by Rosie Genova
I couldn’t help smiling. “Shows how much you know. Nonna wears print blouses and polyester pants.” But he had a point. My grandmother was bossy, and our relationship was as rocky as the Italian hillside. And I would need her for this project. I braced myself for his reaction to my next statement. “Maybe I’ll ask her to teach me to cook. You know, real Italian cooking.”
Josh’s loud bray of laughter assaulted my ear. “Oh, that’s rich.”
“No, what’s rich is Nonna’s red sauce. And I’m determined to learn how to make it.”
He sighed loudly. “How much time are we talking about?”
“Give me a year,” I said. “To immerse myself in the family business, learn the family history.”
“You’ll be back in Manhattan in a week.”
I looked back out the window at the familiar city streets. “Maybe. But I need to do this, and not just for the book.” I wasn’t ready to think about the other reason. Not yet.
Josh sighed again; he was starting to sound like my mother. “Look, he said, “if you really want to do this, I’ll work to get it out there, but I’m not making any promises.”
Thank you, I mouthed silently to the Fates. I added one to the Holy Mother for good measure. “You’re the best little agent a girl could have, you know that? And if you can’t sell it, I promise I’ll work on a new mystery for you. In the meantime, have a little faith, okay?”
“I have faith in you. It’s that crazy family of yours I’m not so sure of,” he said as we hung up.
And with that, Josh voiced my first dark doubt. Going back to Oceanside meant going back to being a daughter and granddaughter, a kid sister and a hometown girl. Falling back into a role I’d shrugged off like an old coat and with nearly as little thought. Was I ready for that? And what of that second dark doubt, the one that loomed over me like a shadow? Wasn’t it time to dispel it, once and for all?
I stood at my desk and picked up my latest mystery from the Agatha Press, smiling at the cartoon image of my moderately famous detective. “I’m gonna miss you, Bernardo. But I’m certain this is the right thing to do.”
His eyes seemed to mock me from under his trademark Panama hat, as though any moment he would stroke his neatly trimmed beard and make one of his Vitali-esque predictions: Fate has plans for those who are sure . . .
• • •
A couple of months later, I headed south on the Garden State Parkway, the backseat of my newly purchased used Honda stuffed to its windows with boxes, clothes, and books. I had sublet my New York apartment for a year, and as I approached the Driscoll Bridge, I imagined myself as an epic hero on a quest. Because once I crossed this mighty river, there was no going back. But below me wasn’t the Rubicon, only the Raritan, and beyond that the bay, and finally the ocean. I opened my window and inhaled the mingled perfumes of seawater and industrial pollution. From the car’s fuzzy speakers, Springsteen’s voice was a plaintive wail on “Meeting Across the River,” and I couldn’t help but see it as a sign.
It won’t be long now, I thought. A tiny frisson of apprehension traveled up my spine, and despite the warm May morning, I hit my window button to close it. Out of habit, or maybe for luck, I touched my necklace, a silver choker with a pendant made of green sea glass. Please don’t let this be a mistake. As the words formed in my brain, I flashed on his changeable eyes and the swift bright grin that reduced me to the consistency of mascarpone cheese. My other dark doubt. You are a big girl, Victoria, I told myself. Do not let this—do not let him—get in the way of your plans.
From Route 35 I turned onto the jug handle that would take me into town, down Ocean Avenue toward the boardwalk and the Casa Lido. It was still early in the season, and the same street that would be crawling with cars on a Saturday in July was nearly empty now. But here were the old landmarks of my childhood: the Carvel stand with its giant aluminum ice cream cone, Mrs. Parker’s Fudge Shoppe (note to self: stop in for a pound this week), and Harrison’s Department Store, which sold everything from sunscreen to hardware to hermit crabs. I let out a small sigh, startled at the thought that I had actually missed this—the boardwalk, the ocean, sand between my toes. Even the restaurant. All the things I had left behind eight years before.
We’ll see how sentimental you feel as you face down Nonna, I told myself. We’ll see how warm and fuzzy this homecoming will be when you’re trying to write your magnum opus during the day after waiting on hungry tourists all night. As I passed each of the alphabetized beach blocks—Absecon, Barnegat, Cape May, Deal—the flutters in my stomach grew to an insistent thudding. The restaurant was on the corner of Ocean Avenue and Seaside Street, and I was already past the Ms.
