Nonna wanted to know everything, of course.
“Oh, a wedding,” she said happily. “What did the bride wear?”
“There . . . uh . . . wasn’t a bride,” said Marisa, a little tentatively. She wasn’t entirely sure how her nonna would deal with this. There was modern and there was something a little too far for Italian grandmothers in Imperia.
“Oh! Two men. Well, good.”
Marisa smiled. “You don’t mind?”
“Well, now our pope is gay, who should mind?” said Marisa’s grandmother, to Marisa’s profound surprise.
“Is . . . wait . . .”
“So. There was a cake?”
“I don’t know—you know I don’t stay at these things.”
Her nonna sniffed. “But you don’t do weddings anymore. You could have stayed there.”
She could have. Nonna was right. Alexei had woken her up stumbling in at goodness knows what time, humming a jolly song to himself and shouting good night to friends out the door. He seemed to have made friends with half the village.
“Well, I did go,” she said.
“That is true, yes. Good girl.”
She told her about Alexei turning up to play.
“You don’t cook for him anymore?”
“No,” said Marisa, conscious that the twins were playing next door. “No. We kind of . . . he doesn’t really like me.”
“Men like anyone who cooks for them,” said her nonna. “You should take him a plate. What are you making tonight?”
“I thought . . . saltimbocca?”
“Oh! Good, very good. Take him a plate. He is from a good family?”
Marisa laughed. “I don’t know, do I?”
“Although. You know. Piano teachers. They don’t make any money. Ever.”
“So? Anyway, that doesn’t matter. I don’t make any money these days either.”
“So. You need to find someone who has nothing to do with pianos. He is Catholic?”
“He’s Russian, Nonna.”
“Oh. Heathens. Never mind.”
“This is a ridiculous conversation anyway. We’re just neighbors. Who don’t like each other.”
“Okay. Well. Best not go. You cook for a man, that means something. They are simple creatures.”
“Not these days.”
“I know men.”
“You don’t know men! You married Nonno at nineteen!”
“If I know men, and a beautiful girl who perhaps needs to lose three kilos and cut her hair and put some lipstick on her beautiful mouth from time to time because she is definitely not getting any younger, if a girl like this arrives and says, “Oh, I have made something delicious for you I live all by myself next door and you live all by yourself next door, I see,” what is the poor man to think? Men, they are not clever. And heathen men are even worse!”
“No, I think,” said Marisa heavily, “I’m just going to concentrate on the saltimbocca for now.”
“You told your mother about the wedding?”
Marisa swallowed. “Not yet.”
“Marisa. You should. I love you. I love Lucia. I love Ann Angela.”
Ann Angela was Marisa’s aunt. She and Lucia fought like cat and dog, and Marisa hadn’t seen her in a year either.
“I love my girls, and I am not getting any younger,” said Nonna, threateningly. “You must stop fighting.”
“You walk for miles and you swim in the sea every day,” said Marisa. “You’re going to live to be a thousand.”
“Even if I do,” said Nonna, “call your mother.”
Marisa still remembered the awful, recriminatory texts from Christmas. Her mother telling Gino she was doing it for attention, competitively grieving. It still hurt.
“One thing at a time, Nonna.”
* * *
She heard him next door after the twins’ lesson, still humming a very happy Stevie Wonder song. The evening was pinkening, the sunset on its way. It looked to be a doozy. The food was in the oven; it smelled wonderful. She thought of a million reasons why she shouldn’t go next door—she didn’t really look brazen, like Nonna thought, did she? Anyway, it was ridiculous, he was mostly yeti. And he didn’t like her. But he was keeping his side of the bargain and she owed him.
She was nervous, she found. Very nervous. She hopped in the shower, even though she didn’t really need one. Blow-dried her hair, carefully, all the while listening to hear in case he went out again. She added lipstick, half-smiling to herself at how much her nonna would approve and give her a cynical nod. But she stopped short of a dress. She wasn’t—wasn’t—a wanton hussy. Absolutely not. It was human company she needed, not the ridiculous complication of anything more than that, particularly with someone who you could hear every single time they turned the tap on. It would be like getting off with the person in the next room in student halls. Which she had done, once upon a free life, many many moons ago, and had been incredibly embarrassed at the time but, looking back, she thought it was rather sweet. It had gone terribly wrong and she’d been mortified for the next eight months, but wasn’t that what being young was for?
Anyway. He didn’t like her. But he should stop hating her. She could call that the aim of the evening.