One Italian Summer - Lori Nelson Spielman Page 0,3
promised to fit her in.” He glances at his watch. “She is late, as usual.”
“She’s probably tied up at work,” I say, instantly regretting my choice of words. My impetuous cousin Lucy—second cousin, if I were being precise—makes no pretense of her active “social life.” This, together with the fact that her boyfriend du jour is her coworker, makes it entirely possible that Lucy really is tied up at work. “How’s Aunt Ethel?” I say, changing the subject.
Uncle Dolphie raises his brows. “Last night she saw her sister. She’s always happy when she sees Adriana.” He chuckles and dabs his mouth with his napkin. “If only I could get that woman to appear more often.”
My aunt Ethel and uncle Dolphie live above the barbershop in a two-bedroom apartment my aunt has always believed is haunted. Sweet Ethel claims she sees the ghosts of her relatives from the old country, which, I suspect, is one of the reasons my uncle continues to keep regular hours at the empty barbershop. Everyone needs an escape, I suppose. I used to ask my aunt if she ever saw my mother. She always said no. A few years ago, I finally stopped asking.
Uncle Dolphie drops one last bite into his mouth and brushes the crumbs from his hands. “Delizioso,” he says and shuffles over to his barber station. He returns with the pages I gave him yesterday.
“I am liking this story, la mia nipote talentata.”
My talented niece? I bite my lip to hide my glee. “Grazie.”
“You are building momentum. I sense conflict coming.”
“You’re right,” I say, remembering the plotline I imagined today at work. I pull last night’s pages from my satchel and hand them to him. “I’ll bring the next installment on Thursday.”
He scowls. “Nothing tomorrow?”
I can’t help but smile. It’s our secret, my little writing hobby. “Never underestimate the blueprint for a dream,” he likes to say. Uncle Dolphie once told me he had a dream of writing an opera when he was young, though he refuses to share his notes with me, or even his ideas. “Silliness,” he always says, and he turns fifty shades of red. But I love that he once had the blueprint for a dream. I only wish he hadn’t underestimated it.
“Sorry,” I say. “No time to write tonight. Daria is hosting her book club. She invited me to come.” My tone is nonchalant, as if being invited to hang out with my sister and her friends were an everyday event for me. “She asked me to bring dolce pizza.” I peek at the clock—half past three—and make my way to the sink.
“According to Dar,” I say, rinsing my cup, “the book club’s main objective is eating, followed by drinking and talking. If they find time, they discuss the book.”
His dark eyes twinkle. “This is wonderful news, your sister inviting you into her club. I remember when the two of you were inseparable.”
Without warning, I choke up. Horrified, I open a cupboard and pretend to search for a towel. “Well, I’m not a permanent member yet,” I say, blinking furiously. “But I’m hoping that if her friends like me—or at least the pizza di crema—she’ll ask me to join.”
“Pizza di crema?” Uncle Dolphie gives a sidelong glance. “Do not let her take advantage of you.”
“It’s not that complicated. Besides, I love helping her.” He raises his brows skeptically, and I pretend not to notice.
He checks his watch and scowls. “Luciana said she would be in for a trim at two. And I hear nothing. Not a word. I fear that one is too big for her britches.”
I picture my cousin Lucy, with her curvy size 12 booty squeezed into size 8 jeans, and wonder if her grandpa is being literal or figurative.
“She’s just a kid,” I say. “She’ll be fine.”
He harrumphs. “A kid? Since when is twenty-one a kid?” He lowers his voice, as if the empty shop might hear. “Have you heard? Luciana has a new boyfriend—someone she met at that new job of hers. Ethel thinks this may be the one.” He wiggles his wiry brows.
“Huh,” I say. “Didn’t Aunt Ethel say the same thing about Derek … and that drummer named Nick … and that other guy—what was his name—the one with the cobra tattoo?” I shrug my shoulders. “Lucy’s young. She’s got her whole life in front of her. What’s the rush?”
He gives me a look, silently reminding me that Lucy is a secondborn daughter, like me.