Hank. Ella instantly remembered everything about him from the old days. He was still in there, that guy she’d loved on and given every bit of herself to. Not only that, somehow she felt like she knew everything that was going on inside of the new Hank—who somehow felt like the old Hank. But sturdier, more sophisticated, sexier.
Was he the new and improved Hank?
She didn’t know. But he was Hank. Hank! And she was home again, back in his arms. She couldn’t believe she was letting it happen, letting Hank kiss her, really kiss her, with a hot, exploring tongue that didn’t bother with the preliminaries. He was all man, and he told her with his urgency that he found her all woman. And if they continued like this a minute longer, they would wind up in the bedroom. Or she might find herself on the kitchen counter.
She kissed him back: locked in, zoned out. And if she wasn’t careful, her heart was going down.
One more kiss … just one more, she promised herself.
And then she pulled away.
His pupils were huge.
Her breath came in little hitches.
“We can’t—” she said.
“We just did,” he said back, and reached for her hand.
She put it behind her back. “Hank, no.”
When she said that, he drew in a breath. “Okay. We’ll stop. But it was fun while it lasted. And I want to do it again. Don’t you?”
Of course she did. But she wasn’t going to tell him that. “People do dumb things when they’re stuck in a small house together.”
“This is a really small house,” he said.
She could tell he wasn’t going to push. He was being respectful, tuned in to her needs, and she appreciated it. In that moment, they went back to normal. “Normal” meaning that they weren’t kissing.
“We have to get out of here,” she said quickly and looked around for the lid to the pot of sauce. She also wanted a few kitchen towels to wrap around it. “I’m going to get this ready, and you can go change, and then we can stop at Harris Teeter on the way and get my mom those flowers you wanted to get her.”
“And wine,” he reminded her.
“She’ll be thrilled,” Ella said, striving to sound warm and friendly, but not overly familiar. It was how she addressed people she didn’t know well in social or business situations. She honestly didn’t know how else to act with Hank at this point. She went back to opening drawers and trying to look busy.
The post-kiss era had begun. What did that kiss mean? And how could she forget it? She’d be thinking about it all night.
“Hey,” he said, “I like being around you.”
It was such a simple, wonderful thing to say. Ella was touched. But she had to keep things real. “You know better than most that I have my moments,” she said, “and they can get pretty dark.”
“I know.” His expression was serious. “But you face things head-on and work through whatever’s bothering you. You don’t let it win, and—and I envy that.”
He was right. She didn’t run. That was a huge strength of hers. Except for that one time she ran away from New York after getting her heart broken by a man—and left her big dream behind.
She had to think for a second how to say what she wanted to say. “You’re right that I like to tackle my issues. But I’ve run before. Don’t forget I ran away after we broke up. To this day, I regret that. As happy as I am here in Charleston, I have the occasional what-if moment about leaving my career dreams behind. So don’t go thinking I’m doing everything right.”
“But Ella—”
“Wait a minute,” she said, and studied his face. “I’ve only just figured out in the last couple of years that it’s less about getting things right, Hank, and more about getting things done. Taking action, moving forward, however messy it is, however many mistakes you make along the way. That’s more important than getting things right because, honey”—she’d picked up a little of Miss Thing’s Southern style of conversing—“life’s too short for what-ifs. I still have to remind myself of that. It’s probably a lifelong challenge to stay in the present and not worry about the past or the future.”
“See?” he said, and took her by the elbows. “You’re wise. And you help people around you.”
“So do you, through your acting. What I want to know is why you don’t give yourself more credit for hitting the big-time.”
“Because I see talented people who never come close. It was luck. I know I’m not the most talented. I was in the right place at the right time.”
“Wrong,” Ella said. “You were in the right place at the right time, prepared for success. You got yourself ready. You weren’t just twiddling your thumbs. It was more than luck, Hank. You worked your butt off, and you need to own your part in it.”
His eyes gleamed. “I’ll think about that.”
“You’d better.”
He saluted her. “Aye aye, Cap’n. Whatever you say.”
She chuckled. He’d just channeled one of her favorite characters he’d ever played, a U.S. Navy ensign in World War II. “You’re lucky you can get away with being a smart aleck,” she said. “Not everyone can pull out diversionary tactics quite so unique.”
“It’s a big perk of my superstardom,” he said with exaggerated effect, “which I had some hand in.”
