Total pages in book: 77
Estimated words: 75062 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 375(@200wpm)___ 300(@250wpm)___ 250(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 75062 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 375(@200wpm)___ 300(@250wpm)___ 250(@300wpm)
“But she is cooking,” I insisted.
“Sort of. She will be cooking when we get there. And then the other women will help out as they trickle in. It’s a casual thing. The time is a suggestion, not a demand. But I’m ready,” he told me as he slipped in his cufflinks. “You look amazing,” he told me, pressing a kiss to my cheek because I’d put on some red lipstick because I thought it might make me seem a little more confident than I felt. “Let’s get going before you get yourself any more worried.”
With that, we left his surprisingly cozy modern-styled home and headed just about eight minutes—yes, I was watching the time—down the road to his mother’s house.
She had a completely different style preference than her second son.
Instead of his sleek, modern, minimalistic style, Giulia liked all things classic and intricate.
It applied to her home itself—a Second Empire style home with its duel-pitched hip roof and ornate cornices and balustrades.
It also applied to her gardens that were plentiful and abundant with all sorts of flowers—poppies, allium, columbines, delphiniums, and irises. There were ferns hanging from the roof of the porch.
Even the front path had a pattern to the pavers.
“You alright?” Massimo asked as I stopped near the steps to the porch and looked up at the house.
“Yeah. I was just thinking that this looks like the house where everyone’s favorite grandma lives. Like there would always be fresh cookies out of the oven and a big playground in the back.”
“Do me a favor and tell my mother that. She will eat it up,” he said, pressing a hand to my lower back to lead me in.
There were quite a few cars in the driveway and on the road, but I don’t think I had truly been prepared for the number of people that would be inside, despite all of Massimo’s warnings about how many of his family members showed up to events.
But as soon as the front door open, I was hit by all the sounds. Voices, laughter, the clanking of pots and pans, and from somewhere deep in the house, low, bluesy music.
There were even two people standing just inside the entryway beside the center staircase, talking. Like they couldn’t wait to get into one of the rooms to catch up.
“Deep breaths,” Massimo said, reaching to take my hand in his, lacing our fingers, then giving me a reassuring squeeze.
With that, he led me straight past the couple who didn’t even turn to acknowledge us.
“They know it has to be Ma first,” he told me, reading my mind.
“Oh, wow,” I gasped as we moved into the kitchen.
I understood his mom’s feelings on his kitchen being a little cold now that I saw the one she spent so much of her time in.
It was a giant space dominated by a long, vintage table down the center instead of an island. It had a partial wooden top and a partial natural stone, with big drawers beneath for storage.
In its own cubby to the side was a giant black vintage-style range with brass accents, three oven doors, eight burners, and a pot filler.
There was tons of natural light, a pantry with the door slightly ajar, and a massive blue storage cabinet for her dinnerware.
I didn’t get a chance to tell Massimo how amazing it was, because someone heard me speaking, and everyone seemed to turn at once.
“Oh, there she is!” a woman cheered, throwing her hand up in joy.
Giulia Grassi was a surprisingly short woman, given the height of her children, with her nearly black hair pulled half up. She had her medium-frame dressed in black slacks and a floral shirt under a deep red apron.
“Oh, you are even more beautiful than my boys told me,” she added, moving around the table toward me, reaching out toward my face, framing it with her hands.
“Ma, this is Cammie. Cammie, this is my Ma, Giulia.”
“Come, come,” Giulia said, pulling me away from Massimo. “Come talk with us while we make the ravioli,” she said. “Here. Sit, sit,” she said, dusting off a chair for me.
“I would love to help,” I offered, even though, admittedly, my only experience with ravioli was when it came in a can.
“No, don’t be silly! You’re the guest. You can help the day after tomorrow,” she added, already including me in the family. “We have Little Antony’s birthday,” she told me.
“We’re making salmon piccata,” another voice chimed in, making me turn to look where it came from.
And there she was.
Valley.
It had to be Valley.
She looked just like her siblings and her mom, wearing a sleek green dress and heels that made my feet hurt for her.
“Oh, God, your face,” she said, beaming at me. “I was screwing with you. August said you weren’t a fan of fish. Guess that wasn’t an exaggeration. I’m—“