I hustle back to the front to wish the women goodbye. They hardly seem to notice me. Bev and Lucia are talking about covering shifts at the local animal shelter. Carol is adjusting the top of her blouse, asking if it sends the wrong message for a first date.

  “It’s coffee with Ray Morris, Carol. What kind of messages do you think that man is going to pick up on from a blouse?” Bev is unzipping a fanny pack that is hanging around her waist and then digging around for her car keys. “Besides,” she adds, a heavy note of judgment in her tone. “Aren’t you and Earl still married?”

  Carol primly adjusts the fuchsia top to cover her cleavage with a bit more modesty. “We’re separated,” she clarifies. “And it’s complicated. These things take time. While Earl is sorting out what he needs, well…in the meantime, I’m sorting out mine.”

  Bev barks a rough laugh. “For the love of all that’s holy, Carol, don’t let Ray Morris be the one to scratch your feminine itch. And if he does, please don’t tell us about it.”

  They are all giggling and talking, but as Lucia pulls open the door and holds it for her friends, she cocks her chin and calls out to me. “Chloe, honey. Where’re your aunt’s welcome bells? You don’t want to be in the back and not know if a customer comes in the store!”

  I nod and scan the floor and the front counter, but I don’t see them. “Bob’s nephew took them down when they came to deliver the television.” He’d said the constant ringing would be noise we didn’t need while they were going in and out. But it looks like he didn’t replace them before they left. “I’ll find them,” I assure her. “Thanks.”

  She is fussing with a pair of massive sunglasses when she shouts to her friends and trots back into the shop.

  “Chloe, you should come to my place for dinner on Sunday.” She’s breathless and looks excited, like she’s just been hit with inspiration. “My husband cooks, and Mario…” She pinches her thumb and fingers together, the tips of her nails clicking lightly, then kisses them and gestures at me with her hand in something that looks like delight. “He’s the real cook in the family. Home-cooked Italian food and good company. The whole family will be there…including my Franco.” She leans in a little closer and says in a hushed voice, “And don’t even think about bringing anything. You’re not a guest. You’re family.”

  I give her a weak smile. The thought of sitting down to eat with the bold, outrageous Bianchi family is a lot to take in.

  “I’ll try to make it,” I say vaguely. “I have so much work to do here in the shop.”

  “It’s dinner. You got to eat, and you haven’t eaten until you’ve had my husband’s meatballs. You can’t say no to Mario’s meatballs. Oh, maybe I can get him to make braciole. It’s to die for. He’ll do it. He’ll make it just for you. I’ll see you at six sharp, honey.”

  She doesn’t wait for me to respond and hustles down the block toward her ridiculously huge pickup truck. I can see just the top of her auburn-colored hair as she steps up on the running board and climbs behind the steering wheel of the burgundy beast.

  I head back inside Latterature. As overwhelmed as I was by the noise and color and chaos of Aunt Ann’s friends, somehow, without them here, everything in the shop seems strangely quiet and extremely lonely.

  3

  Franco

  I roll into my parents’ house close to an hour before dinner is served because I know if I’m not there to set the table, Vito will do it and he’ll fuck it all up.

  Of the four of us Bianchi siblings, two still live at home. Gracie, because even though she’s thirty, she’s the baby, and Ma and Pops give her absolutely no reason to move from the comforts of her childhood home.

  And then there’s Vito.

  We’re eleven months apart and practically went through everything at the same time, and yet we turned out to be two totally different men.

  We both like to work with our hands, but that’s where the similarities end. Vito’s a firefighter, and, to him, mealtime means setting out a stack of plates, a jumble of mismatched silverware, and letting everybody help themselves.

  Ma likes things a certain way, and while it may be extra work to pull out the cloth napkins and put the leaf in the dining room table, it makes her happy.

  Over the years, we’ve each fallen into roles in the family.

  Gracie is the baby, so she’s off the hook, no matter what the issue is. I’m surprised Ma and Pops even make her clear her own plate. She’s spoiled fucking rotten and can do no wrong.

