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“I don’t usually lead with that, but happy New Year,” Conor says as he shakes Bobby’s hand.

The maître d’ joins us; he looks nervous. “Is everything all right?Cornetti? Marmellata? Caffè?” He lists the items on the menu like it’s an arms sale.

“No, thank you,” Angelo says.

“Please. Bring,” Conor says, pulling a chair from another table. He nods to Gaetano to do the same. “Sit down, Angelo. You said you were starving.”

“I’m leaving,” Angelo replies.

“Don’t be ridiculous, stay for breakfast,” I offer.

“I am not hungry.”

“Then let me walk you out.” I stand.

“I can find the door without you,” he says.

“Or I can show you,” Bobby says tersely.

“I would be happy to meet you outside,” Angelo says quietly to Bobby.

“Guys, come on. We’re a couple of miles from the Swiss border. Let’s go neutral. Sit down. Have a roll.” Conor breaks one open, offering half to Gaetano. “Mangia!”

“Most disputes occur when people are hungry.” Gaetano takes a bite of the cornetto. “It’s an Italian thing.”

Angelo Strazza storms out.

“Sorry, Jess,” Conor says, making sure Angelo is out the door. “He’s jealous.”

“Of what?” I fold my arms across my chest.

“I’m not going to take that as a slam,” Bobby says.

“I didn’t mean it that way. He and I arefriends.” One of the benefits of being thirty-four years old is knowing that it’s never a good idea to talk about dating a new guy with your ex-husband.

“Sheesh.” Conor searches his pockets. “I have the car keys.” He goes to find Angelo outside.

“What are you guys doing here?” I ask Gaetano.

“We are on our way to ski in Cortina,” he says.

Conor returns to the table. “Done. He’s driving back to Milan. I’m sorry about all this. I’ve never seen his temper.”

“He must have feelings.” Gaetano shrugs.

“How are you going to get to Cortina?”

“The train,” Conor answers. “Coming through Cernobbio was Angelo’s idea. He was worried that you were alone on New Year’s.”

“Well, she isn’t,” Bobby interjects. He motions to the waitress to bring more coffee. Conor looks at me and mouths,Whoa.

Villa Destiny

Bobby and I have—what else?—macaroni for dinner. When Italians from New Jersey have any issue whatsoever, the problem-solving takes place over a meal of carbohydrates. The Villa d’Este makes a buttery pasta with a light cream sauce with shaved truffles. How can one plate of pasta sum up my entire life in Italy? But it does. I tell Bobby about the truffle hunt in Siena.

“I would’ve loved that,” he says.

I know my ex-husband well enough to know that whenever he eats, the meal is followed by a walk. We follow the path that hugs the shore of the lake. The midnight-blue surface of Lake Como is still, except for the lone speedboat that leaves a trail of white foam, which forms a seam down the center of the lake.