Chapter 8: Sunday Sauce

"Liv," Chiara said in English. "Why is your phone recording?"

Raffaele's head snapped down.

I looked at the screen.

Then I laughed, a little too loud, a little drunk.

"Oh my God. It's for the book."

"What book?"

"My next one. The fox goes to a party."

I held the phone up.

"My editor says my party scenes sound fake. So I record real people being loud."

I hiccupped.

"I don't even know what anybody's saying. I just want the noise."

Chiara stared at me.

Raffaele stared at Chiara.

I pointed the phone right at her mouth.

"Say something for the fox," I said. "Something mean. She meets a mean cat."

For a second, nobody breathed.

Then Chiara threw her head back and laughed.

"Meow," she said into my phone. "Meow, meow, you stupid fox."

Raffaele laughed too, a beat late.

"You're crazy," he said in English, and kissed the top of my tiara. "I love you."

In Italian, to Chiara, he added, "Delete it later. Take her phone when she passes out."

I didn't pass out.

I took a cab home at midnight with the phone zipped inside my bra.

At one in the morning I sent the file to Tommaso.

At one-oh-two he wrote back.

"I heard the meow. I'm going to hear it in my sleep."

At two o'clock on Sunday afternoon, my grandmother's kitchen held more people than it had in years.

Nonna sat at the head of the table like a pope.

Tommaso stood at the stove in his rolled sleeves, stirring a ragù that had been going since nine.

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