Abruption (17 page)

“Sure you’re ready?” she asked for the third time as we pulled up in front of her parents’ six-story apartment building.

“You trying to make me nervous, doll?” I teased. “Don’t think I can handle meeting your family?”

“No. It’s just they can be a bit overwhelming at times.” If I didn’t know better, I would have guessed
she
was nervous.

“I’ll be fine.” I snagged the box of cannoli we picked up on the way and helped her out of my SUV.

Her parents lived right off Arthur Avenue, a few blocks from Jules’ brownstone. I happened to know the area because I took the kids to their first baseball game last season and you didn’t go to Yankee stadium without discovering the real Little Italy. I wasn’t an Italian food connoisseur, not even close, but I had yet to have a better Bolognese. Suddenly the obligatory parent drop-by didn’t sound too bad. We’d kill a few hours and then I was going to take her to my favorite trattoria.

The traditional brick building reminded me more of where I lived, minus the doorman, marble entryway, and about thirty stories. To be clear, those were Britt’s requirements, not mine. There was nothing formal or cold here. It radiated warmth and history just like Jules’ place. I could tell that the people who lived here, lived here for ages. That was a novel concept, being that my mother moved every few years to “refresh her karma and re-center herself.” Yeah, there was that.

The elevator dinged on the top floor and before the old Otis door screeched open, a thick Italian accent filled the hallway. The entire hallway. And possibly the stairwells. “Jules, we’ve been-a waiting.”

“How did she know it was you?” I whispered.

“Oh please. This is cray-cray Cecelia Chiappetti we’re talking about. She has that damn sixth sense.” Her snide response cracked me up. Until I saw her with my own eyes. And then I think I understood.

At four foot nothing, this robust woman, with the small white apron hanging from her full waist, commanded attention. She stood with one hand on her hip and the other swatting air while she rambled on and on. I think it was English, but I couldn’t be sure. Only bits and pieces came through between the jumbles while I fixated on one thought.

Strega Nona. Jules’ mother was
the
Strega Nona. And yes, I did think about the occasional storybook character. Maxine loved that damn book, made me read it to her every night.

“Where you been? The gravy is gettin’ cold. You don’t-a visit me.”

Jules remained unfazed by the lashing. “Ma, we talk twenty times a day, and I’m here every Saturday I’m not working, and usually twice during the week. No need for dramatics.”

“You sisters come-a way more. I’m gettin’ old, one day I’m not gonna be—”

“I know, Mama. Missed you, too.”

For a second, I thought Jules’ placating tone was going to incite the fire; instead, her mother released a puff of air and rolled her aged eyes. “Ciao, Bella.” She kissed Jules first on one cheek then the other. Like the whole conversation didn’t just happen. I had to swallow back a laugh.

“Guy, this is my mother, Cecelia.”

“CeCe. You call me Mama CeCe.” Her puckered lips came for both my cheeks this time, her hands pulling my shoulders down until she could reach. Oddly, I could have sworn she was on the brink of tears. She cleared her throat and took the Italian pastries from my hand. “Ah grazie, grazie, Alonzo’s favorite. Come a meet mi famiglia. Jules tells me you work together. Only Mama CeCe coulda hope you play together, too.”

“Ma!” Jules’ tone had a bite to it and her cheeks flamed red. She followed up with a string of words in Italian.
She’s fluent
? My pants tightened in response to how insanely hot she sounded. If everything went the way I felt it was going, I was testing this newfound knowledge tonight. In the bedroom, or anywhere else our clothes happened to drop.

Luckily, CeCe propelled me forward before my dick embarrassed me. Jules shook her head and bit her lip feigning annoyance, but I knew better. Come on, who didn’t love a little play on words?

“Bellissima,” a deep bellow broke through the chatter and silenced the crowd. Yes, crowd. No exaggeration, twenty-five sets of eyes, spread across a massive table spanning the length of the dining
and
living room, lifted to mine.
Where the hell am I?
And how did that table fit through the door?

Jules left me center stage and shimmied her way behind the tight row of filled chairs, toward the head of the table and to a man who had to be her father. The resemblance was striking. Mimicking her mother, she kissed both his cheeks.

