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“She took a shot at romance, but they sandbagged her.”

“Who?”

“My grandfather and his brothers, the Caps from Italy. The story goes that on a snowy night in 1949, Nonno Cap and the boys staged an intervention, which, in hindsight, these days would be called a kidnapping.”

“Where was she?”

“At the Motel 6 off the Garden State Parkway. Let’s just say that ever since, I refer to room 7 in any motel as the Boom-Boom Room.”

“Zia was there for fun?”

“For all practical purposes. Yes. But Nonno and the boys arrived in the nick. He pulled his daughter out of the arms of her lover, Petey Palma, a real bargain out of Manasquan. Let’s just say whatever went down or didn’t, Petey went back to Manasquan alone.”

“I never heard this.” I’m not surprised. Any stories involving sexare buried deep in the backyard like the statue of Saint Joseph whenever we go to sell a house.

“Zia gave up on romance entirely, such was the impact of the situation. That was the night she became the maiden aunt, and she chewed on that shame like bitter dandelion until the day she died. But she was also a devout Catholic, so she turned her sin into service. Zia dedicated her life to the poor, and when she wasn’t busy with them, she took care of her elderly parents and babysat us. She made Sunday dinner every week.”

“What a life.”

“Did I say she was happy?”

“No wonder she was angry.” I sit back in the seat. “Her life was not her own.”

“Nobody says you have tobelike her,” Louie assures me. “You’re not the maiden aunt.”

Not yet, anyhow, I’m thinking as Uncle Louie drives past the sports fields and out of town. I didn’t know Zia Giuseppina, and yet, I carry the name of someone I never knew into a life I don’t want to lead. Another issue to bring up in therapy.

As we approach Spring Lake, the street narrows into a corridor of green-and-white-dappled willow hedges. We leave the casual ranch homes and plastic jungle gyms of Lake Como behind and enter Spring Lake, where rows of stately mansions have manicured lawns studded with bronze statues. I lean out the window to inhale the fresh scents of the tall cedar and fir trees as Uncle Louie speeds toward our appointment.

We pull into the church parking lot. If you could fly a duomo, a beaux arts cathedral, and a meditation garden worthy of the Medici family from Florence to New Jersey, Saint Catharine Church would be it. The sleek white granite, carved spires, and bell tower, positionedat a stately angle on the banks of the lake, are a sample of the architecture of the Italian Renaissance at its most divine. The Caps and Barattas are baptized, married, and buried from this church, and have been for a decades.

Uncle Louie pulls into the parking lot. I get out and stretch. Uncle Louie joins me in a shoulder roll.

“Ouch.”

“If it hurts, stop doing it,” I tell him.

“What doesn’t hurt yet is about to. I’m seventy-three years old.”

“You remind me every morning.”

“Because I can’t believe it. Look at me. Just yesterday I was young and vibrant. I didn’t have to wear a shirt anywhere. I could’ve walked around in nothing but a diaper and strangers would’ve applauded my physique.”

“Lucky man.”

“I’m serious here. I was built like the statue of David except not as tall. Look at me now. I’m wizening.”

“You are not old.”

“Face it. What’s in front of me you could clock on an egg timer, and I’d still be late to the party. I have limited potential. And with that comes one of two things: either crippling despair or a propulsion to get things done. So, I was thinking. What becomes of this family business that’s a hundred years old? What happens to Cap Marble and Stone?”

My heart sinks. Here we go. The only thing in my life I look forward to is my job. If this goes, I don’t know what I’ll do. “Are you selling the business?”

“The business has to go to someone who has a passion for it. I’m not looking to sell it; I’m hoping to ensure its future. To that end, it’s time that you take the reins when I can no longer hold them.”

“Me?”

Uncle Louie looks around. “Is there anybody else standing here? Yeah, you. Of course,you. But first, you need an overview. You need to see the quarries in Italy. I don’t think anyone can run this company who does not understand the mining in Carrara. So, let’s go. You up for it?” Uncle Louie invites me to Italy casually, as if we’re making a plan to pick up a sink in Passaic.