Family Ties (Morelli Family 4)

I blink, not quite understanding. “You go by Antonio at home?”

“No, Salvatore. Ma hates nicknames, though. If we see Maddie, call her Madeline.”

Nodding my head as we resume walking, I say, “Madeline and Salvatore, got it.”

I’ve never had a mom or anything even remotely close. I’ve never met a boyfriend’s parents before. I could not be further outside my element.

Sal lets himself in the front door, looking around as he steps past the door, letting me inside so he can close it. I’m relieved by the draft of cool air, but uncomfortable again by the faint perfumey scent in this unfamiliar house. It’s not a small house, though compared to ours it certainly is. Everything is cozier, though. Where our house feels more like a gallery sometimes, and we’re all just living displays, this is very clearly a home. Carpeted floors where children can sit and play, butt-ugly knit blankets draped across the backs of furniture—hopefully handcrafted, and that’s why they kept them. The room is dim, with only a light in the corner next to a recliner.

I suddenly feel overdressed. My gaze drifts to Sal, to his dark wash jeans and short sleeved black button down. It’s far more casual than what I’m wearing, and though my goal was to impress, now that I’ve seen her living room was apparently decorated by an 80-year-old woman who wears hair curlers and a bathrobe while watching soaps, I’m wondering if I’ll come off as stuck-up.

“Ma?” Sal calls out, interrupting my anxiety over my outfit choice.

I follow him to the kitchen, another homey space, smaller than Sal’s. A short, older woman with fluffy dark hair just past her neck stands at the counter, back to us, wiping down the counter. It looks clean to me, but maybe she was just working there.

Sal doesn’t immediately say anything, he just watches her wipe down the countertop. When there’s nothing left to clean there, she moves on to the already-clean sink and starts wiping that down, too.

“Ma,” Sal says, to get her attention.

She isn’t surprised and she doesn’t stop wiping or turn to face us, she just says, “I hope you took your shoes off. I just cleaned the carpets this morning.”

I grimace, looking down at my heels. They’re clean, but they’re on my feet. Sal glances down at his, but he doesn’t seem overly concerned.

“Your sister’s coming over later,” she adds, without waiting for a response to that first part. “I don’t know why she couldn’t cancel her afternoon shoot, but you kids have your priorities.”

The censure is clear in her tone, and it makes my stomach drop.

Do we get points for being here today? Maybe we should’ve been here last night. Going to my family first probably wasn’t what she would’ve wanted.

I realize that attempting to keep both our families happy, even if the business side is at peace, may be extremely trying. Mateo isn’t used to bending in any regard. His family is his family, and he expects certain things of that. It won’t matter to him that Sal has a family who values togetherness just as much.

We only joked about it, but Sal is right; when we have kids, this is going to be a nightmare.

“I called Thomas to come over and go over the will with everybody.” She laughs, bitterly. “Not that it matters. Long as I’m alive, no one gets any money but his bastard.”

Sal’s eyebrows rise in earnest surprise. “He left Willow something?”

“Apparently,” she snaps, scrubbing the faucet more aggressively than she already was. “Probably figured I’d cut her out if he left it to me.”

I’ve only been here for about 90 seconds, and I’m already pretty sure she would’ve.

“So… Willow’s coming here?” Sal asks, frowning.

“Not to my house, she’s not. She can go to the official reading if she has to be there.”

The sink gets another aggressive wipe down, then she moves along to the other counter. A minute passes and she continues to clean, then Sal finally says, “Ma, could you stop cleaning for a minute?”

“I have to get this mess cleaned up. People will be coming over, and I won’t have the house looking a mess.”

I have no idea if I should speak up, since the kitchen isn’t a mess, and it seems likely she’s doing this more to keep busy, to distract herself from her own sense of loss, but I can’t just keep standing here like a house plant.

“I could help you, if you like,” I offer.

The wiping motion finally ceases at the sound of my voice. She keeps her back to us, but stands at the counter, bracing her weight on the edge for a moment, before she finally turns around to face us.

I’m glad I’m holding the casserole dish, because I desperately want to fidget.

Her brown eyes go directly to me, looking me over from head to tie like she’s inspecting a loaf of day-old bread for mold. I stand a little straighter, attempting a smile and then quickly dropping it upon remembering this is a solemn occasion.