  Benito, the second youngest, owns an Italian restaurant, but does he lift a finger to help Pops make dinner? Hell no. He can hardly pull himself from his restaurant most weekends for the couple hours it takes to eat and socialize before bolting out the door like he’s a CEO and not a chef.

  Benny’s cocky, annoying, arrogant, and hilarious, but what makes it so frustrating is he’s a genuinely good guy. He’s got the quickest temper of all of us, but he’s driven, generous, and a lot of other good qualities that I’ll never admit to his face. He’s a brilliant cook, having picked up a ton over the years from our parents and grandparents. But when he comes home, he’s all youngest son. The brilliant cook and demanding chef in him take a back seat, and he just lets himself be served and babied. Cocksucker.

  And then there’s me. The oldest. The one who moved out first—much to my parents’ horror—and who is probably the most responsible. I pay attention to my parents and what they need, even if they drive me up a fucking wall sometimes.

  They’re family.

  Wherever they are is my forever home, so even though I don’t live under their roof anymore, I show up early enough for table-setting duty.

  But today when I arrive, the table’s already set. And not only that, the table’s set for seven.

  There’s never an extra place setting.

  “Why’s it so quiet in here?” I hang my keys on the wall cabinet by the front door Pops built Ma after he retired. I nod at the dining room table, which I can see from the entryway. I kick off my boots and lift my brows at Gracie, who is snuggled down on the leather sectional nibbling the ends of her hair while she watches a football game.

  Gracie doesn’t bother looking up. “Franco,” she mumbles in greeting, her eyes locked on the huge screen that hangs over the fireplace.

  I drop down onto the couch, annoyingly close to Gracie. A huge, warm lump tucked under a crocheted afghan shifts as I rest my head on my sister’s shoulder. “Ladies,” I say, greeting my mother’s dogs. “Soooo.” I bat my eyelashes dramatically. “Watching your man play today?”

  “Shut up, heathen.” Grace reaches past the dogs to shove me away, but I grab her wrists and hold them tight, locked in an eternal brother-sister wrestling match.

  “Come on, Gracie. You can admit you’ve got a crush on that boy.” I release her hands when Venus, the most vicious of my mother’s dogs, starts barking. I stand beside the armrest and lean down to kiss the top of Grace’s hair. “Serious now. Are you all right?” I ask.

  Gracie looks up at me, a moment’s softness overtaking her hard glare. “Let it go, all right?” The vulnerability and sorrow in her eyes almost crack my heart in two.

  My sister doesn’t normally look sad. Her happiness is infectious, and her rage is entertaining. I don’t like this other place she’s been in lately. This melancholy, withdrawn space. But since she’s flipped the switch, I’m not about to drag her back down into something she clearly doesn’t want to talk about.

  Before I ask anything, she sets her lips in a line and jabs a finger into my chest. “Go change your socks. You stink, and Ma invited some girl over for dinner.”

  I know for a fact that my feet don’t stink, but I lift my leg as far as I can and wiggle my toes at her. “You want to eat my sock? Keep it up.”

  I drop the jokes and rest my ass on the armrest before Ma sees me and yells at me that I’m going to break the sofa. I stare daggers at the television where the most recent guy who broke my sister’s heart is playing defense for the Browns.

  This past spring, my sister tattooed a customer, and after she finished, they ended up having some hot and heavy fling.

  Turns out he’s a major player and not just on the ball field. Gracie’s a good girl. Smart, gorgeous. But she’s got awful taste in men.

  “We could watch the news if you just want to fall into a pit of depression,” I remind her, trying to lighten the mood. I tug on the ends of her hair but can’t even coax a smile out of her.

  She flicks my hand away. “Worry about yourself, Romeo,” she says. “Ma’s got a bug up her butt to marry you off.”

  I sigh and quickly yank myself off the arm of the couch as I hear Ma’s voice on the phone echoing through the house. “This is going to be some dinner,” I mutter and head over to the table to inspect the settings.

  Ma must have set it herself, because not only is the fall harvest tablecloth with matching napkins and bronze-colored maple leaf napkin rings already set for seven, I notice little pieces of paper with everyone’s name written out on them in my mom’s perfect cursive handwriting. I’m not even surprised when I see I’ve been assigned a seat next to Chloe.

