Chapter 14

ADA

Alex meets me in front of my houseboat at five. “I’m taking you to dinner,” he says.

I look down at my outfit: leggings and a thin sweater, hardly dinner attire—certainly nothing I’d wear to a restaurant in New York. “Let me go change.”

“No,” he says, smiling. “You look perfect just as you are. After all, this is Seattle. People wear jeans and fleece to the fanciest places.”

I grin. “All right, let me get my purse.” I run into the house, pull my hair into a ponytail, and swipe on some lip gloss, then grab my purse before returning to the dock.

Alex offers me his arm, and we walk up the dock to the street above the lake. “Serafina is just up the hill,” he says. “If you don’t mind a little hike.”

“Fine with me,” I say. “I walked everywhere in New York. I’m used to it.”

The little restaurant is nestled alongside Eastlake Avenue, and Alex holds the door open for me as soft jazz drifts out to the street. A three-piece band sits on a tiny stage in the dining room, and the saxophonist winks at me as the hostess makes her way over to greet us.

“Two for dinner,” Alex says.

The hostess smiles and shows us to a table by the window. I look around the dining room, and I can see that Alex is right. A couple leans over a tiny table across the room. He’s wearing cargo shorts and sandals, and her denim skirt is frayed at the edge. It’s not New York, but I can see how I could come to appreciate this lack of pretense.

“The gnocchi is amazing here,” he says. “Same with the eggplant, and the pumpkin ravioli. Basically the whole menu.”

I smile. “I love rustic Italian. My husband came from a big Italian food family.” I watch Alex’s face carefully for any signs that he may be put off by the subject, but instead he leans in closer with interest.

“I bet he had one of those amazing Italian grandmothers whose kitchen always smells like garlic and basil and tomatoes simmering.”

“Yeah,” I say. “His nonna.” The waitress deposits a glass of Chianti before me, and I take a sip, marveling that I don’t feel the least bit uncomfortable talking about James with Alex.

“How about you?” I ask. “Did you grow up in a food family?”

“No—that is, if you don’t mean Twinkies and bologna sandwiches.”

“Me, too,” I say. “Children of the eighties. It’s no wonder we all haven’t come down with cancer by now.” I grin at him from across the table. “So what do your parents think of your new career photographing food?”

His expression changes then. It’s less engaged and more closed off. “It’s a long story,” he says, before taking a sip of his sparkling water. “I—”

“It’s OK,” I say. I respect his privacy, just as he respects mine. We’ll share our pasts when we’re ready. And now may not be the time.

The waitress brings over an antipasto plate, and I pop a kalamata olive in my mouth. Its deep, sharp flavor lures me back to Sunday morning brunch in Nonna Santorini’s warm New York City kitchen.

Ten years prior

Nonna Santorini places a bowl of steaming hot pasta in front of me. The noodles are handmade; so is the sauce. She uses only San Marzano tomatoes, grown in the terra-cotta pots on her balcony. She cans them each fall to have enough for sauces through the rest of the year. “You like Parmigiano-Reggiano?” she asks, wielding a block of white cheese and a grater.

“Yes, please,” I say.

James winks at me and refills my wineglass.

“We must fatten her up if she make you baby,” Nonna says to James.

My cheeks redden.

“You hear that, Ada?” James says, elbowing me lightly. “Nonna wants great-grandchildren.”

I smile and take a bite. It’s my first time meeting James’s grandmother, and I instantly love her. She’s short and stout and beautiful. Her silky gray hair is pulled back into a bun, and she wears a white apron around her waist. Everything about her is warm. Her kitchen. Her smile. Her embrace. Her heart. I decide that when I’m seventy-five years old, I want to be exactly like her.

“Do you like the food?” she asks, pushing the pasta bowl closer to me. “Have more!”

“Thank you,” I say. “I will.”

“James, dear,” she says. “Go out to the fire escape and get a log to add to the fire.”

He sets his napkin on the table and stands up obediently.

“You want babies?” Nonna asks after James has left the room.

“Yes,” I say, a little startled. “At least I think so.”

“Good,” she says, pleased. “You make happy babies.”

My cheeks redden, and I can’t tell if it’s just from the wine or the fact that I’m talking to my boyfriend’s grandmother about, well, sex.

“He loves you,” Nonna continues, smiling to herself. “The way he looks at you. There is much love in his eyes.” She kisses the gold locket around her neck. “So much love.”

“You OK?” Alex asks.

“Yes,” I say, nodding quickly. “Sorry. I was just thinking . . . it’s just that this restaurant reminds me of . . .”

“Memories,” he says.

I nod.

The band begins playing a soft melody. It’s something by Stan Getz, but I can’t remember the name of the song. I look at Alex sitting across the table, so kind, so gentle. I want to tell him, now. I want to tell him everything.

But just as I open my mouth, he does too.

“I have to tell you something,” he says. “About me.”

And instead of speaking, I listen.