Romano's Revenge

“What is this ‘plied you’? Did I grab that handsome nose of yours and drag you to the table?”

Joe plucked his napkin from his lap and dropped it on the table. “You know exactly what I’m talking about, Grandma.”

“Grandma? I am your Nonna, and don’t you forget it.”

“You’re the biggest matchmaker in North Beach,” Joe said, shooting to his feet. “You dazzled me with goodies that night and then you brought out the big guns.”

“I brought out espresso, as I recall.”

“And Miss Italy 1943.”

Nonna stood up, too. “Signora Balducci was your age, Joseph.”

“She was dressed all in black.”

“She is a widow.”

“She had one giant eyebrow that stretched across her forehead.”

He saw his grandmother’s mouth twitch. “It was two eyebrows that merely needed plucking.”

“How about that long hair growing out of the mole on her chin?” Joe’s mouth also twitched, but he wasn’t going to laugh, not yet. “I suppose that could be plucked, too?”

“You see? That’s your problem, Joseph. There is no way to please you. That time I introduced you to Anna Carbone—”

“The teenybopper at that festival you dragged me to last summer?”

“I did not ‘drag’ you,” Nonna said with dignity. “I merely said I needed you to drive me there. It was coincidence that Anna should have been waiting for me. And she was not a teeny-banger.”

“Bopper. Yes, she was. It’s a miracle she didn’t still have braces on her teeth.”

“She was twenty. But I did not argue when you said she was too young, did I?”

“No,” Joe said coolly, “no, you didn’t. You just waited awhile and found Miss Eyebrow.”

Nonna’s lips twitched again. “Actually, I’d never noticed the eyebrows. Not until that night, in this kitchen. “

“Uh-huh. When the signora just happened to arrive at the door with dessert.”

“And the mole.”

Joe and his grandmother looked at each other and smiled. He sighed, took her in his arms, and pressed a kiss to her forehead.

“Okay,” he said, “let’s have it.”

“Have what?”

“I want to know what ‘gift’ you’re giving me for my birthday, and why you’re buttering up me up beforehand.” He looked over her head, at the door. “Is my dessert arriving by female express?”

Nonna made a face. She bustled past him, opened the freezer and took out a bowl. “Gelato. Just so you know that your dessert is not climbing the porch steps.”

Joe smiled and sat down again. “Homemade ice cream. Nonna, you’re going to spoil me.”

Nonna smiled. She waited until he’d spooned up a mouthful. “Good?”

“Wonderful. The best you ever made.”

Her smile tilted slyly. “Good. But I didn’t make it.”

Joe looked up. “You must have. Not even Carbone’s has gelato this delicious.”

“You’re right. Signor Carbone would kill for this recipe.”

“Well,” Joe said, “if you didn’t get it at Carbone’s and you didn’t make it, who…” The words caught in his throat. Slowly, he put down his spoon and looked at his grandmother. “All right,” he said grimly. “Let’s have it. And don’t embarrass either of us by giving me that wide-eyed, I-don’t-know-what-you’re-talking-about look.”

Nonna folded her hands on the white tablecloth.

“I worry about you, Joseph.”

Despite what she’d said before, here it was. They were going to go over the same old thing again.

“Nonna,” Joe said patiently, “we’ve been all through this. I’m not lonely. I don’t want a wife. I’m happy with my life, just the way it is.”

“You remember once, I asked you who sews the buttons on your shirts, huh? Who irons them?”

“And I told you,” Joe said briskly. “The guy at the laundry. And he does a great job.”

“Yes. And you told me your house is cleaned by a cleaning service.”

“That’s right. The same service I wish you’d let me send here, so you don’t have to bother—”

“I prefer to clean my own house,” Nonna said primly. She leaned forward. “But, Joseph, who cooks your meals?”

Joe sighed. “I told you that the last time around, too. I don’t eat home much. And when I do, there are all these terrific little take-out places a couple of blocks away…What?”

Nonna was smiling, and something about the smile made him want to get out of the chair and run for his life.

“I have accepted that perhaps you will never be ready to marry, Joseph, and that you are happy to let strangers iron your shirts and clean your home. But I have never stopped worrying about your meals.”

“There’s no reason to worry, sweetheart. I eat just fine.”

“I will not worry from now on.” His grandmother dug deep into the pocket of her apron. “Happy birthday, Joey,” she said, and thrust a folded piece of paper at him.

Joe took it and frowned. “What is this?”

“Your birthday gift.” His grandmother was beaming, her eyes bright with joy. “Open it.”

He did. Then he looked up. “I don’t understand. This is just a name.”