck the pencil behind my ear and reach for my phone. I write.

“Grandma?” I calledout. The aroma of fresh coffee wafted from the kitchen. “I got the bread!” I moved through the living room to the kitchen. “A bag of rolls from Kohler’s.”

A full cup of coffee in a saucer was set on the kitchen table. It was cold. I took it to the sink. A tiny blue flame sputtered underneath the coffeepot on the stove. I turned off the stove and moved the pot to a cold burner. When I looked inside the pot, it had simmered down to a thick brew at the bottom. It had been on the stove for a while.

“Grandma?” I called out again as I moved through the kitchen to her bedroom in the back of the house. “I’m here.”

Grandma Cap was asleep on top of her bed, made with a pink chenille coverlet. She was fully dressed in a pressed white blouse with navy slacks cinched with a slim red patent leather belt. She wore navy loafers, even though she was lying on her bed. The windows were open; the white sheers danced in the breeze. I went to the window and closed it because I didn’t want her to catch a cold.

She opened her eyes. “Jess?”

“I brought you rolls.” I went to her side and pulled up the tuffet covered in pink bouclé and sat.

“Grazie,” she said.

When I was little, the tuffet was my favorite piece of furniture.

“Oscar Hammerstein got out of his cage,” she said.

“He’s probably in the drapes. I’ll find him.”

“No, he’s gone. I opened the front door to check for the mail and he flew out.”

“I’ll look in the yard.”

“It’s too late.” She smiled. “He took off like he’s been waiting to escape since Louie brought him home.”

I didn’t correct my grandmother. The current Oscar Hammerstein was the fifth (or sixth?) parrot she’d kept in a cage in her kitchen through the years. The first parrot she owned was one Uncle Louie won in a ring toss at the Feast. She bought the current Oscar at the pet store in Belmar. I took her hand. “Oscar was happy here.”

“Was he?”

“Very. We’ll find him, and he can move with you. Dad is almost done with the basement.”

She made a face. “I don’t want to move in with your parents. Cellars are not for people.”

I had argued with my parents about the importance of keeping Grandma Cap in her house, but Mom wanted her closer, even though Grandma Cap was just a few steps from my parents’ front door. I hadn’t told my mother half of what I’d found when I checked on Grandma Cap. I didn’t tell her that Grandma Cap left the burner on in the kitchen. I let my father know so he could disconnect the gas.

“How’s Bobby?” Grandma Cap asked.

“He’s fine,” I lied.

“He’s a nice young man,” she said. “But not for you.”

How did Grandma Cap know I was leaving Bobby? I hadn’t told anyone yet, not even my husband.