The Secret of the Glass by Donna Russo Morin Page A

father’s right, with Vito and his brother to her right, Sophia dutifully lifted the serving dish on her left and passed it.
    “May I have the bread, Sophi?” This from Ignacio, and Sophia fulfilled his request with equal grace, believing attention to her own repast was at hand. She was mistaken.
    Her hands entered a never-ending dance, a whirlwind of movement, tasting a few scant bites of her own meal as she passed the laden trenchers back and forth, filling the constant requests of the two hungry young men.
    Sophia rolled her eyes heavenward, out of amusement rather than annoyance, and set herself merrily to the task. She begrudged them nothing, not their place at her family’s table, not the food they consumed. With these youthful companions, she felt entirely comfortable and relaxed, free of worry or care about what she did or what she said. She considered them colleagues, compatriots in the love of the glass. Never when among them did she feel the anxiety or shyness that so often plagued her with others outside the family.
    Across the food-covered expanse, Sophia discerned the glint of satisfaction on her mother’s and grandmother’s faces as their guests devoured their culinary creations. She recognized it, the smiles bordering on the smug, the contentment and fulfillment of a task accomplished with aplomb. She knew it herself, every time someone marveled at one of her masterpieces or purchased one for great sums of money. Deriving the same gratification from concocting a meal, no matter how delicious, seemed unfeasible to Sophia.
    By the time the sweet crumbs of dessert lay scattered across the soiled cream tablecloth, more than an hour had passed and the frenzied pace of hungry eating had subsided to a more sedate tempo of sated relaxation and enjoyment. Zeno shared his amaretto and Sophia sipped the deep amber liquid, relishing the almond-flavored cordial as it slithered down her throat in a warming stream. Ignacio and Vito nibbled on the few cannoli left on the scallop-edged platter, and Lia seemed unable to stop popping struffoli, the small fried dough balls slathered in honey, into her mouth with rhythmic repetition.
    The two boys were a lively addition to the spirited family discussions; the conversation and laughter, as replete as the feast, showed no sign of abatement. The long shadows of dusk stretched and groped for the horizon until night’s dusky fingers mingled amongst them and Zeno lit the sweet wax candles above and around them. The diligent Viviana and Marcella lingered over their espressos, allowing Santino and Rozalia to come in and relieve them of the tedious and unglamorous cleaning up.
    “No, it was you,” Vito roared with laughter, pointing an accusing finger that shook with his every cackle at his brother. “I distinctly remember it was you who got his head stuck in the railing when you tried to see down our cousin’s gown from the second floor.”
    “No, no, you’re wrong,” Ignacio argued, laughing uproariously, as did they all, his defense too comically offered to be taken with any serious regard.
    “It sounds like so—”
    A discordant bang, bang, bang, burst upon the front door, choking off Zeno’s chortled words. The harsh sound at such an inappropriate time silenced them with a dampening stroke. It was rare for Venetians to call on each other during pranzo, and, unless invited out, most were home with their own families.
    “I’ll get it.” Santino set a cumbersome pile of dirty dishes back on the table and started forward.
    “No, I will.” Zeno rose, crossing through the dining room and into the front sitting room. He opened only one of the large double wooden doors that gave out onto a small fondamenta and the Rio dei Vetrai canal, and peered out into the waiting gloom.
    The dimly-lit figure standing in the threshold was imperceptible to the others waiting apprehensively in the dining room and fairly inaudible save for a smattering of mumbled words. Within seconds,