Royally Claimed - By Marie Donovan Page 0,45
gestured toward the back of the house. “I must make sure the men are not ruining our lunch.”
“Of course. What would we men do without the ladies to watch over us?”
Magdalena gave a surprisingly young-sounding giggle at Frank’s gallantry. He furthered his reputation as a gentleman by tucking Magdalena’s hand into his left elbow and reaching for Julia’s for his right side.
The three of them entered the house. The living room was small but stuffed with comfortable-looking furniture, and the dark wood dining room table was set with what had to be the good china, white with pink pastel roses around the rims.
José poked his head out of the kitchen. “Hey, Don Franco, you already got a pretty girl, leave mine alone!”
“José!” Magdalena hissed, mortified at her husband’s lack of respect for their noble guest. She let go of Frank’s arm and burst into a torrent of Portuguese, waving her dishtowel at her husband’s head.
The older man just laughed and ducked, obviously used to baiting his wife. She chased him into the kitchen and appeared a moment later, smoothing her ruffled dignity with a serene smile. “Would you like to see the opening of the cozido?”
“I’d love to,” answered Julia. She might need an extra few minutes to bolster her courage for eating their mystery-meat lunch.
The kitchen was a smaller version of the one in Frank’s villa, dark wood and tiled walls. The pail sat on the center island, surrounded by more women—probably the wives of the men she’d met up at the caldera. The men leaned against the countertops, joking with each other. José put on oven mitts and popped the lid. They all sighed in pleasure as a delicious scent immediately filled the room.
Julia breathed out a sigh of relief, as well. Pork, if she wasn’t mistaken. She could handle that. Magdalena reached into the pail with tongs and started pulling out tender chunks of meat, wedges of cabbage, potatoes and other vegetables and plump brown loops of sausage.
Julia’s mouth watered. “So the pail acts as a slow cooker and the volcano supplies the heat?”
Frank nodded. “And it’s first come, first served to the hot pits where you bury the food. That’s why José got there at five this morning to make sure he got a good spot.”
“All that work for us?”
José overheard her question. “No work, just an honor. The Duke, he is very good to our little islands.”
Magdalena chipped in, “He paid for the school playground, new roof for the church, bus for the handicapped children, new machines at the hospital—”
Frank waved his hands. “Please, please, you’re embarrassing me.” His cheeks were turning ruddy, and Julia smiled.
She decided to take the focus off Frank to let him recover from the shower of well-deserved praise. “Magdalena, you speak very good English.” Julia carried a platter of cozido to the table and set it where the older woman indicated.
“She should,” said José, pouring a rich red wine into the goblets. “We lived in Falls River, Massachusetts, for thirty years. They say Falls River is the eighth island of the Azores since so many of us moved there when we were young.” The other men nodded.
Magdalena shooed everyone into a chair. She and José sat at the head and foot of the table. Julia sat between José and Frank and the other couples filled in to make about fourteen people at the table.
Julia smiled at their host. “Of course, Falls River.” It was a heavily Azorean enclave famous for its good food and rich culture. “I live in Boston now, but my parents retired back here. We lived here briefly when I was young—on the Air Force base.”
“Eh, we all move back and forth between Massachusetts and the Azores. If you lived here when you were a kid, you already an Azorean, right?”
“Well…” She’d need to learn Portuguese much better to get away with that claim. “That’s kind of you to say.”
“Just the truth.” José tapped his wineglass. “A toast.” The table obediently quieted. “A toast to Don Franco, Duke of Santas Aguas, who grew into a fine man like his father and grandfather before him. They would be proud.”
Frank blinked in emotion, but José wasn’t done yet. “And to the lovely Senhorina Julia, an Azorean-American beauty. Welcome home!”
It was Julia’s turn to blush, and she gave what she hoped was a gracious nod to the cheers and claps. She sipped at her wine and filled her plate with juicy pork chunks, sausage and fork-tender cabbages and potatoes. The