He winked at her, and he was so cute in that moment, she could hardly breathe. “You’re a good pupil,” she said, and turned away from him to compose herself.
“You’re a good friend,” he said back.
She turned to face him, surprised at the sweet compliment.
“Thanks, Ella,” he added softly. “You did it again. You made me feel better. Just by being you.”
“You’re welcome, Hank.” She could hardly get the words out. She was falling for him again. “You’d best get upstairs, Ensign, and change your clothes,” she said. “Feel free to dress down for Mama’s. Jeans are good.”
So, of course, when he came back downstairs, changed into a summer-weight white button-down shirt, worn Levi’s, brown Sperrys, and a belt embroidered with nautical flags—“They spell out my name in flag code,” he said with a grin, “a gift from Mom”—he reported that he was ready to take on the Mancini clan.
“Let’s get going, Charleston boy,” Ella said.
“This is a Hamptons clam bake look,” Hank insisted, and picked up the big pot of sauce. “It complements your hipster, Union Square farmers market in spring look, don’tcha think?”
She glanced down at her halter sundress. “This is not what I’d call hipster, Union Square farmers market in spring. I’m going for an Isle of Palms beach shack shop post–Labor Day sale look.”
“Whatever it is, you look fantastic,” he said.
She eyed him. “No flirting.”
“No way.” He eyed her back just as sternly.
Satisfied, she followed behind him to the front door, and tried not to look at his backside in those Levi’s. But it was impossible not to. She indulged herself while she could, and then he opened the door and turned, the delicious view gone—for the moment, at least.
Ella shut the door behind her. It was still light out, the height of summer. It wouldn’t get dark until after eight.
“I wonder how Pammy’s doing,” he said, and wedged the pot of sauce on the floor of the back seat between a few bricks they’d found in the potting shed behind the carriage house. The lid was on tight, but even so, the delicious aroma of a good meat sauce filled the car when they got in.
“I texted her to let her know where we are,” Ella said, “in case her date is over before we get back to the house.”
“That was nice.”
“She wrote back that she was killing it.” Ella laughed. “They’re walking around the Market with all the tourists. The merchants know Reggie, of course, so they’re saying hello. Pammy said she’s being treated like a queen, especially at the food stalls. She’s getting free samples right and left.”
“I’m glad she’s having fun.”
“Me too. She’s doing great. I think her nerves were more about being a little homesick. Maybe her parents can come out and see her soon.”
“I’ll fly them out.” Hank sounded relaxed. Sort of like the old Hank who used to hang out with her on a blanket in Central Park, a basket of grapes and Saga cheese and good bread between them. They’d chug wine from a Thermos.
“You mean, like on a private jet?”
He shrugged. “It’s a perk.”
Ella enjoyed the companionable silence that fell over them as she navigated the narrow streets, so many of which were one-ways.
When they turned onto East Bay Street, she braked to let a couple of tourists with cameras cross in the middle of the street since no one was behind her. “Harris Teeter on East Bay Street is Charleston’s biggest social gathering spot,” she told him.
A minute later, they were at the door. Hank opened it for her, and they made quick work of getting a vase of Mama Mancini’s favorite, gerbera daisies. She liked all colors of them, Ella said, so Hank got her red, pink, and orange. And then he picked up a couple of bottles of the most expensive red wine in the place. When they were almost to the register, he turned back around and got two cases of the same stuff. A clerk went in the back and grabbed two cardboard boxes and loaded them up.
“So everyone can have a taste,” Hank said, “and then your mother can keep some for later.”
“Really,” Ella said, mortified, “you don’t have to do this.” She felt terrible. The bill was going to be around a thousand dollars. Harris Teeter prided itself on carrying good wine.
“I know I don’t,” Hank said in line at the register. “But let me get some pleasure out of making so much money. Most of it just sits there collecting interest.”
“All right,” she said, hating to cave in. She didn’t want to feel beholden to Hank, and now he was spending a fortune on wine for her family. She hoped he wasn’t doing it for her.
“Don’t think I’m trying to buy my way back into your good graces either,” he said, reading her mind. “I’ve gotten spoiled. I like nice wine, and I can afford it. This has zero to do with me and you.”
Me and you.
“Got it,” she said, feeling slightly relieved. And then disappointed. A secret part of her that she only reluctantly acknowledged wanted Hank to try to please her. The truth was, she was lying pretending she could be around him and not let romantic thoughts about him—about them—intrude.
