"Sounds delicious. I'm so happy you cook!" she added, giving my forearm a squeeze after putting my dish down. "It is so nice to meet you. How is your arm?" she asked, making it clear that everyone in this family likely knew every last detail about that night.
"Oh, it's fine. The stitches are out and everything."
"Luca deserves someone like you in his life, someone strong," she clarified, likely having heard about me pitching a fit at the hospital, single-handedly ready to take on the New Jersey mob in my mission to check in on Luca. "And who can cook for him."
"We ate a lot of the freezer meals you made for him before I got to the store to get supplies for cooking. They were delicious."
"They're better fresh," she said, beaming. "You will see tonight."
"Can I help with anything?" I asked, moving into the chaos of cooking.
"Sure, sure. We can always use an extra hand. Maybe Mel over there can show you how to roll the antipasto," she suggested, shooing me toward a woman who had to be her daughter.
"Hey Ma," another male voice called, making me look up to see another of Adrian's children standing in the doorway. He was tall and thin with dark hair and a handsome face, a younger version of Lucky.
"I am very popular today," Adrian said. "Yes, Milo?"
"I set the table," Milo declared.
"And you came in here for praise?" she asked, brows raising. "For doing what you are supposed to do?" she added, making Milo look a bit sheepish. "I'm raising men, not little boys who need their backs stroked and told 'Good boy' for doing what they are supposed to do in life. Now go. Go. Out of my kitchen. It's hot enough in here already," she added. Milo, chastened, went to walk past to head out the back door which I imagined led onto the deck. Adrian grabbed him, framing his face with her hands, kissing his cheek three times. "You're a good boy, Milo. Now get out," she shooed, him, slapping his cheek gently once before turning away, telling one of the other women that she was using too much garlic in the pasta sauce.
That evening, I learned to roll antipasto. And the proper cooking time for various types of noodles. And how to layer lasagna.
"This is a sausage lasagna," Adrian explained. "Luca's favorite," she added. "He loves the chopped meat one too, of course, but this is his favorite."
"That's good to know. He seems to enjoy what I make, but I would like to know how to make his favorites too."
To that, the women shared a warm look, and I got the feeling that they liked what I was saying, that it meant something to them that I wanted to take care of Luca in an old-fashioned sort of way. These were modern women with old-fashioned values. They took pride in being wives and mothers, in serving up hard work to their loved ones. Some of them had professions. Just as many took care of the home and their families. But every last one of them was a strong, confident, interesting woman. And, I think it went without saying that they were all incredible badasses in their own way. Seeing as all of the married ones were with men belonging to this family. Which meant they lived with all the uncertainty and fear for their husband's safety and freedom as I knew I would one day have to learn to accept.
As I stood there and listened to them talk about recipes, discuss their children, their grandchildren, their husbands, I had a feeling there was a lot I could learn from, there was a lot of love I could gain from them.
I'd lost my closest relatives.
I was still coming to grips with Celenia, with my role in her death.
And there had been a hole inside, a family-sized space hollowed out and left empty.
As one of Luca's other aunts gave me a one-armed hug and complimented my antipasto rolls, I realized that these people—should they have me—could start filling in that space.
Hell, I was pretty sure they could make it overflow.
Every day that passed, I found more and more reasons to look forward to a future with Luca.
"How are you holding up?" Luca asked when I was shooed out of the kitchen an hour later, but only because there was nothing else for me to help with, and the ladies had this very quick and efficient way of reheating everything, plating it, and getting it out into the dining room all hot at the same time. And I didn't want to stand in the way of all that.
"I learned how to make you sausage lasagna," I told him, feeling pretty proud of that knowledge.
"Yeah?" he asked, eyes warm. "I can't wait for that."
"Well, you won't have to wait since they're serving it tonight."
"I can't wait for you to make it for me in our place," he clarified, wrapping an arm around me.
"I can do that. And I can make antipasto rolls too. I am half an Italian cook already," I boasted, even though I clearly had a lot to learn still.
"Did they grill you in there? I have no idea what it is like in that kitchen. No men are allowed," he told me, fingers absentmindedly stroking my hip. "For all we know, they are running a black market diamond business in there."
To that, I laughed, but only