My smile is genuine this time. “You look lovely as always, Benedetta.”
“Oh, stop.” She grins, her cheeks flushing and her hands fanning her face. “You’re just as charming as Alonzo, God rest his soul in peace.” She crosses herself like she always does when she speaks of her late husband. “You have eaten yet, no?”
“I’m not hungry.”
She shakes her head, looking disappointed. “Non. A boy like you need mangiare, yes?”
“I guess, yes. But—”
“But, no.” She smooths her knuckles down my cheek before spinning around. Her gaze darts to the screen. “Oh, mio ciccino.” She sighs, her features softening as she looks at me. “She is the girl you love, yes?”
I begin to shake my head, but the knowing look in her eyes stops me. “H-how did you know?” I whisper.
She squeezes my arm in a comforting gesture. “I saw it in your eyes when you got here. I see it now. Why are you here and not with her in America?”
I rub my hands down my face. Benedetta has been working in the rectory as a volunteer since her husband passed away years ago, so she’s privy to the goings-on around here.
The kind look on her face prompts me to say, “I had to figure out where I belong.”
She cocks her head to the side, watching me intently. “And have you figured it out?”
I glance at the screen, a smile taking over my face. “Yes.”
She smiles and says, “A tutto c’è rimedio, fuorchè alla morte.”
I blink at her. “What does that mean?”
“‘There is a cure for everything except death.’ If this is your cure, then embrace it, yes?”
I nod, sitting up straighter in my seat, a fresh sense of purpose washing over me.
“Good.” She heads into the kitchen. “Now I make you some food to fill in those bones so you can be strong enough to get your girl.”
“Benedetta?”
She pauses at the door and faces me.
“She seems happy with him.” I hear what I’m feeling reflected in my voice. “I might be too late.”
“Are you happy?”
“Kind of.” I glance down at my hands. “I used to think that my heart belonged to only one person. One being. But now I know it’s bigger. So much bigger.” I meet Benedetta’s gaze. “Grace . . . she completes me.”
She smiles wide. “You have your answer.”
Thanksgiving
Lesley Gore’s chirpy voice streams through my phone’s speaker as she sings about sunshine, lollipops, and rainbows. I shimmy my shoulders to the beat of the song to loosen them, hoping to shake off the tension trapped in my bones.
The past few days have been excruciating, to say the least. The closer it got to dinner with my grandparents, the edgier I became. I’m not sure what to expect.
My phone starts ringing on my desk. I grab it and smile when I see Mom flash on the screen.
“Hey, Mama Bear,” I answer, still running high from adrenaline and nerves.
“Um, someone sounds chirpy.” She laughs. “I take it you’re not nervous anymore?”
I groan-laugh. “Oh, I’m nervous as hell.”
“Grace—”
“Sorry.” I sigh. “How’s the cruise? Where are you calling from?”
“We docked at St. Maarten, and I just wanted to check in with my baby.” Her voice is lighter. Happier. “I miss having Thanksgiving with you.”
“Oh, no, no. Don’t even think about it, Mom. I want you to enjoy yourself. I’ll be fine, okay?” I say. “Let Chris spoil you.” She sighs, and I quickly add, “Besides, a friend of mine invited me to hang out at his place—”
“Wait, his place?”
“Yeah. I mean . . .” I trail off, realizing what I just said in my haste to reassure my mother. “Uh, just a friend from school who lives a few minutes’ drive from campus. I’m not sure if I’ll go. Depends on how dinner with Emily and William goes.”
“Really?” Doubt fills that one word. “Tell me about this friend of yours.”
“It’s nothing—”
“Oh, I think it’s something. You are my daughter,” she says, her voice softer now. “You wouldn’t choose to spend time with this boy unless he’s something more.”
I smile. “He is something more,” I say quietly. “His name is Levi. Levi Keenan.”
“Levi,” she muses. “Wait, Levi? Ivan’s friend from Thanksgiving?”
“Yes. That’s him.”
“Oh. We didn’t get a chance to talk when he came over, but he seems nice. Go on.”
I glance at the clock on my phone. I don’t want to be late for my grandparents. Pressing it back to my ear, I say, “I probably need to head out. Mind the short version?”
“Whatever version you tell me, I’m here for it. Chris left the ship to buy some, uh, clothes.”
I giggle. “You mean you don’t have clothes on right now?”
“Of course I do. We got distracted and forgot to pack a few things—hey! Aren’t you supposed to be telling me all about Levi Keenan?”
I laugh. Placing my phone between my ear and shoulder, I grab my purse and head out while telling her the short version: how Levi and I met last year at the concert in Portland, then again here at James Fredricks, and that we’ve been hanging out.
“He sounds nice,” she says.
“He really is,” I reply, getting inside the car and driving off. “I think you’d like him.”
There’s silence on the line, the kind of quietness filled with unspoken questions.
“You like him a lot,” she finally says, but it sounds like a conclusion rather than a question.
I like him very much.
That’s what I want to say, but I don’t want to admit it. Saying it out loud would cement the words and make them more real. At this point, I just want to enjoy him and not worry about my heart getting too involved.
So I respond, “I enjoy spending time with him.”
We talk for a few minutes more before saying our goodbyes and promising to talk soon.
Once I arrive at the restaurant where I’m meeting my grandparents, I park in the lot allocated for guests, then head inside. I’m five minutes early, but as soon as I give the waiter my name, he flashes me a welcoming smile and takes me to the table. Before I know it, I’m trying hard not to squirm as I stand before an older version of my mother and a man with eyes shaped like hers. Both have black hair sprinkled with white.
Should I hug them? Shake their hands?
The decision is made for me when my grandmother steps away from the table with a smile.
“Oh, Grace,” she murmurs, hands clasped in front of her as if she’s trying to control herself. “Look at you. You’re all grown up and beautiful.”
“Hi, uh, Emily.” Crap. This is awkward. The smile on her face dims a little, and I feel like shit. So I add, “Grandmother.”
She smiles, but there’s sadness in her eyes. “Can I . . . can I hug you?”
I stare at her for a few seconds, my gaze darting to my grandfather, then back to her in surprise. When I first met them years ago, we didn’t hug or shake hands.