Usually, we introduced them to people after we’d gotten to know them ourselves because of this. My brother was sure it was the wrong way to do it because if they got scared after they met our parents, then they were pussies who hadn’t deserved our time. Brutal, but not exactly wrong.
Marcus was different, though. I didn’t want him to be scared off.
So, instead of going through the front door of my house, I went in through the back of Nonna’s and breathed a sigh of relief when I found her alone in the kitchen.
Looking up from what she was making on the stove, she gave me a distracted smile and turned back to the pot. “Good walk?”
Glancing around us to make sure I hadn’t missed one of my parents standing there, I leaned in, so my mouth was next to her ear. “Where are they?”
Her shoulders shook slightly as she laughed silently. “The store. I need some things, and your dad always want to eat, even when it’s not done.” She muttered something under her breath in Italian as she shook her head.
“So, they’re not here?”
Glancing at me, she raised an eyebrow. “No, I just tell you he’s at the store. Why, Adrienne? You have a problem you need me for?”
“Not a problem, per se,” I mumbled, biting down on my lower lip. “Well, yeah, it’s a problem.”
She made a ‘get on with it’ motion with her hand and went back to stirring. “The sauce burns if the stirring doesn’t happen, but you tell me your problem, bella.”
“I-I have a date tomorrow night.”
Her hand shot out, and she turned the burner off before spinning around to face me. “I tell you papa he takes too long if he complains.” She waved her hand through the air like she was drawing a line under the possible scenario, even though I hadn’t asked. “Now, who is the man?”
Tipping my head toward Marcus’s ranch, I waited for her to say something.
“You have date with a horse? The grass? A tree? Who, Addy?” Then she sucked in a breath. “One of the horse men?” Yeah, that sounded bad. Weren’t the Horsemen part of the apocalypse or something? “Which one? All horse men are good-looking, but Remy is quiet and hot.” She frowned as she looked to the side. “Maybe not good match for your father.”
“Well, he’s not dating Dad, so their compatibility really isn’t relevant.”
Rolling her eyes, she crossed her arm. “No need to be a smart donkey, bella.” As with every time she’d said that to me, I wanted to laugh my butt off. My great-grandmother had used that expression when Nonna was a kid, and even after immigrating here, she hadn’t stopped. It sounded almost lyrical in Italian but in English? In years to come, I was totally going to use the expression with my own grandkids. “But my son, he need a strong will of power—”
“Strong willed?”
I needed to make sure I kept up with what she meant during this conversation. Any techniques I could use on Dad during this, I’d take gratefully. Plus, she was deliberately screwing with her English now, so it took extra concentration to follow what she meant.
“Si, strong will of power. But he needs someone who will stand up him and say no when he need to, you know?” Oh, I did. That’s why he got along so well with Mom.
But ‘stand up him?’
“And Remy doesn’t have that?”
“Yes, but quietly. If Lorenzo get angry or ask his questions, Remy will stay quiet. Your papa will lose his brain.”
“Mind?”
“Si!” The tone she said the word in was one that clearly said ‘duh.’
“It’s not Remy.”
Her breath caught. “Marcus?” When I just nodded, she squealed and raised her hands in the air. “Happy day!”
“He has a strong enough will for Dad?”
Nonna tipped her head back and burst out laughing. “But of course. Remy has it, he won’t speak it. Marcus has it, he will speak it, and your daddy will have met his matchstick.”
Narrowing my eyes at her, I called her out on what she was doing. “You know, I don’t buy for one second that you don’t know how to say ‘lose his mind’ and ‘met his match.’ Why are you playing me, old woman?”
She gasped, putting her hand to her chest. “Me? I’m not—how you say—playing you. I’m old Italian woman. Back in Italy, there was no English, just regional speech and Italian. I come here on boat, filled with tomatoes and garlic, destination of New York. We steam across water fast and—”
“If you’re trying to make your journey—which, FYI, was by freaking plane and for Grandad’s job—into the Italian Titanic, I’m not falling for it. Maybe when I was little I did, but now I know better than to believe you paid for your food on the ship by juggling tomatoes and survived the ship’s sinking by floating in a tomato crate.”