She missed him. Plain and simple.
At Mama’s, the curb on both sides of the street was lined with Mancini vehicles. There was a preponderance of old Dodge Challengers from the Dirty Harry era, mainly because in New York, no Mancini had needed a car. So when they’d arrived in Charleston, Uncle Sal had bought a fleet of first-generation Challengers, built between 1970 and 1974, from the widow of a collector in Myrtle Beach who sold them at a massive discount to him because she was moving to a nursing home. Uncle Sal had gifted them to the family because “I want you all to have wheels,” he’d said. “But you need to get a license first. Even you, Mama Mancini.”
The cars were a gift to everyone, a result of selling their family restaurant in the Bronx at a tremendous profit, the one Papa had been a partner in. Ella was the only one with a “normal” car, a boring four-door sedan she’d bought when she’d first arrived in Charleston. It turned out that Mama loved her hot rod, adored driving, and was the best driver in the entire family.
“Whoa,” Hank said, when he saw the cars, all the hoods striped, the bodies painted either cobalt blue, scarlet red, lemon yellow, white, black, or silver.
“People come by to look at them on Sunday afternoons,” Ella said. “That’s when we gather at Mama’s for dinner.” She told him their purchase history.
Hank laughed. “I want to meet this Uncle Sal.”
“He’s great,” Ella said.
“I loved your family restaurant in the Bronx,” Hank said, “especially the marinara sauce. So simple yet robust. I used to dream about it after you left.”
“You did?” Somehow that got her right in the heart.
“Yes, but I was afraid to go back.”
It was a shame, but she understood.
“Anyway,” he said, “every time I was there with you, it never had an empty table.”
“It was very successful.” Ella was proud of Papa and her whole family. Everyone had played a part. “That marinara sauce is my great-great-grandmother’s recipe. I’ve finally learned how to make it.”
“You have?”
She laughed. “Yes, I was a haphazard cook when I was younger. But I’m starting to appreciate devotion in the kitchen.”
“I always loved your cooking.”
“Well, you’ll get to see how much I’ve improved.”
“I’m very lucky,” Hank said.
She believed he meant it. Hank wasn’t a person who tossed out meaningless compliments. They walked up the sidewalk side by side. She carried the pot of sauce. He lugged the two cases of wine, one stacked on the other. They must have weighed a ton, but he had the biceps and triceps to handle them.
“I’ll send a nephew or niece out for the flowers,” Ella said.
She had the strangest feeling as they strode together, their steps matching. It felt as if they were a couple. They were in sync again. The pot of sauce was their mutual offering, that and the wine and the flowers.
She stole a glance at his gorgeous profile, his stubbled jaw and defined cheekbones. “You’ll be fine,” she said. “Don’t worry, okay?”
He chuckled over the top of the boxes. “I’m not worried. I’m excited.”
“You are?” That made her happy.
“Very. These are your people.”
He said it as if that made them special, which was sweet of him. “Yes, they are,” she replied. The Mancinis weren’t exactly polished. And no one would ever peg them as being from Charleston. But this was the place the Mancinis called home now—this Southern city, which they’d embraced with utter faith that they could make their contribution to the community and be happy here.
They had made their mark in only a few short years, and they were very happy.
The next thing Ella knew, she and Hank were swept up in a crowd of loud talkers who whisked the pot of sauce out of her arms, then kissed her and hugged her tight without her even getting to explain Hank’s presence.
“Wait,” she yelled over the noise, and watched two teenage Mancini nephews carrying the cases of wine toward the kitchen. A younger sister—not Jill, who was still in New York with Cosmo—carried the pot of sauce. “I need someone to get the flowers out of the car—and to introduce someone to you!”
“We know him!” cried Nonna Sofia. “He’s that lovely young officer from the World War Two movie!”
“And the other movie where he takes the queen as a lover even though his head might get chopped off!” shouted Nonna Boo. “Abbiamo visto il suo culo nudo!” she called to eight people huddled in a corner—the Sicilian relatives. We’ve seen his naked butt!
Ella and her three younger sisters in their twenties—two of them married with kids—and her fourteen-year-old niece giggled.
“Abbiamo visto anche il suo culo nudo!” called back one of the Sicilian relatives. We’ve seen his naked butt too! He was a skinny old man with closely cropped white hair, large blue eyes, and an unshaven face. He wore a faded coat and a shirt buttoned up to his neck.
