The hours passed as they drank bottles of Chianti, played with the children, and hurried back and forth into the kitchen with platters of appetizers. Thick tomato with buffalo mozzarella, fruity olive oil and fresh basil on Italian bread. Plump mushrooms with lumps of crab, salty prosciutto wrapped around sweet, juicy melon. She kept a close eye on Wolfe, who at first didn’t eat, obviously nervous about being accosted by numerous family members he didn’t know. He seemed to loosen up as the evening progressed, and as his appetite increased, she noted Mama Conte made sure to keep bowls of food near him at all times. Sawyer also seemed to relax, enjoying conversations with Max and Carina and finally meeting Max’s mother, who beamed with pride at her son’s accomplishments and her new daughter-in-law she’d always loved as her own.
Maggie beckoned Julietta from the door and she crossed the room. “What’s the matter?”
Maggie’s cinnamon-colored hair shimmered under the chandelier. Green eyes spoke volumes of worry. “I’m not cranking pasta by hand again, Julietta. It takes me forever, it always sucks, and I’ve completed the tradition. It’s your turn.”
Julietta bit her lip. “I make pasta all the time, Maggie.
Anyway, I see Alexa in there. She’s got it covered.”
Maggie lowered her voice in a hiss. “your mom thinks I don’t cook enough and wants me to practice. I already com-mitted to the apple cake; I do that much better than pasta.
Alexa is nuts, she loves this stuff—look at her in there.”
Alexa beamed and listened to directions from Mama Conte, elbow-deep in dough as she kneaded mercilessly.
“Besides, Mama said you can take my place because you haven’t served your husband yet.”
Panic fluttered and Julietta’s stomach sank fast and low. The Conte tradition of cooking by hand for each new spouse in the family was unwritten, unspoken, but a known passage of intimacy. Feeding your husband with your own hand was a way to connect on a deeper level and nourish a connection beyond the physical. Not that Sawyer would know, of course. He’d have no idea if she slid a plate in front of him, but Julietta didn’t think she could handle it.
It had been two full weeks since their wedding night and the fragile bond formed then seemed to bloom brighter with each day. They never analyzed their new relationship.
each night, Sawyer took her into bed, made love to her in every way imaginable, and held her through sleep. Purity was taking form with the speed of light, the construction complete and all the details finalized for the unveiling in three months. yes, she cooked for both him and Wolfe when they weren’t working overtime, but it was quick and effi-cient. They formed their own routine as a family, but none of them looked deeper than that.
“Umm, I don’t think this is a good time. I’m worried about Wolfe, and I need to help watch Lily and—”
“I’ll do it; just get in there.” Maggie ripped off her apron, pushed her into the kitchen, and took off.
Porca vacca.
“Where is Margherita?”
Julietta sighed and tied the apron around her waist.
“Took off. you know she’s like a sly fox when it comes to getting out of cooking.”
Her mother cackled in delight. “I will make her do apple cake and biscotti. She will regret it. I need you. Here is your station.”
Alexa grinned. “This is the most awesome thing I ever did. From now on, I’m making fresh pasta in the house. But I think I may get one of those machines, Mama Conte. I’m not as adept as you. My fingers are getting tired.”
“Push through. Machines do help, but it is the strength and gracefulness of the body that flows into the food and bestows good energy.”
Alexa dug in with gusto, and Julietta enjoyed her positive energy flowing around them and relaxing her a bit. She fell into the motions used since childhood: dusting, whisk-ing egg, sprinkling out flour, kneading, and pouring into a dough form that depended on a fresh mix of ingredients and the basic talent of the pasta maker. The movements soothed her, and an odd need to excel at making the food she would feed her husband beat inside her, an ancient instinct rising up from the ashes of years of tradition. The room fell away, and Julietta lost herself in the task, pulling and stretching the dough to a fine, thin layer like gossamer without breakage. She heard the muttered frustration of Alexa as her noodles broke one after the other, but Julietta never broke her concentration. Piece after perfect piece was pulled and laid out to dry over the racks.
She pulled a fresh loaf of bread from the oven and sliced. Carina floated in, and eventually Maggie came back.
They prepared, set the table, laughed, and drank wine dur-ing various tasks while thick pots of gravy bubbled up and the smell of garlic and lemons tinged the air. Wooden bowls were placed at each setting, and the men filed in with groans of approval. The scrape of chairs against the floor rose to her ears. Steam billowed, and Julietta made sure her pasta was cooked perfectly al dente, not pausing to wonder why it was so important.
High chairs also clustered around the table with tiny bowls of pasta and sippy cups in front of them. The twins seemed fascinated by the scene before them, and Lily chatted with Maggie nonstop, giggling at her father’s occasional tug on her wild curls so like her mother’s.
Alexa placed her bowl in front of Nick. “Try it.”
He looked up. “Did you make this?”
“yes. Tell me what you think.”