Without thinking, I pulled over, got out of the car, and crossed the wide, quiet street. As I made my way up the ramp, I relished the echo of the wooden boards under my feet. Most of the stands were still closed, but the smell of popcorn drifted in the wind, and behind that, the unmistakable smell of the sea. I stood at the railing looking out over the ocean, feeling my shoulders slacken and the tension in my body ease. I was home. And starting tomorrow, I would write the story that was already forming in my heart and brain. But that meant facing all the things I had run from, starting now. I got back in the car.
As soon as I pulled up to the familiar red brick building, I saw him. He was leaning against his squad car, arms crossed and a knowing grin on his face. His light brown hair was cropped close in a style that announced he was either a cop or a fireman. As I got closer, I could see some gold highlights, but there was also more silver. His face was tan, as always; he still spent his days off fishing or surfing. The lines around his eyes had deepened—and why did that always look so good on guys?—but his hazel eyes, the same color as mine, were warmly welcoming. He was still my Danny.
“C’mere, you.” He held out his arms to me and pulled me into a tight hug that lifted me off the ground. Then he grabbed my face and gave me a loud kiss on the forehead. “You’re too skinny.”
“I won’t be for long. I stopped for a pork roll and cheese on the way down.” I smiled up at my big brother, and the world righted on its axis.
“Well, get ready,” he said. “They’ve been cooking for three days.”
“That’s what I’m counting on.” I looked up at the sign over the green-and-white-striped awning:
The Casa Lido
Fine Italian Food since 1943
“But, I gotta say, I was surprised when you told me you were coming back,” Danny said. “I know you want to research the new book, but it’s not like you loved working in the restaurant.”
“Neither did you,” I said, poking him in the chest. “But because you were a guy, you got out of it easier than I did.”
“But I never wanted to leave Oceanside. You couldn’t wait to get out.”
I looked up at his face, saw the affection and concern, and rested my palm against his cheek. “Danny, you know why. I had to get out of here to get started as a writer. And I had to put some distance between him and me.”
“You know, he hasn’t seen her in a couple of years, Vic. And I don’t think he’s been serious with anyone since.”
“Right. Knowing him, I find that a little hard to believe.” I ducked my head to search for my car keys, hiding my burning face and burning curiosity. So he was still single. And probably still living in town. I gripped my keys with sweaty fingers, my hand shaking as I locked the car.
Danny caught my free hand. “He’s grown up a lot, hon. And I’m not just saying that ’cause he’s my friend.”
“I don’t want to talk about this, okay?” I glanced up at him and risked a question of my own. “How’s it going with you and Sofia?” Instantly, my loving brother morphed into Bad Cop, all hooded eyes and tight jaw.
“It’s not. And I don’t want to talk about it.”
“Fair enough,” I said, and nudged him with my elbow. “At this rate, Mommy’s never gonna get that grandchild she wants so bad.”
“She never shuts u
p about it. Then her and Nonna double-team me.” He grinned. “Now you’re here, so some of the pressure’s off.”
“I don’t know, Dan. I think they’ve given up on me. At the ripe old age of thirty-three, I’m pretty much on the shelf. At least you’ve been married.”
“I’m still married. And if it were up to me, it’d stay that way.” He refused to meet my eye, and I knew better than to pursue it.
“Well,” I said, looking back up at the Casa Lido sign. “I guess it’s now or never.”
Danny rested his hand against one of the wooden doors and winked at me. “You ready?”
I sighed. “As I’ll ever be, brother.”
About Rosie
A Jersey girl born and bred, national bestselling author Rosie Genova left her heart at the shore, which serves as the setting for much of her work. Her series, the Italian Kitchen Mysteries, is informed by her appreciation for good food and her love of classic mysteries from Nancy Drew to Miss Marple. Her debut novel, Murder and Marinara, was named a 2013 Best Pick by Suspense Magazine and was a finalist for a 2014 Daphne Award. The proud mama of three grown sons, Rosie still lives in her home state with her husband and a charming mutt named Lucy. You can visit Rosie at her website, on Facebook, or on Goodreads.
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Contents
Praise for the National Bestselling Italian Kitchen Mysteries
The Seven-Course Christmas Killer
Title Page
Copyright
Contents
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Christmas Day
Author’s Note
Recipes from the Italian Kitchen
Nonna Rienzi’s Famous Wedding Soup
Rosie’s Easy Beef Ragu
Mema Genova’s Ricotta Cookies
Excerpt from Murder and Marinara
About Rosie
Hungry for more?