“My goodness,” Mama shouted. “We’ve all seen his naked butt—except the children. It’s Hank! Hank Rogers! Ella’s old beau!”
“The one who dumped her?” cried Uncle Sal.
Ella cringed.
“The very one,” said Mama, but she didn’t sound angry. She sounded happy. So very happy.
What was that about?
Ella wished Jill was here to ask. Sometimes she got Mama better than the other sisters. But Ella didn’t have time to think about Mama at the moment. She tossed her keys to a nephew and told him to get the flowers from the car and put them in the kitchen. Then she caught a glimpse of her ex-lover out of the corner of her eye. He was surrounded by younger Mancini cousins, all of whom had seen him in a big Christmas movie the year before. He’d played Santa Claus’s misunderstood brother in a screen adaptation of K. O. Cronkite’s bestselling children’s novel, I Am Santa’s Brother.
“It’s Derrick!” they were yelling. A few hopped up and down.
The youngest one, four-year-old Margaret, was crying. Tears of joy, apparently. “D-Derrick,” she stuttered through her tears. “I love you soooo much. Can you call Santa right now?”
Poor Margaret! Ella couldn’t help but laugh. It was funny to think of Santa having a brother named Derrick. Margaret certainly thought Santa did.
“My brother’s busy eating cookies right now, sweetheart,” said Hank. “Gimme some snow slaps.” That was nerdy Derrick’s signature greeting. Hank held out his hand. Every kid lined up and slapped his palm, then said, “Ice to meet you!”
“Ice to meet you too,” he said back in his Derrick voice.
Oh, God. Hank was excellent with kids. Willing to look like an idiot in the name of getting a laugh, yet he also looked like a hero. The character Derrick learned that not comparing himself to his brother Nicholas was the key to finding his own happiness. The kids gazed at Hank with shining eyes. Yet another reason to fall in love with him again—
Which Ella definitely refused to do.
All night long, she refused, even when he shyly offered the vase of gerbera daisies to Mama, then took her hand and kissed the back of it and said how sorry he was that he never told her when he was dating Ella that he admired her strength after the loss of her husband. Ella refused to fall in love with him again when he told Nonna Sofia she had the eyes of a screen siren, and when he told Nonna Boo she was funny and he wanted to call her every day for a new joke.
Ella also refused to fall in love with him when he caught her gaze across the table when one of her younger sisters, the single one, twenty-one-years-old, was telling everyone that true love did not exist, that every guy she went out with turned out to be a frog.
“You’ll find your prince someday,” said Mama.
“Huh,” said Ella’s single sister. Cara was her name. It meant “dear.”
“And when you do, you’ll know it,” said Nonna Sofia. “But it won’t be a big moment. It will be a quiet one.”
“Don’t knock those big moments,” Nonna Boo said with a chuckle.
Nonna Sofia began to laugh with her, although more quietly. It was a knowing laugh from both of them, one that clearly had everything to do with the unbridled joys of sex.
“Nonnas,” Uncle Sal chided them. “We’ve got company.” He indicated Hank.
Hank grinned. “I’m enjoying myself immensely,” he assured the table.
“He’s enjoying himself,” Nonna Boo said, and kept chuckling along with Nonna Sofia.
“Mama,” said one of the nieces, age eight, “why are the nonnas laughing?”
“They’ve had a great deal of fun in life,” said one of Ella’s younger married sisters.
Ella looked at Hank and grinned. What the heck. It wasn’t going to kill her to share some funny moments with him.
Mama repeated the snippet of conversation in Italian for the Sicilian side of the family. All evening, translations had been tossed around the table, and the Sicilians would nod and sometimes offer extended comments that Mama would translate for the younger crowd. Not everyone at the table was fluent in Italian. Not by a long shot, including Ella.
Now the Sicilian guests laughed and two of them rattled off some Italian, and laughed some more, along with Mama, Uncle Sal, and the nonnas.
“It’s time,” said Nonna Sofia, and took her knife and hit the long table that ran the length of the living room—the only room that could accommodate two long tables end-to-end, and a round cousins’ table—with the bottom of the handle, making the nearby wine glasses filled with Hank’s delicious wine rattle. “It’s time for the story of my shoe.” She stared at Ella. “Only you may hear it.”