Celia slapped at his hands.
They walked hand in hand to the front door. Del reached for the doorknob, but the door pulled open before he had the chance to knock. Stevie stood in the entry shoving half his shirt into his khaki pants. He had his shoes on, but untied. No doubt he’d run upstairs from their room in the basement when he heard Del’s car. He gave Del a brief glance but his real interest was Celia.
“Hey, Stevie,” Del said.
“Hey, Uncle Del.” Stevie said it as if Del were an afterthought.
“You look good,” Del said.
“Mom made us get dressed up,” he said, still staring at Celia.
Mark hurried around the corner into the living room. His shirt was not tucked in and he had his shoes in his hand. He scowled at Stevie, then he too stared at Celia as he approached the front door.
“Hey, Mark.”
“Hey, Uncle Del.”
“Stevie, Mark, this is Celia.”
Celia stuck out her hand and the boys reciprocated.
“Nice to meet you,” they said.
“It’s nice to meet you both,” Celia said. “I’ve heard a lot of good things about you. I’ve heard you are exceptional baseball players. Del promised to take me to a game soon.”
The boys beamed. “We play on Saturday,” Stevie said.
“Uncle Del’s the coach,” Mark said.
“I heard,” Celia said. “Maybe he’ll invite me.”
The Little League had been short on coaches. Del had agreed, so long as he didn’t have to wear the pants.
Stevie looked to Del. “How come you haven’t invited her, Uncle Del?”
“Yeah, where are your manners?” Mark said.
“Yeah, where are your manners?” Stevie said.
“You’re like a stereo,” Del said. “Where are my manners? You two goofballs have left us standing out here in the cold. All right, step back and let us in.”
The inside of the house was spotless, the coffee table cleared, the couches free of food crumbs and newspapers. Soft jazz played from the speakers. “You guys cleaned up in here,” Del said. “It looks good.”
“Mom made us.”
“Yeah, Mom made us.”
“It smells terrific,” Celia said.
“Mom’s cooking manicotti,” Stevie said.
“We never get manicotti unless we have guests,” Mark said.
Maggie walked out from the kitchen. She wore blue jeans, a light-pink blouse, and flats. When she saw Celia, she smiled. “Hey,” she said to Del, pecking him on the cheek. “I was just checking on dinner.”
“It smells terrific,” Celia said.
“I hope you like Italian food,” Maggie said.
“Who doesn’t like Italian food?” Celia said. “You’re going to have to teach me how to make it.”
Maggie smiled and gestured to the couches. “Come in. Sit down.”
Del and Celia sat on the longer of the two couches.
“Stevie, bring out the hors d’oeuvres,” Maggie said.
“The what?”
“The hors d’oeuvres,” Maggie said.
“The plate with the olives and the prosciutto?”
Maggie rolled her eyes. “Yes. Mark, bring the wine and the glasses.”
“Do we get wine?”
“No,” Maggie said.
“It’ll stunt your growth,” Celia said.
The boys froze. “It will?”
“I knew a man who was six three. His son drank wine at dinner and never got taller than this.” She held her hand about three feet off the floor.
The boys’ eyes got as big as saucers. They looked to Del for some type of confirmation or refutation but he just shrugged as if to say, Don’t ask me.
The two boys turned and ran into the kitchen.
“I hope Del warned you about the two of them,” Maggie said.
“They remind me of two of my brothers. Eleven months apart. One never did anything without the other.”
Stevie carried in a plate loaded with Italian meats, olives, crackers, an eggplant spread, and various cheeses. He set it on the coffee table. Mark followed with a bottle of Chianti and three glasses.
“I hope you didn’t go to too much trouble,” Celia said. “This looks terrific.”
“Uncle Del got it,” Stevie said.
Del gave him the evil eye. This was supposed to be Maggie’s dinner party.
“Yeah, he, like, lives at Salumi,” Mark said.
“It’s his favorite restaurant,” Stevie said.
“At least he used to when he was fat,” Mark said.
“Thanks a lot,” Del said. He’d lost nearly twenty pounds.
The two boys laughed.
“He must really like you if he’s losing all that weight,” Stevie pressed.
Del cleared his throat. Celia held a hand over her mouth. “This is an Italian spread,” Del said, and he poured the three glasses of wine.
“Are you Italian?” Stevie asked Celia.
“Can I be an honorary Italian?”
Stevie shrugged. “I guess so.”
“She’s African American,” Mark said, popping an olive in his mouth and grabbing a piece of cheese.
“Is that so?” Celia said.
“We learned it in school.” Mark shrugged as if it was no big deal. He rolled a piece of prosciutto around two olives, eating it. “But you can be Italian.”
“All right, you two,” Maggie said. “You’re like a swarm of locusts. Leave some food for the guests and go finish setting the table.”
The two boys got up from their knees, grabbed a handful of olives and slices of meat, and went into the kitchen.
“Sorry about that,” Maggie said. “They can get a little personal.”
Celia smiled. “My son was a lot like them at that age.”
Maggie lost her smile. “Del mentioned you lost a son. I’m very sorry.”
“Thank you. I’m very sorry about Allie.”
Maggie nodded. Her eyes watered but she fought back the tears.
“It’s okay,” Celia said. “You’re going to cry.”
Maggie wiped the corner of her eyes with a napkin. “Does it ever get better?”
Celia set down her wine and put out a hand, taking Maggie’s. “You know I’d be lying if I said it did, right?”
Maggie nodded. “I know.”
“In time, though, you learn how to live with the pain. You learn how to live with all the memories, and you learn not to fear them. You learn to embrace them, to welcome them.”
Maggie started to cry. Celia got up and sat beside her. “It isn’t going to be better, Maggie. It’s going to be different, and different is okay. You just have to learn how to embrace it. Like anything, it takes time. What you have to realize is that crying is God’s way of helping us wash away the pain. So don’t you ever apologize for crying; it’s a reminder to us all that we’re human, and that we love our family with our entire being. And that’s a beautiful thing.”
Maggie smiled and wiped her tears. She inhaled a breath. “Your accent, where’s it from?”
“Georgia,” she said. “And it can get thick as syrup at times.” She smiled at Del, who sat on the couch with a tear in his eye. “Other times, people hardly even notice.”
“I notice,” Del said, raising his glass.
“It’s beautiful,” Maggie said.
“Yes, she is,” Del said, and he heard the snickers of two little boys who’d snuck back into the room behind him.