a ride to Pop’s. It’s kinda nice being around a baby. Looks like it’s the closest I’m gonna get . Dang, but Lorraine was not going to say no to that one.
“Bah.” Sal eyed him from behind his black-rimmed glasses. “The attack made me see there’s a lot to get done and not a lot of time to do it. We got to kick things in gear or I’ll go to my grave not knowing if the Ventori bloodline ends with Roman.”
Made sense, but marriage and babies shouldn’t be pushed. Look at Lucy; she had a baby without a wedding ring. Who would have thought a Benito would enter this world without the Church’s blessing? But Teresina had and Pop wouldn’t trade that little rosebud for three hundred blessings from St. Gertrude’s. Still, it would have been nice… But Jeremy Ross Dean better not think he was the fill-in Daddy for her, and there weren’t going to be any sleepovers or playing house, not with Pop and a baby under their roof. Lucy said they were just friends, but Pop knew the look of a hunter when he saw it, and Jeremy Ross Dean had the look, and Lucy was the prey.
“Where’s the baby?” Sal situated himself in the chair and said, “If she’s sleeping, I want to hold her.”
“Hah. One of these days you gotta take diaper detail.” Pop had changed his own son’s diapers a total of six times. The number stuck in his head because his wife had loved to rant about it. Times were different back then, and disposable diapers were a lot easier than cloth ones that required rinsing, soaking, and a pail for their own stinky business. Could he help it if he had a weak stomach that couldn’t tolerate the sight or the smell? But he’d changed little Teresina’s diaper every day since she came home, the stinky ones, too. Miracle of miracles, his stomach didn’t churn and heave like it had fifty some years ago. There was something to be said for getting old. “Sal? You hear me?” Pop leaned forward, met his friend’s gaze. “You gotta learn how to change a diaper. Lorraine will blubber all over you when she hears that.” He nodded, let the truth slip out. “Forgives a lot of misdeeds, no doubt about it.”
Sal scratched his head, heaved a sigh. “According to Lorraine, I got a lot of forgiveness to ask.”
That meant the business about his son. No use pretending it wasn’t sitting there like a ball of dough rising between them. Best to call it what it was, so it could get dealt with once and for all. “The boy did not get that girl pregnant.”
“Says you.” Sal folded his hands over his belly, stared at the mantel.
Pop glanced at the portrait of his wife, swung his gaze back to his friend. They’d argued about salami and pepperoni, cavatelle and rigatoni, marinara sauce and Bolognese. The arguments weren’t more than “loud discussions” based on an accumulation of tradition and experience. Pop favored escarole in his wedding soup; Sal thought endive was the key. While Pop spent most of his time in jogging suits, his buddy insisted they were for “young” people and jeans had no place in anyone’s closet, especially a senior citizen’s. Bah on that one. Had the man ever worn anything other than the short-sleeved white shirts he favored, or the blue pants and suspenders? And what about those dark shoes? Salvatore Ventori did not know what comfort felt like and Pop swore that before his friend closed his eyes for good, he was going to learn the feel of sweat pants and tennis shoes. That’s what they “discussed” most days. Or whose homemade wine tasted better, who was more Italian, who grew better basil.
But the real problem was the one they avoided, the one they hadn’t argued about in almost fourteen years, since the day the news hit town. It was time, because Roman Ventori had finally come home and he might not stay more than a week or two, and the next time he visited Magdalena could be for his father’s funeral.
“Listen to me, Sal. The boy did not get Paula Morrisen
“Bah.” Sal eyed him from behind his black-rimmed glasses. “The attack made me see there’s a lot to get done and not a lot of time to do it. We got to kick things in gear or I’ll go to my grave not knowing if the Ventori bloodline ends with Roman.”
Made sense, but marriage and babies shouldn’t be pushed. Look at Lucy; she had a baby without a wedding ring. Who would have thought a Benito would enter this world without the Church’s blessing? But Teresina had and Pop wouldn’t trade that little rosebud for three hundred blessings from St. Gertrude’s. Still, it would have been nice… But Jeremy Ross Dean better not think he was the fill-in Daddy for her, and there weren’t going to be any sleepovers or playing house, not with Pop and a baby under their roof. Lucy said they were just friends, but Pop knew the look of a hunter when he saw it, and Jeremy Ross Dean had the look, and Lucy was the prey.
“Where’s the baby?” Sal situated himself in the chair and said, “If she’s sleeping, I want to hold her.”
“Hah. One of these days you gotta take diaper detail.” Pop had changed his own son’s diapers a total of six times. The number stuck in his head because his wife had loved to rant about it. Times were different back then, and disposable diapers were a lot easier than cloth ones that required rinsing, soaking, and a pail for their own stinky business. Could he help it if he had a weak stomach that couldn’t tolerate the sight or the smell? But he’d changed little Teresina’s diaper every day since she came home, the stinky ones, too. Miracle of miracles, his stomach didn’t churn and heave like it had fifty some years ago. There was something to be said for getting old. “Sal? You hear me?” Pop leaned forward, met his friend’s gaze. “You gotta learn how to change a diaper. Lorraine will blubber all over you when she hears that.” He nodded, let the truth slip out. “Forgives a lot of misdeeds, no doubt about it.”
Sal scratched his head, heaved a sigh. “According to Lorraine, I got a lot of forgiveness to ask.”
That meant the business about his son. No use pretending it wasn’t sitting there like a ball of dough rising between them. Best to call it what it was, so it could get dealt with once and for all. “The boy did not get that girl pregnant.”
“Says you.” Sal folded his hands over his belly, stared at the mantel.
Pop glanced at the portrait of his wife, swung his gaze back to his friend. They’d argued about salami and pepperoni, cavatelle and rigatoni, marinara sauce and Bolognese. The arguments weren’t more than “loud discussions” based on an accumulation of tradition and experience. Pop favored escarole in his wedding soup; Sal thought endive was the key. While Pop spent most of his time in jogging suits, his buddy insisted they were for “young” people and jeans had no place in anyone’s closet, especially a senior citizen’s. Bah on that one. Had the man ever worn anything other than the short-sleeved white shirts he favored, or the blue pants and suspenders? And what about those dark shoes? Salvatore Ventori did not know what comfort felt like and Pop swore that before his friend closed his eyes for good, he was going to learn the feel of sweat pants and tennis shoes. That’s what they “discussed” most days. Or whose homemade wine tasted better, who was more Italian, who grew better basil.
But the real problem was the one they avoided, the one they hadn’t argued about in almost fourteen years, since the day the news hit town. It was time, because Roman Ventori had finally come home and he might not stay more than a week or two, and the next time he visited Magdalena could be for his father’s funeral.
“Listen to me, Sal. The boy did not get Paula Morrisen
Similar Books
