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I slip intoa sweater and jeans. I run a brush through my hair. I put on lipstick. Lipstick to the Baratta women is what the Mighty Isis bracelet is to Wonder Woman: a power tool. I take a bottle of wine out of the cupboard. I kiss Smokey and turn to go, then I remember the truffle. I grab the cloth bag and head down the stairs for dinner with Angelo and his mother.

18

Tartufo Nero Uncinato

Signora Strazza opensthe door. “Sono felice!”

“Come sta, signora?For you.” I hand her the bottle of wine and the cloth sack.

“Tartufo!” she squeals as she peers inside.

“I dug it out of the ground myself.”

“Grazie mille.” Signora Strazza clutches the sack near her heart.

“No, no. It’s a gift.Grazie milleto you—for letting me keep Smokey. It’s not good for a woman to be alone. It’s in the Bible.” I realize I just said the wordaloneto a widow who feels lonely every second of the day. “You know what I mean, don’t you,signora?”

Signora Strazza nods and extends her hand like a woman presenting a refrigerator on a game show. “Do you know Dalia?”

Angelo’s girlfriend comes around the corner holding her phone. Her long black hair is braided down her back. She wears a white T-shirt, jeans, and a cropped red jacket. I could never pull off a cropped jacket, but Dalia is a woman who can rock equestrian style even though she’s probably never been on a horse. The sight of thisbeautiful woman fills me with shame. I think about that stolen kiss, which was not mine to give or accept.

“Nice to meet you.Officiata,” I say to Dalia, happy that she isn’t looking at me to see me blush with embarrassment.

The dining table, which I last saw when Signora Strazza was in crisis, is now covered with a lace tablecloth. The table is set for four, with delicate pale blue china and crystal wineglasses. Cloth napkins match the eggshell-white tablecloth. I might as well be in New Jersey for one of my mother’s Sunday dinners, though my mother would criticize the fresh-cut flowers at the center of the table for being too tall. The flowers are, in fact, way too tall. Evidently, I remain my mother’s daughter. I take a photo of the table setting. “Do you mind if I post?” I ask Signora Strazza.

“Va bene,” she says.

Only eat truffles at an elegant table, I post. The photo reminds me of @CasaDePerrin, when @JerseySidePhil pops into the comments.

How are you, G?My mother, who is @JerseySidePhil, reaches out to me with the single tear emoji after her comment.

“Everything okay?” Signora Strazza asks.

“Fine.” I stuff the phone into my back pocket. “I’m starving.” I take a seat at the table. Dalia sits down across from me. Angelo pours her a glass of wine. Without looking up from her phone, she pats his rear end before he comes around the table to pour a glass for me. Was that pat for me or him or both of us? Dear Lord, this dinner cannot be over fast enough.

Angelo has brushed his hair and tucked in his shirt; evidently, the shower before dinner is the Strazza version of the Baratta lipstick routine. He and Dalia probably have a date later, I think, as he pours me a glass of wine. He is so close, I catch the scent of his skin, fresh cedar and a Sicilian tangerine.

“You sit,” Signora Strazza says to her son. She goes into thekitchen and returns with a soup tureen. She ladles the soup into our bowls. Steam rises from the fluted bowls with the scent of butter and lemon. Hand-rolled bow ties of pasta are delicate and dense in the broth. Signora Strazza grates paper-thin slices of thetartufoonto my soup. She does the same for Dalia, Angelo, and finally herself. The earthy slices oftartufoare a fragrant complement to the pastain brodo. I taste the soup; thetartufomelts on my tongue like a snowflake.

“Un tartufo.” Signora Strazza samples the soup. “Delicioso?”

“Sì, sì,” I tell her. “What do you think, Dalia?”

“It is—difficileto findtartufothis year.” Dalia speaks in English with a determination that I had this afternoon when I was digging for truffles.

“That was my first truffle hunt, and you’re right. It took five hours and a three-mile hike to find this one. So, everybody, do me a favor and eat slowly.”

Dalia’s phone buzzes. She makes an excuse and leaves the table to answer it.

“Did you grow up in Carrara?” I ask Signora Strazza.

“We lived in Avenza, not far from here. On the Ligurian Sea. My father worked on the trains. He transported marble to the port.”

“I used to ride the route with him,” Angelo says.

Dalia returns from the other room. She leans down over Angelo, speaking softly in dialect, which I can’t understand. Angelo pushes his chair back from the table. Dalia turns to Signora Strazza and apologizes for having to leave. She looks at me and gives me a half smile. Angelo walks her to the door. More conversation ensues between them.

Angelo returns to the table. “Dalia’s daughter, Alice, needs her. She is sorry she had to leave the dinner.”