The Supreme Macaroni Company Read Free Page B

breaking up with a wonderful man, but didn’t stand in my way when I decided to take a different path.
    No one in my family had wanted to speak to me back then, they were so furious. I had caught a big fish who happened to be my childhood sweetheart, but I threw him back into the river like an old shoe instead of the Wall Street wonder he became. It was typical of me to throw away something good without an alternate plan in mind. No one understood—no one but my father. Dad only wanted my happiness, whatever that meant.
    When Bret pivoted a few months later and married a beautiful blonde named Mackenzie from East Eighty-First Street, hit it big on Wall Street, moved to Chatham, and had two children, my father was the only one who pulled me aside and told me I had done the right thing.
    Bret and I remain friends—we even work together on the financials for my business—but on the personal side, my father understood why I chose learning to make shoes over becoming a Wall Street wife. My dad wanted me to make my own destiny, instead of helping Bret realize his. At the time I couldn’t do both, but only my father understood.
    Dutch Roncalli was the last of his breed, the strict Italian father with a heart made of mascarpone.
    “Why are you crying?” Gianluca asked.
    “In the very worst of times, or the very best, my dad has always been there for me. He may not have said anything, but he’s always stood by me. He’s been my witness. I never thought that I’d find someone who loved me as much as he does.”
    Gianluca and I walked up Candy Cane Lane. The air had the scent of freshly cut balsam and the oncoming snow. When we reached the porch, my father threw open the front door. The diamond on my finger was nestled inside my black suede glove like a secret. I was about to embrace my dad when he body-blocked us from entering.
    “It’s bad,” he whispered. “Go.”
    Instead of the Dean Martin Christmas album playing, we heard shouting. “How bad is it?”
    “I’d turn back if I were you.”
    “Dutch? Who is it?” my mother shouted over the fight. “We feel a breeze in here!”
    I went up on my tiptoes and looked past Dad down the long hallway to the kitchen. I was suddenly famished as the scent of buttery broiled lobster wafted through from the kitchen. What’s a little throw-down before lobster? My father tried to close the door, but I placed my hand on it.
    I will always choose food over personal safety.
    Gianluca tightened his grip on my arm as we heard yelling, followed by the banging of fists on the table. “What happened? Did Aunt Feen cheat at cards?” Aunt Feen is my grandmother’s only sister, her baby sister. Feen has lived in my Teodora’s shadow since she was born. It is not uncommon for Aunt Feen to attract attention by any means necessary, whether it’s complaining the most or starting small fights that turn into brawls, triggered by her passive-aggressive comments. It isn’t any help when she deliberately wears a muumuu and orthotics when the event is black-tie. “Did she pick a fight with Gram?”
    “I wish. That’s a bonfire you could contain. No, Tess and Jaclyn served the third fish, and all hell broke loose.”
    I could picture my sisters with steaming plates of fresh fish, clams, and oysters, navigating the small dining room like a military front, hoping to deflect a fight with good food.
    “Your sisters served the shrimp while your sister-in-law Pamela followed them with the lemon wedges. Charlie was ejaculating—”
    “Oh, Dad, you must mean gesticulating—talking with his hands?” My dad’s malaprops get worse when he’s nervous.
    “Yeah, yeah, whatever the word is. The sauce went flying. Let’s just say it looks like a crime scene in there.”
    “Okay, so we lost the sauce. But don’t tell me she ran out of crab legs.” I shouldn’t have been thinking about food at a time like that, but I like to think about food, especially at a time like that. “I told her to order