He picked up his fork and took a bite. She watched his face in sheer anticipation. Nick broke into a broad grin and shook his head. “Amazing. This is the best pasta I ever had in my life.” She beamed with pride and joy and leaned over to place a kiss on his mouth. “you get a reward for that later.”
His brow arched. “Is Maggie babysitting?”
His sister snorted. “Dream on. you’re babysitting for us.”
Carina sighed. “Would you two just stop? Max and I will take the kids for you, if you want some alone time.”
Max choked. “No, we won’t. I didn’t agree to that.” He grunted at the obvious kick under the table.
Julietta stood with her bowl in her hands. Her hands slipped on the edges, and she chastised herself for being so ridiculous. He wouldn’t know. No one would. It was a silly tradition anyway and meant nothing. She set the bowl in front of him. “Here you go. Buon appetito. ”
The sudden chatter dimmed. All gazes focused on Sawyer, who stared down at his plate and then back up in pure confusion. Damn them all. Why were they making it meaningful? “Umm, is something wrong?” Sawyer asked.
Her mother gave her the look. The look that prodded her to speak and had forced her to do many things she didn’t want to do over the years. Julietta pressed her lips together. Mama Conte snorted at her daughter’s stubbornness and took the reins. “My daughter has made your plate by her own hands. She has done this with the honor of serv-ing you, her husband, for your pleasure.”
Heat struck her cheekbones. This was such an archaic tradition. Sawyer was probably dying from being the focus of everyone’s attention with no idea how to react. Her nerves fluttered. “It’s nothing.” She forced a laugh. “Just eat.”
She slid into the seat beside him and laid her napkin on her lap. When he didn’t say anything, she lifted her lids to sneak a peek.
He stared down at the pasta in sheer amazement. As if gazing at pure gold, he shifted his glance back and forth, staring with a strange vulnerability and need that called out to her. “you made this for me?” he asked.
Julietta gave a jerky nod.
In silence, he picked up his fork and twisted the noodles around the utensil. Placed it in his mouth with a reverence that stole her breath and her heart. She watched his every movement, his profile a portrait of angelic grace, even with his scar. Sawyer swallowed, then slowly placed his utensil down. In front of all witnesses, he reached over and took her hand in his. The warm strength of his grip settled her nerves and caused a pure joy to flood every crevice of her body.
“Thank you for this gift. It’s simply the best thing I ever ate in my life.”
Julietta smiled and squeezed his hand. “Prego,” she whispered.
As if knowing the tension had dissipated, Lily burst out, “More pasta, please!”
Nick tapped her nose and refilled her bowl. Chatter re-sumed, stories were shared, and Julietta ate. But she knew something had changed between them. Something that couldn’t be undone. Something that broke all the rules.
She pushed the thought away and focused on her family.
She cooked for him.
Sawyer ate with a methodical precision as the scene at the table faded to the background. odd, when she laid the plate in front of him, he sensed something different. Like he’d reverted to an alternate time and place where certain actions masked deep emotions that were experienced but unspoken. His wife had prepared a dish with him solely in mind. Served him with a humbleness he didn’t deserve. And looked at him with a banked fire in her eyes that drew him to her like a homing pigeon on a mission.
Food was survival. When he’d become rich enough for it to be a pleasure, he dined at gourmet restaurants. Culinary chefs had prepared meals on yachts and in endless hotel rooms. He’d ordered room service for women he slept with.
Since their wedding night, Julietta prepared simple meals for Wolfe and him that he recognized and appreci-ated. Lamb chops, pasta, risotto, grilled fish. He’d never had a frozen vegetable with her and was beginning to get used to the bottles of herbs on the windowsill, the baskets of tomatoes and prunes, grapes and lemons that littered the countertops.
But today was different. She offered him something of herself, as beautifully as she offered her body to him night after night. And in the way he only knew from his life, he took and took and took, giving her orgasms and pleasure but keeping himself solidly locked behind a wall that crum-bled inch by inch with each day that passed.
Confusion and want swamped him in a deadly mixture.
The memory caught, shifted, and dragged him under.
Thanksgiving. He sat in the closet with his foster brother and sister. One slice of turkey lay before them. Bread. Half a cup of milk. “You’re gonna get in trouble,” Danny whis-Probst_MarriageMerger_3P_kk.indd 304
pered, his eyes greedy at the sight of the meat. “Did you steal it?”
“Yeah. But I don’t care. It’s Thanksgiving, and we should celebrate.”
“School talked about it. I learned about the Pilgrims and stuff, but the other kids talked about turkeys and stuffing and cranberries. What is stuffing like?”
His sister touched the turkey like it would disappear. “We should return it.” Worry laced her voice. “You’ll get beaten.”
“I don’t care. He won’t find out. I was really careful. Here, I’ll cut up a slice for each of us.” He made sure to give them the bulk and take a tiny piece for himself. They ate the meal in silence, enjoying every bite of something that had actual texture and good taste. Food was another way of controlling them and their behavior, along with the beating, the solitude.
“We should say what we’re grateful for.”