“Like what?”
“Pasticcio, strapatsada, baklava, spanakopita.”
“I love Pasticcio,” Isabella enthused.
“Mine is the best. I will make it for you one time.”
Isabella’s heart almost cracked apart in a sudden, desperate burst of anguish. That wouldn’t happen. This was all temporary – an illusion. She was here in this beautiful home being welcomed by this unique, down to earth family, but when Gabe took her away, it would be final.
Her smile was noncommittal. “Gabe cooked only Italian dishes for me,” she said.
“I’m not surprised. For my part, I prefer Greek recipes, but Gianfelice, my husband, their grandfather, was a proud Italian male. He thought everything his mother did was the best.” Yaya rolled her eyes, but with obvious affection. “I learned her ways, though changed them enough over time.” She winked. “My revenge.”
Isabella couldn’t help a small laugh. “The way of all good cooks is to put their mark on a dish so that it’s unique yet familiar.”
“Exactly.” She sipped her drink. “I often think people are a little like this, like recipes.”
“Oh?”
“Look at my boys. All the same ingredients, but each so different.”
Isabella nodded.
“You cannot tell what you are getting at the start, and many things can happen that change how a person turns out. We hope that between good biology and upbringing we can succeed in creating a happy, well-rounded person, but it is not always so simple.” She looked at Isabella, her eyes deep and probing. “You can include all the ingredients and follow a recipe precisely, but sometimes it doesn’t work out. Other times it does.” She shrugged. “It’s a mystery.”
“That’s true,” Isabella murmured. “Your family is lovely.”
“My grandchildren are,” she agreed.
Isabella understood the sadness underscoring Yaya’s admission – she felt the incompleteness of the woman’s ‘family’. Her own children were absent. Two sons exiled, and a daughter lost to pride first and ultimately illness.
“Gabe has puzzled me most of all over the years.”
Isabella was very still, wanting to hear everything Yaya had to say on the matter, yet knowing it was invasive to allow her to continue. Somehow it felt like a betrayal of whatever she and Gabe shared, admitting someone else – even his beloved Yaya – into the dynamics of their relationship.
“He is independent and determined, spirited and so moralistic it frustrates me almost to death, even when I can see that such moralism is, probably, a benefit. He cannot see the world as I do, or I suspect you do. For example, the accident is a weight on his chest, every second of every day.”
Isabella’s heart twisted with pain. “I know.”
Yaya’s eyes widened. “Do you?”
“He told me as much.”
She could see the older woman’s wheels turning, as though Gabe’s sharing this information was the opposite of what she’d suspected.
“Perhaps then he is finally ready to change. To forgive himself, even.” She sipped her drink. “The first step to forgiveness is admitting you’re ready. In telling you about the past, maybe he crossed that line?”
“Perhaps,” Isabella conceded, the woman’s thoughts closely echoing her own hopes. “He deserves better than the purgatory he’s made himself exist in since then.”
Yaya’s features were taut as she studied Isabella intently. “Life is too precious, is it not?”
“Definitely.” She reached for her drink and took a generous gulp. “Thank you for including me in your Christmas. I feel very honoured.”
“Di Nada,” Yaya waved her hand through the air. “We are the ones who are grateful to you.”
“Oh?”
“You’ve brought Gabe some of the way back to us.”
Isabella stared at the gift with chagrin and shock. “This isn’t necessary,” she shook her head. “I’ve landed on your doorstep unannounced. There’s no need for presents.”
“We’ve discussed this,” Yaya overruled her objection, the rest of the group silent. It was late at night, the Christmas dinner – a delicious feast of soup, bread, vegetables, gnocchi and ragu, roast meats and creamy potatoes preceding a sweet smorgasbord that had made Isabella’s teeth ache! The family had been loud and happy, the children – at varying ages and all adorable and besotted with their Yaya – gathered at one end of the table, with manners far superior to Isabella’s at a similar age. They ate with gusto and didn’t interrupt the flow of conversation much at all. Champagne flowed freely and the mood was convivial and bright.
Isabella sat there and absorbed it all, and somehow the perfection was only improved by Gabe’s presence at her side, his silence not brooding so much as reflective.
Happiness was seductive indeed. She looked at his brothers and cousins – five men of the same mould, or the same ingredients, as Yaya had said – and wondered at the steps they’d taken that had allowed them to fall in love and commit to their partners. Surely it wasn’t so out of the question to imagine Gabe might one day make a similar commitment?
But even the thought of that was out of bounds. She had to work hard to suppress it though. It was far easier to find herself imagining a shared future – the idea coming to her out of nowhere and surprising her with its fulsome rightness.
Gabe had said his family would love her, but what she hadn’t anticipated was that she would love his family right back. And after only one night! It was so improbable that she hadn’t properly protected herself against the likelihood after all. She’d been complacent and out of that had come genuine affection.
She passed the present from one hand to her other. “Open it,” Gabe urged quietly. They sat around the Christmas tree shimmering with vintage lights and well-loved ornaments, just like a vision conjured out of one of Isabella’s fantasies. The children were awake but tired now, stifling yawns with the backs of their hands. Isabella had been very happy to watch everyone else rip into their presents – quietly impressed by the low-key nature of the gifts, given