  My breath catches a little in my chest as I think about Ann’s niece. It’s a weird reaction—part resistance and maybe part something else. But I’m not sure what, and I sure as hell don’t want to think about that right now.

  “What’s the bookstore girl doing at family dinner?” I bark out at no one in particular.

  Ma shifts immediately from whatever conversation she’s having on her cell phone to answering me. “Shh, Franco. I’m on the phone. Go open the wine. It needs to breathe.”

  I shake my head and wander into the kitchen.

  My father is standing at the small butcher block island, a well-worn red apron protecting his navy flannel shirt from splatters. He’s got a pair of reading glasses perched on the end of his nose, and he’s glaring at a package of breadsticks.

  “Son, what does this say?” Without even a hello, Pops shoves the glasses onto the mountain of wavy silver hair that almost perfectly matches mine in thickness and style and scowls. He scrubs a hand over the white bristles on his chin. “It might be time for something stronger than drugstore cheaters.”

  I take the package from him, then lean in and kiss him on the cheek, taking in his familiar cologne that’s fighting for dominance over the massive pot of sauce that’s bubbling on the stove.

  “Gluten-free rosemary garlic grissini,” I tell him, reading the label. “You cutting back on gluten, Pops?”

  He lifts his hands in surrender. “So, I grabbed the wrong package. There’s going to be enough gluten at the table to smother a hippo. A gluten-free breadstick ain’t going to kill anybody.” He motions to me with an aged, muscular hand. “Open that, and put them in a basket before your mother sees the package.”

  I tear open the extremely loud plastic wrapper and sniff the contents. “Mmm.” I take one of the grissini and give it a bite. “I don’t care what these are or are not made of. They taste damn good,” I assure him. “You get these at the specialty market the other day?” I smack my lips and dig in a cabinet for the woven cloth basket Ma likes to serve bread in.

  My dad nods. “Probably the last time I’ll drive that far until I get my eyes looked at. Don’t get old, son. Aging’s a bitch, and not the good kind.”

  “So, go to the eye doctor,” I tell him. “It’ll get Ma off your back, and then you can drive all over the state looking for cooking stores. It’s a pair of glasses. What’s the big deal?”

  Dad’s bent over the stove stirring one pot, checking the contents of the oven, and clicking off the kitchen timer just as it dings. “Yeah, yeah,” he says. “I’ll go, I’ll go. I’ve been busy. Open the wine, Franco. Two bottles tonight. Your mother invited a guest.”

  I rummage in the junk drawer for the bottle opener. “About that,” I grumble, turning to face my pops. “Why the hell is Ma inviting somebody to dinner?”

  My father echoes his favorite catchphrase as he turns to check on the braciole. “What’s the big deal? It’s one more person.”

  I can’t tell if my father is in on Mom’s plans to hook me up with her definition of a “sweet girl,” or if he’s choosing when and how exactly to battle his wife. An invitation to dinner is one thing. I can grin and be civil, but what Ma doesn’t know is a meal with the Bianchis is probably the worst way to entice Chloe to go out with me.

  One evening with all of us at the table and the woman will go running back to wherever it is she came from before she moved to Star Falls.

  I’m in the dining room uncorking our family’s favorite wine when Vito comes tumbling up the basement stairs, a pair of flowery oven mitts on his hands.

  “Hey, asshole.” I nod at him. “What’s for dessert?”

  One of the reasons my parents bought this house just after Gracie was born was the second kitchen in the basement.

  “What’s it smell like, dicknose?” Vito rushes past me, headed for the kitchen.

  I shake my head. He never learns. I uncork the second bottle of cab and wait for my dad to yell.

  “Vito, where do you think I’m going to find room for the cake to cool up here? Take it back downstairs, and put it on the cooling rack like I told you.” My father isn’t really mad. More like impatient.

  Vito, like I said, ain’t nothing like me. He doesn’t always think and mostly just runs around like a clueless, curious puppy.

  After more than thirty-five years as Mario Bianchi’s son, you’d think he’d know not to bring dessert upstairs until some space has been cleared after the meal.

