and disheveled. Smudges of what remained of the makeup she’d worn for their party darkened the dark circles under her eyes, and deep lines made parentheses around her mouth.
Papa set a sfogliatella on a plate and took it to the table. Sitting close beside Mamma, he put the plate beside her untouched coffee and hooked his arm across the back of her chair. He whispered something in her ear. Mamma leaned to him, but didn’t move toward the cup or the plate. She simply rested on Papa’s shoulder, and he pulled her close and held her.
It hurt to see their grief, but there was a solace in it, too. Mamma didn’t blame Papa. Elisa was dead because of who he was and what he did—that was simply an objective fact. But it didn’t seem like anyone here blamed him. Whether to them he was Papa, or Nick, or Don Pagano, or some combination of all those versions of him, no one here blamed him. Except the blame he carried himself.
Lia was glad. Blame would tear them all apart.
She turned from the scene of her parents’ mutual sorrow and comfort and surveyed the offerings on the big center island. Sfogliatelle were also Lia’s favorite pastry, and she plucked a fat one, the ricotta filling oozing from its end, and took a big bite.
In light of the traumas and challenges of real life, being skinny seemed like a ridiculously shallow obsession she’d indulged for too long.
She caught Carina’s eyes just then, and her sister gave her a shocked look, and then a snotty little smirk—another unsettling blip of normalcy, as was Lia’s irritated, defensive reaction.
But the normalcy stopped there. At any other time, Carina would have added a snarky comment to her snotty smirk. This time, the smirk softened to a little smile, one with real affection, and she picked up a sfogliatella of her own and took a big bite, lifting the pastry in a toast.
Lia toasted with her pastry, too. Then she caught Alex’s eye, and he smiled as well. His smile was different, without any sibling mischief. He looked relieved, if anything, as he reached for an apple tart for himself.
Then he slid his arm around her waist, and Lia leaned against him.
What a strange thing, to feel so happy and so sad all at once.
~oOo~
Not long after that breakfast, Alex went home to be with his mom for a while and shower and pick up another change of clothes. Lia told him to pack a bag, but he was worried her father would object if it looked like he thought he could stay indefinitely.
Shortly after Alex left, Uncle Donnie got a call, and he and Papa changed into suits and left the house. Uncle Eli headed out, too, to run some errands with Uncle Theo. Then, Ren and Snuggles were the only male types left in the house. Ren absented himself at once, creeping off to his room, and taking the dog with him.
It was hard to know how Ren was doing. He always looked gloomy and kept to himself.
Carina, on the other hand, was pretty clearly rocked. She’d been in the midst of things constantly, helping their aunts, trying to take care of Mamma, doing chores without being asked—all of it completely out of character for her.
When Mamma picked up the Christmas centerpiece from the kitchen island, dumped in the trash, and announced softly that she was tired and going back to bed, Aunt Carmen watched her go without trying to stop her. Then she put her hands on her hips and said, “I think we should take the decorations down. Are you girls up for helping?”
Lia looked at Carina, who shrugged.
In part, it felt like a surrender. But the festive remnants of the broken holiday were grotesque. “Yeah,” Lia said. “It’s a good idea.”
Lia, Carina, and their aunts spent the next few hours unmaking a Christmas that had never been. In their house, almost every room was decorated. Two full trees—the huge, elegant showpiece in the living room, and another in the family room, with all the kids’ handmade ornaments and trims. Stockings arrayed across the family room mantelpiece. Wreaths on every door. Springs of holly, boughs of pine, lights and candles and balls and pinecones everywhere. Towels and throw rugs, wall hangings and knickknacks.
The custom-made family of snow people near the front door: snow papa, snow mamma, three snow daughters and a little snow son.
“This sucks,” Carina said as she held the snow family while