a show, friend.”
Marco burst into laughter. “Ehi, what are you doing here?”
Sandro shrugged, smiling. “Your singing wasn’t terrible.”
“Thank you.” Marco bowed again. “Elisabetta, I would like to take you to dinner, on a proper date. Would you like to go with me, the next night you have off from work?”
“Oh my!” Elisabetta blurted out, caught betwixt and between. The two boys were smiling as if they thought it was funny, but she felt completely awkward, holding Sandro’s book and Marco’s bouquet. The only thing worse than having neither boy interested in her was having both of them interested in her. It struck her that romance with either Marco or Sandro wasn’t without risk. If one of them broke her heart, or she broke one of theirs, she would lose their friendship. She was inevitably going to lose one of them, and choose one of them. Or might she somehow lose both? She hadn’t anticipated that the situation would be so complicated.
Sandro chuckled again. “Marco, she can go out with you after she goes out with me.”
“Or before,” Marco shot back.
Sandro shrugged. “Either way, a girl has to eat.”
“Yes, okay, Marco,” Elisabetta answered, confused.
Meanwhile, Paolo motioned to her, meaning she had to get back to work, and Elisabetta turned to Marco and Sandro.
“Thanks so much, both of you. I have to go.”
* * *
—
After Marco and Sandro had left, Elisabetta fled the kitchen, and Nonna motioned her into the pantry, where she sat making the final batch of pasta, her knobby fingers dusted with flour. Tonight they had served spaghetti alla chitarra, which was made on a chitarra, a pasta guitar, a set of fine gauge wires strung across a wooden frame. The dough was black with squid ink and dusted with flour. Only connoisseurs loved squid-ink pasta, but only connoisseurs ate at Casa Servano.
“Yes, Nonna?” Elisabetta asked, coming over.
“What just happened in my restaurant? Two boys came courting you?” Nonna draped a flat sheet of dough over the chitarra wires. “Sit down.”
Elisabetta obeyed. “I’m sorry, I didn’t know they were coming, I had no idea—”
“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