Page 153 of Enzo

She ushers us into her living room, her hand briefly finding mine.

“I'm sorry for everything you’re going through,” she says. “I’m sorry that you have been judged publicly. I know what that feels like.” She rests her hand gently on my arm. “You will get through this, Molly. You will. Don't let them know they're getting you down. That's what they like.”

“Thank you, uh—”

“Call me Isabella.”

I nod.

“Thank you, Isabella. That means a lot to me.”

I compliment her on her apartment, telling her it feels warm and inviting. I can see why Enzo loves being with his mom. I get the feeling that Isabella could transform something bare and sparse into something homely. She has that aura about her.

“When did you put these up, Mama? You’re making this into a home.” Enzo gazes at the framed photographs. There are many of them as children.

“Is this you?” I point to a photograph of a very young Enzo.

“Yes.”

His brothers are on either side of him, and he's sitting on his mother's lap. Isabella was a strikingly beautiful woman, wearing a fashionable scarf around her neck. Enzo sits back against her, his arms lifted above him, as if he's trying to touch his mother's face.

“That's a lovely photo,” I murmur.

Isabella comes and stands by my side. “Enzo is four there.”

There's another photo, a recent one, of Enzo, sitting at a patio table, outside somewhere beautiful. The background is awash with a stunning variety of colorful flowers. It's Enzo in his typical pensive pose, and the photo catches his side profile.

“What are you thinking?” I murmur to him.

“That was last summer, in my garden, in Soave.” Isabella’s voice is soft. “I, too, would love to know what he was thinking.”

Enzo rolls his shoulders. “It was probably about work.”

I suppress a smile. Knowing him, it probably was. This man’s life revolved around work before I came along. I take my time looking through all the photos. The table is dotted with photos of the four of them, through various ages. I don't have any photos like this in my apartment, but in my future, I, too, will have a table like this, filled with photos of the people I love.

Isabella slips away as I continue to look carefully through the photos. Soon, I hear her and Enzo talking. He's telling her about the meeting with his father.

I pretend to linger longer here, taking my time to look at the photos again, letting mother and son have their time alone.

“I went to see Father, before coming here,” I hear Enzo say as I sit down beside him.

I picked the wrong moment to return, so I quickly start to get up again, but he takes my hand. “Stay.”

So I sit beside him again. He doesn't let go of my hand. I notice Isabella's eyes go there, see her looking at us both, a gentle smile on her face.

I hope she likes me.

“I told him, Mama.”

Her expression suddenly turns serious. “You told him?” She knows exactly what it was.

Enzo nods. “I couldn't keep it inside any longer.”

Isabella leans forward. “Good, tesoro.”

“It feels good, Mama. It was starting to feel heavy, carrying that for so long.”

She looks at him for the longest time, her eyes misting over, before she blinks quickly.