But as soon as the front door open, I was hit by all the sounds. Voices, laughter, the clanking of pots and pans, and from somewhere deep in the house, low, bluesy music.
There were even two people standing just inside the entryway beside the center staircase, talking. Like they couldn’t wait to get into one of the rooms to catch up.
“Deep breaths,” Massimo said, reaching to take my hand in his, lacing our fingers, then giving me a reassuring squeeze.
With that, he led me straight past the couple who didn’t even turn to acknowledge us.
“They know it has to be Ma first,” he told me, reading my mind.
“Oh, wow,” I gasped as we moved into the kitchen.
I understood his mom’s feelings on his kitchen being a little cold now that I saw the one she spent so much of her time in.
It was a giant space dominated by a long, vintage table down the center instead of an island. It had a partial wooden top and a partial natural stone, with big drawers beneath for storage.
In its own cubby to the side was a giant black vintage-style range with brass accents, three oven doors, eight burners, and a pot filler.
There was tons of natural light, a pantry with the door slightly ajar, and a massive blue storage cabinet for her dinnerware.
I didn’t get a chance to tell Massimo how amazing it was, because someone heard me speaking, and everyone seemed to turn at once.
“Oh, there she is!” a woman cheered, throwing her hand up in joy.
Giulia Grassi was a surprisingly short woman, given the height of her children, with her nearly black hair pulled half up. She had her medium-frame dressed in black slacks and a floral shirt under a deep red apron.
“Oh, you are even more beautiful than my boys told me,” she added, moving around the table toward me, reaching out toward my face, framing it with her hands.
“Ma, this is Cammie. Cammie, this is my Ma, Giulia.”
“Come, come,” Giulia said, pulling me away from Massimo. “Come talk with us while we make the ravioli,” she said. “Here. Sit, sit,” she said, dusting off a chair for me.
“I would love to help,” I offered, even though, admittedly, my only experience with ravioli was when it came in a can.
“No, don’t be silly! You’re the guest. You can help the day after tomorrow,” she added, already including me in the family. “We have Little Antony’s birthday,” she told me.
“We’re making salmon piccata,” another voice chimed in, making me turn to look where it came from.
And there she was.
Valley.
It had to be Valley.
She looked just like her siblings and her mom, wearing a sleek green dress and heels that made my feet hurt for her.
“Oh, God, your face,” she said, beaming at me. “I was screwing with you. August said you weren’t a fan of fish. Guess that wasn’t an exaggeration. I’m—“
“Valley,” I said, giving her a smile. “I’ve heard a lot about you.”
“From my brothers? Assume it is all lies. Especially if it came out of August’s mouth. How come she gets to sit this one out?” she asked as he mother handed her an apron.
“Because she is a guest. This is her first dinner. And we don’t know if she can cook yet,” Giulia added, giving me a soft smile.
“I definitely need a crash course in Italian cooking,” I admitted.
“Well, you are in the right place,” Giulia said. “The best cooks in this state are standing right in this kitchen. Except for Lettie,” she said, shooting the woman at the end of the table who was typing frantically on her phone.
“Sorry,” Lettie said, standing suddenly. “I have a shooting,” she added. “Not us,” she assured the women who all stiffened in unison.