But if they knew that Izzy had had sex outside of marriage before, let alone having a kid…
I got home, turned off my Tesla, leaned my head back against the seat, and smiled. Such questions, while not insignificant, didn’t need to be answered right here, right now. They could wait—but reminiscing about the date as I prepared for tomorrow could not.
* * *
After a morning workout that I found myself struggling through due to a lack of sleep—the reason why was obvious—after a phone meeting with my agent, after some light fielding and batting practice, and after a soft, easy interview with one of the team’s PR people for a fluff piece, I finally had time to be Nick Ferrari, the Ferrari grandchild, and not Nick Ferrari, the professional athlete. Of course, not really clear which is tougher.
I showed up to the estate, not too far from Ferrari Wines, dressed as impeccably as I had the night before. I never minded getting dressed up, but I knew some in the family had their reservations about not being able to kick back around their own clan. The family butler, Walter, opened the front door to me. I thanked Walter and could already hear the clang and chatter.
“Hey!”
I looked over to the side. Brett was just emerging from the bathroom, rubbing his hands together as if he’d just dried them off.
“What’s up, lover boy?” he said.
I chuckled. I still felt in good spirits, despite running on less sleep than normal.
“Are you still riding the high from last night?”
“Of course, why wouldn’t I be?”
“One date, and you’ve already gotten whipped harder than Jesus.”
“May want to avoid saying that joke around—”
“I know, I know, remember I’m the family sommelier, not Leo. I know how to act around people.”
I grimaced. That was a bit of a low blow to the youngest Ferrari, but I couldn’t say he didn’t deserve it with the way he acted from time to time.
“Just, do us a favor and don’t show us up with your dating, OK? You know how grandma and grandpa are with that. They think Leo has fallen behind the eight-ball, for God’s sake.”
“I will,” I said as we reached the main atrium. “But it’s not me you have to worry—”
“Layla’s already blurted everything out,” Brett said with a sigh that in no way was exaggerated. “I’m just telling you, don’t harp on it, OK? Talk about getting ready for a new season and how you’ll handle free agency. That’s like talking about alien spaceships to them; they’ll be fascinated.”
Brett firmly patted my shoulder as my mother loudly announced my presence, running over to me and giving me a hug.
“Hi, Mom,” I said, a little sheepish at how dramatic and attention-giving she could be.
“Nick, dear, you look so handsome. Come, come; let’s talk to your grandparents.”
I followed my mother, not really having any choice in the matter, and came to them in their usual spots. Grandpa Alf—we just called him Grandpa; anything else felt like not addressing a man of the military as “sir”—sat at a small table that would have had room for no more than two people. Though the table and the chair that he sat in did not look especially stately or luxurious, the way it allowed him to survey the entire room and have people funnel to him gave it a certain appeal, a certain level of authority that went beyond its simple look. Grandpa moved around quite well for someone his age; though he certainly looked like a man in his eighties, he had the wit and the mobility of someone fifteen years younger.
Grandma Mary, meanwhile, sat in an accent chair, always with her arm crossed, always with a glass of wine in her hand, always watching with a wistful smile on her face. She looked both like the queen observing her subjects and a simple grandmother, content and happy merely with the sight of people running around. I could never quite figure her out; I loved her no matter what and rarely had actual problems with her, but half the time, I thought she was even more conservative and traditional than my grandfather, and half the time, I thought she secretly was far more open-minded than even my parents were, but just did a good job of hiding it. She moved a little more slowly than grandpa and was more content just to observe than to engage, but when she did, she could have the same vigor as my grandfather.
“Alf? Mary? You have your sports all-star here.”
“Oh, the man of the hour!” Grandpa said. I looked at my mother with a slightly curious look as to why I was suddenly the man of the hour, but she played dumb. “How are you, my Willie Mays?”
“I’m good, Grandpa, and I’m no Willie Mays,” I said as I bent over for a hug. “But thank you, though.”
“You’re right,” he said. “You’re better than Willie Mays!”
I laughed and rolled my eyes. It wasn’t PR posturing to say I wasn’t better than arguably the greatest player the Giants had ever had, but it was certainly nice to have Grandpa play the part of the unconditionally supportive fan.
“Well, I’m always trying to get to that level. And grandma.”
Grandma just beamed as I leaned forward to hug her.
“I heard that you’ve personally overseen the menu for tonight.”
She nodded. Grandma had a thing where she tended to wait a beat longer than most people before she engaged. It didn’t reflect a decline in mental faculties so much as it did just her wanting to take the time to make sure she said exactly what she wanted to say.
“For all of us getting together for the last time before you
