Sal takes a couple steps closer to me and she cuts a glance in his direction at the movement.
“Ma, this is Francesca.” Then, to me, he says, “I know you’ve been looking forward to meeting Ma and I already said this, but this is my mother, Yvonne.”
I turn to place the casserole dish down on the round wooden table behind me, running my hands briefly over the bottom of my dress and turning back to offer her an apologetic sort of smile. “It’s a pleasure to meet you. Sal—Salvatore’s told me so much about you. I can tell you’re a wonderful mother, and you raised such an incredible son.”
Her lips curve up, but there’s no humor in her eyes. “Francesca Morelli,” she says, putting a slight emphasis on my last name. “My husband never liked your kind. Of course, I don’t have to tell you that.”
There’s a sensation like ice cold water running through me and my halting smile drops completely. I wait optimistically for her to finish that statement with something unexpectedly nice, like, “but I’m not my husband—welcome to the family!”
Instead she wraps it up with, “Morelli Scum, he called your family.”
“Okay,” Sal interrupts, frowning lightly at his mother. “Anyway, Francesca made some muffins for you. They’re really good—she runs her own bakery.”
“Women shouldn’t run businesses.”
I’m not about to argue. “It’s my brother’s bakery,” I offer, like that makes it better.
Her unpleasant smile grows tighter. “Mateo Morelli. Antonio liked him less than anyone.”
My stomach feels like it’s sinking over and over again. This is so not how I wanted this to go.
“Ma,” Sal says, giving her a look somewhere between firm and pleading.
“What?” she asks, turning a sneakily reprimanding look on him. “Your father’s murdered at the hands of her family and I have to welcome her into his home?”
“Don’t do this,” Sal says, shaking his head. “Francesca had nothing to do with what happened to Dad.”
“The hell she didn’t,” she says, raising her voice. Jabbing a finger in my direction, she says, “If not for this girl, your father would still be here right now. How you can even look at her, I’ll never know.”
My stomach roils with anxiety and guilt. She’s right, I just didn’t think she’d point it out.
Turning her vitriol back on me, she says, “Your brother should be dead, not my husband, but you manipulated my son—”
“Stop,” Sal says, pushing me back and stepping in front of me. “Stop it. I know you’re in pain, but stop. You’re my mom and I want to be here for you, but I can’t do that if you’re going to be mean to the woman I love. Don’t lash out at her. She didn’t do anything. She’s been wanting to meet you for months, and this is the welcome she gets? Come on, Ma.”
I have no idea if Sal defending me will make things better or worse, but my money is on worse. Placing a hand on his shoulder, I lean in so I can talk quietly. “Why don’t I just let you two spend some time together and I’ll go? It was too soon. We should’ve given her more time.”
Glancing back over his shoulder, Sal says, “No.”
“It’s fine,” I assure him. “Honest. I can get a ride and you can meet up with me after you spend some time with your mom.”
Actually, that’s what I want to do now. There’s no coming back from this. No amount of sudden friendliness could erase the unpleasantness of the last several minutes, so I’d prefer to just scrap this day and call it a loss. We’ll try again another time, when maybe her pain won’t be so fresh and she won’t hate me so much.
“Francesca—”
I shake my head, leaning in to kiss him on the cheek. “I’ll just call Vince. It’s fine.” Then, looking to his mom, I add, “I’m so very sorry for your loss.”
Before she can respond or Sal can try to stop me again, I head back the way we came and flee the Castellanos house.
—
I grab a French fry out of the basket in the center of the table and point it at Mia like a finger. “All I’m saying is, there are perks to joining our family. We may be emotionally unhealthy, utterly dysfunctional assholes, but we’re all basically orphans, so you don’t have to meet our parents.”
Wincing in solidarity, she says, “I’m so sorry it went so horribly. I can’t believe she said all that.”
“To your face,” Vince adds, grabbing a communal fry and popping it in his mouth.
After Vince rescued me from Yvonne’s house, we dropped by his to pick up Mia. Sal didn’t want me to leave by myself, but I assured him we would hang out and wait for him, then we could have a friendly meal with people who don’t hate me. Now we’re commiserating in a corner booth at a quiet little diner, waiting for Sal.