It hadn’t occurred to her that Giovanni’s parents might remember her from hanging around the McCulloughs.
This time she spoke a little louder. “Thank you for inviting me.”
“Sit,” he ordered, pointing at a chair.
She looked around for Giovanni’s mom but didn’t see her. His sister and grandmother bustled around the stove, chopping and stirring ingredients.
“We got you a bottle of red for dinner, Dad.” Giovanni set the bagged bottle on the table.
Mr. Mosconi pushed down the wrapper. “Pisano. Nice. Mariella, grab us some glasses.”
Three short, skinny juice cups appeared on the table, and Mr. Mosconi twisted off the metal cap and tipped the jug, carefully filling the three cups. He passed one to Erin and one to Giovanni. “Salute.”
It was a dry but sweet red, but Mr. Mosconi seemed to enjoy it as he took a long sip and sighed. “Did you catch that game this afternoon? Brutal.”
Giovanni tossed an arm over the back of her chair, totally at ease. “Did you take a beating?”
“Ah,” his dad shut his eyes and laughed, the sound slightly pained. “They killed me.”
“I told you, you can’t bet on soccer. Football and horses are where the money is. Maybe a little basketball here and there.”
“Vincenzo will be happy.”
Giovanni glanced over his shoulder at Erin and explained, “Vincenzo’s our bookie.”
She sipped her wine, happy to follow along in silence.
The front door opened and a woman yelled, “Is anyone gonna help me with these bags?”
“Go help your mother,” his father ordered and Giovanni disappeared without a word. Erin moved to follow, but Mr. Mosconi grabbed her hand, stilling her. “You relax. You’re a guest.”
“All that meat has to go in the big freezer in the garage,” Mrs. Mosconi yelled as she entered the kitchen. “Hi, Erin.”
“Thank you for having me,” she repeated.
“Any time.” Giovanni’s mom moved to the stove and lowered her voice, whispering to Italian Mary, “Ma, they didn’t have the prunes you like, but I got you these.”
Erin found Mr. Mosconi watching her with a smirk. She looked at him in question, but he only chuckled and topped off her wine.
“So, you like my son? What’s the matter? Is there a shortage of able-bodied men I don’t know about?” He made the comment in an affectionate tone, but Erin didn’t find the joke funny.
“Giovanni’s been really good to me.”
“He better be,” his mother snapped from the other side of the kitchen, amid another conversation. “I raised him to be a gentleman. Mariella, throw this seasoning in the butter and mix it for the bread.”
“What are you going to do when he goes back to Jersey?” Mr. Mosconi asked.
The question struck like a bomb disturbing a peaceful dawn. Giovanni returned before she could answer.
Was he going back to New Jersey? He said he gave up his apartment because he was traveling. But he wasn’t traveling now. She didn’t want to think about it.
She offered to help and Mariella handed her a stack of plates. She and Giovanni’s sister set the table in the dining room, but the other woman didn’t say much. The longer the silence lasted, the more uncomfortable Erin grew. Mariella was younger, so she didn’t recall ever hanging out in the same circles, but the girl most likely heard rumors about Erin.
“I like your nails,” Erin complimented, noticing the ombre fade of the paint.
“Thanks. I got them done at the new salon in town.” She returned to the kitchen leaving Erin standing alone in the dining room.
Rather than rush back, she took a moment to collect herself.
Voices carried from the kitchen. The Mosconis were loud for a family of five and a grandmother who barely spoke. Erin’s muscles were already tired from the slow tension that came with socializing and she wondered how long after dinner they would have to stay.
“Hey.” Giovanni entered the dining room. “You okay?”
She leaned into him, shutting her eyes and borrowing a bit of his strength. He hugged her and pressed a kiss to the top of her head.
“How about a tour?”
“Sure.”
He showed her the house, which was simple and small. The living room shelves were filled with old DVD cases that wore about ten years of dust and the furniture was made for comfort more than style. Little glass figurines decorated a table in the hall, mostly posed in prayer and dressed like saints.
A wooden cross hung on the living room wall with a brass crucifix. She also spotted rosaries hanging off some picture frame corners. She hadn’t realized his family was so religious.
“This is my old room.”
He opened the door and waited for her to enter. The bed was small and the furniture handmade. Finn had a similar set and she couldn’t stop the memory from invading.
There were no adult touches to the décor. “How long ago did you move out?”
“After two years of community college, I left.”