He says this very matter-of-factly. “Look at you, all mature and stuff.” I’m still keeping my voice light, but the simplicity of the statement, that he likes me as a friend in an important enough way to believe that even if we break up we would still be in each other’s lives, this makes my stomach relax. I don’t have that many friends, and other than Lawrence, who sort of doesn’t count, no real guy friends. It’s nice to think that if we don’t make it romantically, I won’t lose him entirely. And any woman is set at ease when the new man in her life tells her very sincerely that he isn’t going to hurt her.
Shawn shrugs, chopping chives deftly. “I’m a hopeful romantic, but also a realist. We’re off to a perfectly grand start. If I were a betting man, I’d bet on us. But you and I have both been here before; we know that it doesn’t always stay that way. Eventually you are going to find out about my many flaws, and some of them might not be the kinds of things you can overlook. I’m going to put my trust in both of us to be adults, and if something comes up that is a deal breaker for either of us, then we’ll talk about it intelligently. If it means we can’t be together, we’ll agree to stay pals. Because, to be sure, Eloise Kahn, I really like having you in my life, even if someday you can’t be in my bed. Deal?” He sticks out his pinky like an old-school playground promise. I take it in mine and we shake. Then he puts down the knife, wipes his hands on a towel, and walks around the island to where I’m sitting.
“Many flaws, huh?” I say as he pulls me off of the bar stool and into his arms.
“I’m for sure not going to tell you about those until I’ve put you in a very forgiving mood.” And he leans in and kisses me so hard and so long that any fears I have are just a little bit of noise in another room, faint and far away and really not scary at all. His hands hold my head to his, the kiss as precise and perfect as any we’ve ever kissed, and my hands slide around his back, feeling his strong muscles tighten as his arms move down to hold me firmly against the length of his body. He pulls away, and kisses my forehead gently. “But first, I’m gonna feed you!” This makes me giggle, and he rumples Simca’s fur and sneaks her another crumb of cheese before going back to his side of the island to finish making me dinner.
Everything is delicious.
And fruitcake may be my new favorite breakfast.
? ? ?
I’d like to propose a toast!” Gio says, standing at the head of the table. “To a wonderful Christmas for all of our friends and family. Thank you for celebrating with us! And to all of the chefs, especially my beautiful wife!” There are cries of “cin cin” and “hear hear” and plenty of clinking of glassware. Gio looks a million miles away from where I sit next to Teresa at the opposite end of the table. We’ve moved all of the living room furniture out to the garage in order to set up this massive long table that starts in their dining room and goes all the way out through their sunroom. There are thirty people here at the grown-up table, and at least fifteen “kids” in the kitchen.
The feast is family-style, of course. Every six-person section of the table has its own set of identical dishes: garlicky roasted chicken with potatoes, a platter of fat sausages and peppers, rigatoni with a spicy meat sauce, linguine al olio, braised broccoli rabe, and shrimp scampi. This is on top of the endless parade of appetizers that everyone has been wolfing down all afternoon: antipasto platters piled with cheeses and charcuterie, fried arancini, hot spinach and artichoke dip, meatball sliders. I can’t begin to know how anyone will touch the insane dessert buffet . . . I counted twelve different types of cookies, freshly stuffed cannoli, zeppole, pizzelles, a huge vat of tiramisu, and my favorite, Teresa’s mom’s lobster tails, sort of a crispy, zillion-layered pastry cone filled with chocolate custard and whipped cream.
I got here bright and early to help out, right after I dropped off a big vat of macaroni and cheese and a chocolate sheet cake with pecans, both from Mrs. O’Connor’s recipes, to Glenn. He was very grateful for my providing his potluck offerings; his family told him it wouldn’t be Christmas without those dishes, and he is still pretty hopeless in the kitchen. We sat over coffee and a couple of muffins and I promised that as long as he needed me to, I would make those recipes for him every Christmas, and we held hands and he told me some fun Christmas stories from his life with Helene and I told him some about my dad and we both cried a little bit. I invited him to come to dinner with Mom and Aunt Claire New Year’s Day and he readily agreed.
Teresa is finally out of the boot, but still can’t stand or walk for very long stretches. The boys set up the tables and chairs, and I dressed them with Teresa’s red tablecloths and green napkins and gold holly napkin rings. The plates and flatware are all plastic—it would be way too many dishes—but the glassware is real, rented from a local company, which will pick them up dirty tomorrow, so we don’t have to worry about cleaning. Small centerpieces of mini rosemary bushes trimmed to look like Christmas trees and decorated with bits of tinsel are perfuming the whole room with a wonderful piney aroma, and all the aunts and sisters and sisters-in-law will get to take them home as parting gifts.
Everyone started arriving at about two this afternoon, laden with platters and bowls and cooler bags full of food, and the house became a riot of children laughing and stories being told in Italian and English, and copious eating and drinking. I had seventeen versions of the same conversation about where I had gone, and how special it was for me to be back in Teresa’s life. I heard all about the accomplishments of all of the cousins, from dance recitals to Brownie badges to sporting triumphs to fabulously successful summer lemonade stands. And of course, being the trained chef in a room full of passionate home cooks, I was asked for opinions on every dish, seasoning, flavors, and, of course, whose was better than the others. Taking a cue from Teresa, who is very good at family diplomacy, I would wink at each sister or sister-in-law or aunt and say, “Now, you know I can’t claim favorites, but you also know what’s what.” Giving each woman the complete confidence that I had just admitted that she was absolutely the best cook in the room without getting myself in trouble.