  “Shit, yeah. Yeah. Sorry, Pops.” Vito comes shuffling back, his bare feet in a pair of open-toe house slippers dragging along the tile floors and a pair of threadbare flannel PJ bottoms sagging at his waist.

  “You going to dress for dinner?” I call after him. “Ma invited a guest.”

  He throws a scowl over his shoulder at me. “A guest? What the fuck?”

  “Language, Vito.” My mother is still on the phone but manages to hear my brother curse from someplace deep inside the house.

  I stifle a grin and set the bottles of wine on the table to breathe. I’m about to head back to the kitchen to help Dad when there’s a soft movement against my ankles.

  “V!” I shout, bending down to pick up another of Ma’s rescues. “One of the cats got out of the basement.”

  I pick the thing up, and it immediately melts into a vibrating engine of purring as I rub behind its ears. I stalk down the basement stairs, pulling the door closed behind me. “Dumbass, you know to keep the cats locked up down here while Dad’s cooking.” I set the cat down gently on the cool tile floor of the basement.

  Vito is setting the pineapple upside-down cake on the cooling rack on the basement kitchen counter—which he should have done in the first place. “Yeah, yeah, it’s fine,” he grumbles.

  He covers the cake with parchment paper and then grabs a cat toy that looks like a feather at the end of a fishing pole and coaxes the cat back into my old bedroom.

  I pull back the paper and sniff the cake. The buttery brown sugar topping is perfectly glazed, locking the bright red maraschino cherries right in the centers of the canned pineapple rings.

  It ain’t fancy, but it’s a taste of home. Of tradition. Of family.

  “Go change,” I tell him. “You’re going to give our mother a heart attack in that getup.”

  “It’s my day off. Just want to be fucking comfy.” Vito stomps up the stairs, and I hear him slam the basement door before he clomps through the house.

  “Franco!” My mother’s shouts echo through the basement.

  I check the door to my old bedroom to make sure Fred and Ginger are secure, but Ma’s already halfway down the stairs. “Honey, no. Let the cats out.” Ma is a blur of tight denim, red hair, and jangling bracelets as she rushes past me.

  “Why? I thought you wanted them locked up when Dad’s cooking?” I cock my chin and watch as Ma carries one cat and then the other out from my old room.

  “I’m fostering a doggie mama, Franco, and the cats make her nervous.” Ma checks the water and food dishes and strokes the head of the dog who clearly trusts her. “She’s going to be a hard one to give up,” my mom says thoughtfully. She does a quick check of each puppy, six in all, and then stands. “She is very gentle but already very protective of me and your father. Isn’t she gorgeous, honey? Don’t you think you might want a puppy when they’re old enough? You live all by yourself in that house…”

  “Ma.” I shake my head. “You know I’m renting, and I’m not home enough to take care of a puppy.” I watch the way the dog tracks my mother’s every move, as if she’d haul herself from a nest of puppies to protect Ma if I made the slightest wrong move. “What are they?” I ask.

  My mother shrugs. “Hard to say. She came into the shelter pregnant. Time will tell.” She loops her arm through mine, and we head upstairs. “Think about it. A puppy would be good for you.”

  Before I can remind her again why that would not be good for me, the doorbell rings.

  “Oh, that must be Chloe.” Ma hustles the rest of the way upstairs, and I follow, closing the basement door behind me. Dolce and Venus both start barking, and Ma turns her attention to the dogs. “Franco, you get the door.”

  While Gracie holds Venus in her arms and shushes her, Ma makes sure Dolce gets off the couch without hurting her aging hips.

  I have no clue what my mother told Chloe to entice the woman to come for family dinner, so I sigh and brace myself for the inevitable awkwardness.

  When I open the door, the only thing that’s awkward is the little catch in my throat.

  The sun is setting, and somehow the light catches on Chloe’s green eyes in a way that takes my breath away.

  She looks lost for a moment, shocked or maybe confused that I opened the door and not my mother.

  I stare at her without greeting her, licking my lips on instinct as I study her eyes, her hair, the sweet curve of her lips.