Chapter 23: Nonna's Terms

Nonna had written her terms on the back of a bakery bag.

She laid it flat on the kitchen table the next morning, between the coffee and the loaf, and smoothed it with her palm.

Santo sat across from her in a borrowed fisherman's sweater with his hair still damp.

He did not look at me, and I did not look at him.

Luca looked at both of us and ate his egg.

"One," Nonna read. "There will be no guns at my son's dock."

"Agreed," said Santo.

"Two. Nobody wears black. I have buried enough people in black this year."

"Agreed."

"Three. The boy carries the ring, and if he drops it in the harbor, you go in after it."

"In October," I said.

"In October," said Nonna, without mercy. "Four. The bride is given away by someone who loved her."

I put down my cup.

"I have nobody for that, Nonna."

"You have me."

She said it very flatly, looking at the bag.

I got up and went around the table and put my arms around her neck from behind.

She smelled of flour and bay leaves, and she patted my hand twice, hard, and told me not to wrinkle her good collar.

The paper had a fifth line.

She turned it over and read it to Santo in a lower voice.

"Five. If you ever look at another person for permission before you answer her, I'll take the stone back and set it on your head."

"Signora," Santo said, "I'd carry it."

It took us two weeks, because Nonna would not be rushed and the lawyer from Providence had to prove to a judge that a dead woman could be married.

We were married on the Port Ellery dock on a Sunday evening, with the tide coming in.

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