“Ciao.” Jules waved to the rest of the room and then toward me. “This is Guy, my friend from work.”

Friend
. Ouch. That kind of sucked, but what did I expect? One date and breakfast didn’t qualify as anything to write home about, but then again, didn’t we decide we were going to give this thing between us a try this morning? Shit, I even instigated that whole conversation. I was still in shock that I did that. Fuck, this woman truly was killing me.

Dude
,
are you really having a vagina monologue in the middle of the last supper?

“Dai, mangiamo, Cecelia.” Her father stood and shouted loud enough to be heard down behind Yankees’ dugout. I was smart enough to figure out he wasn’t yelling at me.

His wife dismissed him with a huff. “Tenere i vostri cavalli, Alonzo.” I wondered if they’d considered hearing aids. A hum of giggles erupted from the women at the table, half of who proceeded to get up and follow CeCe into the kitchen.

“Ah ... don’t listen to my dad—he’s always impatient when he’s hungry. Mama told him to hold his horses. By the way, I’m Mercedes, Jules’ sister,” she said, grinning up at me. This must be her little sister—the one who was, according to Jules, “finding herself,” because whatever was going on with her hair was bright. Sunglasses-required bright. I wondered if she noticed that they missed the top half of her head. I had no idea red could fluoresce like that. “And over there,” she pointed across the room, “is Selena our other sister, and her husband Antonio, but everyone calls him Tony. And these two hellions are our nieces, Ari and Izzy, and this is my father’s brother—”

“Mercedes, honey. Let him settle in first before you throw any more names at him,” Jules said, cutting her off.

Her father obviously wasn’t feeling the introductions either because he interrupted, saying, “We needa to mangia. Mercedes, helpa your mama.” Alonzo waved his daughter off and rubbed his anything but deprived belly hard enough that he could have shredded his sweater.

“Don’t think you’re wasting away, Papa,” Jules teased, but there was only adoration and respect in her eyes.

I snaked my arm around Jules’ waist and shook Alonzo’s hand. “Pleasure to meet you.”

“My girl says you a doctor at da hospital. You fuckus like Jules?”

“Um, excuse me?”

“Fuckus? Fuckus for da bambinos? Like Jules?”
Seriously, what the—

Jules saw my twitching brow and jumped to translate again. “Focus, Papa, focus.” Biting back her chuckle, she shook her head at his flagrant mispronunciation. “And no, he’s not a pediatrician, he’s a surgeon.”

“Ahh, surgeon. You fuckus on da insides?” He had to stop saying fuckus.

“I guess you could say that.”

He bobbed his head, contemplating my career choice for a moment and asked, “Where’s da bambinos who a like my ices?” Okay, new topic. At least I’d figured out what bambinos meant already. I felt ahead of the game. For now.

“Papa, I told you Max and Finn couldn’t come today. They’re spending time with their grandparents.” Jules’ smile reached her eyes when she mentioned my kids. I wasn’t sure what to think about that, but I knew it felt good.

“Next time, you a bring dem. They mangia and we make da ices together.” Not for nothing, his accent made CeCe sound like an English teacher.

Next time.
Yeah, I could probably do a next time.
“Will do. I’m sure Finn and Max would love it.”

He sat back down and resumed his conversation in Italian. Clearly done with me, and English, for that matter.

“That was more than he says to most people.” Jules looked surprised. If she only knew how
not
offended I was. I appreciated him keeping it real, no bull. To this day Britt’s dad only asked about my stock portfolio or my latest investments. Never about his grandkids, and he sure as hell never
home-made
them anything. It was a refreshing change, and I opted not to think about my kids spending the weekend with those self absorbed, self-righteous posers.

“So …” I pushed a wild strand of hair behind her ear and asked, “Holiday? One of those Saint’s days? Birthday party? First communion? It has to be something? You forgot to mention something big, right?”

Her smile widened and she laughed. Loud. All the chatter that re-filled the room suddenly muted. Two dozen deep and you could have heard a pin drop. And instead of on me, all eyes were on Jules. The climate shifted for some unexplained reason until CeCe and crew appeared with trays (and trays) of food.

