“Do you like these boys?”
“Yes, I like them, I know them both very well, and they’re both wonderful. One is more serious minded and one is more adventurous, and—”
“Please, enough. Why must you talk so much?”
“I’m sorry.” Elisabetta tried to calm down, but she couldn’t. “I can’t decide which to choose.”
“What does your mother say?”
Elisabetta hesitated. She had been too embarrassed to tell Nonna about her mother, especially since that awful night with her father. “Well, uh, she’s gone. She left.”
“What?” Nonna looked up, her frown fierce behind her glasses. “Your mother left you? Elisabetta, why didn’t you tell me?”
Elisabetta had no immediate reply. “I’m fine. My father’s home.”
Nonna sniffed. “How are you doing?”
“Let’s not talk about it now.”
“But why would you keep that from me? Don’t you know I can help?” Nonna pursed her lips, making the wrinkles pucker more. “Then you need my advice about these boys, don’t you? Don’t choose either. See both of them.”
“I can’t. They’re best friends.”
“So?” Nonna rolled the inky dough with a wooden rolling pin, pressing it against the wire.
“We’re good friends, all three of us.”
“Again, so?” Nonna rolled the pin on the dough until it was cut by the wires, then dropped in strands onto the bottom of the wooden frame. “You’re unmarried, aren’t you? Why act married when you’re not?”
“But I don’t want to hurt either one of them.”
“Elisabetta, mark my words.” Nonna’s hooded eyes met hers. “It’s not like in my day. I was sixteen when I married. Fortunately for me, my husband understood I was my own woman. Our marriage worked for that reason. Stay your own woman. Preserve your independence. Mentally.” She pointed to her temple, leaving a faint fingerprint in flour. “Take your life in your hands, like dough. Form it the way you want it to be. Choose a boy only when you’re ready. Not a minute before.”
“How do I choose between them?”
“Your heart already knows which love is true, and it will tell you its secret when you are ready to listen.” Nonna lifted the wire frame off the chitarra, revealing perfect squid-ink pasta lying in the bottom wooden tray.
“Really?”
“Do you doubt me?” Nonna separated the black strands of spaghetti with her curved fingernail. “Now. Tell me about these two boys, and please, don’t go on and on. Compose your thoughts, then speak.”
“The one who came with the book is Sandro, and he’s very nice and very smart. We have wonderful talks, and he’s a good listener.”
“That, you need.” Nonna snorted. “Does he come from a good family?”
“Yes.”
“Last name?”
“Simone.”
“His mother is the female doctor?”
“Yes.”
“Very nice. What about the other one, who thinks he’s Enrico Caruso?”
Elisabetta smiled. “Marco. His father owns the bar on Tiber Island.”
“Bar GiroSport? His father is Beppe Terrizzi?”
Elisabetta detected a chill in Nonna’s mood. “What’s the matter?”
“Terrizzi’s not for you.”
“Why?”
“Elisabetta,” Nonna said with a rare sharpness. “Just mark my words. And get back to work.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Marco
January 1938
Marco left Casa Servano with Sandro, falling into stride as they walked through Trastevere. It was a cold night, but bars and restaurants were busy, and the street was full of families, couples, and tourists. Marco didn’t know what to say, given that both he and Sandro had evidently begun to court Elisabetta, on the very same evening. It made him uncomfortable, and Sandro hadn’t said a word to him about his intentions. In fairness, Marco hadn’t told Sandro, either, so he was in no position to blame him. Obviously, the situation needed to be sorted.
“Well.” Marco shrugged. “I didn’t expect to see you there.”
“I didn’t expect to see you there.” Sandro laughed, and Marco joined him. Humor seemed to release the pressure between them, and Marco felt like himself again.
Sandro looked over. “So, I gather our feelings for Elisabetta have grown.”
Marco nodded. “We both have excellent taste.”