Page 28 of British Daddy to Go

“Maggie! A beautiful name,” he gushes. “Welcome to Pietros. Can I start you with a drink? Perhaps your favorite wine, Mr. Jones?”

I give Maggie my full attention. “I usually order a bottle of Brunello Di Montalcino for the table. It’s a red wine.”

“Sounds lavish. I’d love to try it.”

“Excellent. Bring the bottle, then, Lorenzo.”

“As you wish, Mr. Jones.”

Lorenzo walks carefully to the bar to collect our wine. The bottle is expensive, but the taste is exquisite. I can afford to spend a few hundred dollars on wine, anyway.

“This place is beautiful,” Maggie says, her eyes darting around the Italian-themed restaurant.

“The owners are first generation Italian. They modeled the interior after the landscape they left behind.”

She sighs. “I bet Italy is beautiful.”

“You’ve never been?”

Maggie shakes her head. “No, but I’d love to visit someday. My best friend, Jenna, she spent two years globetrotting. Her photos of Italy are some of my favorites.”

Lorenzo returns with the wine before I can add to the conversation. We study our menus while he pours, and we order before he leaves again.

With our orders placed, we’re free to talk. I find that I want to know everything about Maggie. I don’t remember the last name of my last girlfriend, but Maggie is different. She draws me in a way that no one has ever done before.

“You know, I don’t know your last name,” I admit. “And yet you know mine.”

“Well, when everyone calls you Mr. Jones, it’s easy to learn,” she jokes. “My last name is Thomas. Magdalena Thomas. Everyone calls me Maggie. I prefer it.”

“Magdalena is a mouthful, isn’t it?”

Maggie laughs. “That’s an understatement. I’ve been going by Maggie my whole life. Even my parents think it’s better than my full name, which is saying a lot.”

“Why?” I ask.

She takes a small sip of her wine. Her lips don’t pucker, and she doesn’t spit it out, so I assume she doesn’t hate my taste in wine. “My parents are extremely religious. Naturally, they named me after Mary Magdalene. It’s surprising they would allow anyone to shorten it, but they were actually the first ones to do so.”

“Are you religious?”

“I go to church with my parents, but it’s not… as big a part of my life as it is theirs, I guess you could say.”

I lift my own wine glass to my lips and savor a sip. “Tell me more about your parents. What are they like?”

“Uptight,” she laughs. “Rigid. Dictatorial.”

“Those are interesting adjectives.”

“Fitting, though. I still live with my parents.”

Despite my best effort, my eyes widen in surprise. “You do?”

“I know, I know. I’m twenty-five, so I should have my own place. My parents don’t want me to leave, though. Every time I’ve tried, they find a reason for me to stay.”

“That sounds more like a prison than a home,” I say. She bites her lip, and I fear I’ve gone too far. “I’m sorry. I’m in no position to judge.”

She places a hand over mine. “No, it’s okay. You’re absolutely right. In fact, Jenna calls them the wardens.”

A laugh escapes my lips. “I think I’d like this Jenna.”