After seven courses, which included veal and braciole, enough pasta products to give the gluten free generation nightmares, including two lasagnas and six loaves of ciabatta, a vat of sauce and meatballs big enough to feed a small island, one too many glasses of homemade wine (if you could call it that, more like stained rubbing alcohol), shots of limoncello and sambuca (floated with three coffee beans for some unknown reason), and a spread of Italian pastries, we were finally done.

Four hours later.

That was not including the forty-five minutes it took to say goodbye to her seventeen cousins, aunts, uncles, neighbors, and parents. Then there was a fifteen-minute huddle of Jules with her sisters that ended with Mercedes storming out in teenage fashion, ranting about something
not fair
and
when you were my age they let you.
The whole scene driving home how much I was
not
looking forward to my daughter growing up. Ever.

And definitely not including the added time when Hair Gel showed up at the very end acting like dinner just started. The only upside was finding out Lucca was Zia what’s-her-face and Zio you-know-who’s son. Seriously, I couldn’t keep names straight if someone paid me. But I picked up enough Italian to decipher aunt and uncle, so a cousin I could deal with. Once again, he was sporting more hair product than any man should, but as long as he wasn’t trying to get down Jules’ pants, whatever. To each his own.

We stepped out into the crisp evening air and I pulled her against my chest. “I’ve been dying to do this all night, doll.” I kissed her hard and the sweet moan she released permeated south, eliciting my own shit-eating grin. “We should go.”
Now
.

Since neither of us needed to eat for at least a week and nothing was going to top Mama CeCe’s ala vodka, I ditched the Little Italy idea. Getting re-re-acquainted back at her apartment seemed like a much better idea. Yet I had no intention of stopping our adolescent make out session of roaming hands and tongues, even if we were on the curb in front of her parents’ building.

She pulled back, breaking our kiss. Damn, she was going to be the mature one. “I don’t bring anyone to meet them.”
Okay.
I didn’t know what to do with that. “No, I mean like I have
never
brought anyone to dinner. They were excited. Sorry.”

“Why are you apologizing?”

“Because they’re …” Jules at a loss for words, that was a first. “Mom was touchy, my dad spoke more English than he has in years, or at least he tried, my sisters and cousins bombarded you with a thousand questions, and my nieces used you as a galloping horse. They can be a lot.” That was putting it lightly. “I’m the only one in my family over twenty-five and not married. Old fashioned, totally. But that’s how they are. Selena was married at twenty-three, had the twins by twenty-five. Mercedes is only nineteen, so she has a little time, but she parades around a new boyfriend almost as fast as she changes her hair color. To the rest of the world, that’s considered a little slutty, but to my crazy family that’s a sign of hope … or it was until she took it too far and announced her fakakta plan for a romantic weekend sleepover in the Catskills. She’s a hot mess, but that’s beside the point.”

“Fakakta? Have to say I find your Italian sexier than your Yiddish, doll.”

“Oh shut up.” She swatted at my arm, her smile reaching those bright eyes. “You know what I’m trying to say. I never bring anyone. Ever.”

“So I should be flattered. Is that what you’re telling me?” Her blush glowed even in the dark. I knew exactly what she was trying to say. “I’m glad I came. And for your information, I like you too. Now, how about we get off this sidewalk, unless you want to give your childhood neighbors a show?”

She squinted her eyes then raised her brow. “You’re too cocky for your own good. Remind me why I agreed to go out with you again?”

I cracked up, tossed an arm over her shoulder, and we headed toward my car. When her own sweet laugh escaped her lips, I remembered her family’s reaction at the table and something dawned on me. They weren’t used to hearing her laugh, not her real laugh. The one she freely gave my children, the one with the power to steal my breath away. The one that made me go for it and take the shot despite the memories that scar my soul. It only slipped out that one brief time tonight. She didn’t slip again. Not once. Not for any of them. And I had to admit her family was damn funny, a little off the wall, but definitely amusing. I laughed all afternoon. She fake-laughed. I just couldn’t figure out why, all I knew was that I despised it.