Page 21 of The Vow

Twirling her pasta, she exuded innocence, like the little girl with the sparkly headband. It seemed like she was trying to impress me, and when she managed to twirl a perfect forkful, she beamed. “I did it!”

“I knew you could. Brava.”

“Can you translate that?”

“It means ‘good job.’”

“I thought so. Grazie! What about your mom? You haven’t told me about her.”

Vito delivered another bottle of Chianti. He was an older gentleman, impeccably dressed. A world of wisdom was reflected in his eyes. His first language was obviously Italian, and I imagined that he left Italy in search of a better life, and I wondered if he learned to regret that decision. I could hear the words in my nonno’s thick, Italian accent. “One may never have the same ground beneath their feet, but the soil will forever be trapped within them.”

“I couldn’t ask for a better mother. After my father died, she took on the role of both parents. I’ve never seen a harder working woman in my life. She’s generous to a fault, doesn’t like bullshit, goes to Church twice a week, and she makes a mean lasagna. Oh, and she’s a huge General Hospital fan.”

“Twice a week?”

“Sometimes. It depends on who died that week.” It was true. If ma liked the person, she’d go and pray for them. If she didn’t, she’d send the family a cheap bouquet of carnations. A smirk crossed Alex’s face resembling that of the Joker character in Batman.

“Like I said at your place... she sounds like a good woman.”

“She is. Thank you. What do you do as a day job, Alex?”

“I’m writing a book for you, of course.”

“Of course. I meant before you met me. What did you do? You must have had to supplement your income?”

“I was in... I worked in public relations. It wasn’t as glamorous as it sounds.”

“Neither is boxing. Unless you prefer your men to have several missing teeth.”

Her laugh was authentic. And contagious. “Could be worse. I used to know a guy who had his eyelids pierced. It was a dumb thing to do, but he was a kid. The other day, I ran into him on the sidewalk. The piercings were gone, but he was left looking like Mr. Magoo.”

“Did you know that the millionaire from Gilligan’s Island voiced Mr. Magoo?”

“I didn’t know that. What would I ever do without you and your fountain of knowledge? Don’t answer that.”

Vito hovered around our table to ensure we were well taken care of. Sinatra sang of being young, and seventeen. Piacere Mio felt like a haven, but I had to tell her what I came to say.

“Alex.”

“Yes?”

“There is something I wanted to discuss.”

“I knew it. One second,” she said, filling both of our glasses. Her liquid courage. “Okay. Ready.”

“We’re going to need a better story idea, and while I am a fountain of knowledge, the idea is going to have to come from you.”

“I know. It’s in my job description, isn’t it?” Dropping her fork, she added, “I forgot to tell you. I gave my slumlord notice.”

“Did he give you a hard time?”

“Not at all. He said, ‘Good. I never did like you.’ I told him, ‘That’s because I’m a witch, and witches can get inside people’s heads and see all the rotten, vile things in there, so I put a curse on you while you were sleeping. If you wake up as a toad, you’ll know it was my last kiss goodbye.’”

“That’s brilliant! I can imagine the look on his face.”

“Try not to. He’s so ugly, he makes an Orangutan look cute. This is delicious, by the way.”

“I’m glad you like it. I can teach you to make your own. If you’d like that, I mean.”