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“Louie lives to eat.” Dad smiles. “He once drove me all the way to Pennsylvania for a pair of hot dogs at Potts’ in Nazareth. I had no idea it was a two-hour drive one way. Could’ve gone to Chicago in less time. Your mother is still giving me grief about it.”

Throughout my lifetime, Dad and I have had our deepest conversations in the car. Now that I’m in therapy, it’s time to ask my dad some tough questions. “Are you and Mom happy?”

“I have a philosophy when it comes to your mother, which is why we’ve lasted. My job is not to make things worse.”

“You go along with her program.”

“Yes. And sometimes you’re holding on so tight to the rope, you get a callus. Or you bleed. Every marriage can’t be perfect likeChuck and June Piola; those two are like a couple of saints. They haven’t had an argument in thirty-six years. I used to think it was odd and now I’d give my right leg to live in that kind of peace.”

My phone buzzes. I check the texts.

BOBBY: Sorry Jess. That was weird.

JESS: No problem. The trays looked amazing.

Then nothing. I stuff the phone into my pocket.

“You’re a lot like my mother, Jess. You’re a thinker. That’s why she chose you to be with her when she died. You two had an understanding.”

I sit back in the seat and remember when Bobby Bilancia proposed to me. I may have ignored certain signs at that time. I went to Grandma Cap’s first to show her the ring because the Caps are flashier than the Barattas and carat size mattered to her. Once she approved, I walked down the block to show Grammy B the ring.

“Grammy B, I got news!” I practically sang when I entered her kitchen. The orange and avocado-green cabinets glistened. Her floor had just been scrubbed; the scent of lemon oil on the wood filled the air. Grammy B was asleep in her chair. She had brought Grandpa B’s rocking chair into the kitchen after he died. She got a smaller kitchen table and turned the place into a baking haven. She kept busy while she grieved. When she wasn’t making pies or cakes or cookies, she was rolling gnocchi or kneading the dough to makehomemades. She used to make pasta in the basement, but when her knees started giving her trouble, she made everything in the upstairs kitchen. I couldn’t wait to share my news. I sat down across the table from her and waited, until I realized she was not asleep. Ipanicked; that’s when my memory lost focus. I remembered I couldn’t breathe.

Dad’s voice interrupts my thoughts. “You came and got me in the garage,” Dad says. “You didn’t have to say a word. Iknew.”

“She was so wise.”

“She didn’t like the Bilancias.”

“Nowyou tell me?”

“What good would it have done? You were set on him.”

“Did you like him?”

“Nice guy.”

“He is. But did you like him forme?”

“You’re a girl of simple tastes. You don’t aspire to things; you like books and museums. What can I tell you? Here’s the problem with the Bilancias. They wouldn’t know art if you broke theMona Lisaover their heads. They value the purse. They have the first buck they made in the butcher shop.”

“The goal of a business is profit,” I remind my father.

“And there’s plenty of that at Bilancia Meats, believe me. My problem with them is their attitude. It was implied to me several times that perhaps we couldn’t handle the expense of your big wedding and they wanted to help. I didn’t take any money from them. I wanted them to know they were getting a priceless jewel in you and that we couldn’t be bought.”

“I guess it wasn’t to be, Dad.”

“That was your choice.” Dad pulls into our driveway.

Through the window, I see Mom standing at the stove. We enter the kitchen, which is filled with the scents of butter, lemon, and garlic. Mom dredges a chicken cutlet in breadcrumbs and places the cutlet in the pan. It sizzles in the olive oil. “Bobby Bilancia got a house,” Mom says without looking up.

“We heard,” Dad says. “We ran into him at church.” My father kisses Mom on the cheek.

“Should’ve invited him to dinner. I’m making his favorite.” She waves the spatula in the air like it’s a magic wand. “Those were the days. Bobby loved my cutlets so much he shook our daughter down for her lunch. Remember?”

“Philly,” Dad warns her.

“Too soon for humor? We need to laugh around here to keep from roiling in regret. How do you feel about Bobby’s house, Giuseppina?”