by KD Fisher
I felt the truth of her words on every inch of my skin. But if I handed Matt even a shard of myself, the barest sliver, I knew I would crumble into him. And I wasn’t sure I would want to rebuild myself again.
Chapter Six
Matt
THE flowers were a mistake. My grip tightened around the cellophane-wrapped bouquet of daisies I’d picked up at the supermarket. Daisies had always been my mother’s favorite. She had a tattoo of them on her upper arm, and when I was little, I’d loved tracing my fingers over the fading yellow and white. Now, anytime I saw them growing wild in fields or behind the glass case of the grocery store flower section, I thought of her.
Through the two narrow windows flanking the imposing wooden door, I glimpsed an elegant floral display in the foyer. Even through the frosty glass it was obvious the arrangement was professional: sprays of white calla lilies and hydrangeas, sharp sprigs of holly with taut red berries, boughs of pine, and spindles of eucalyptus. I wanted to throw my flowers back in my truck and jump in after them. Everything about the Cerullos’ enormous house intimidated me: the way the golden light from the windows reflected off the iced-over surface of the adjacent pond, the towering stone chimney pouring smoke into the indigo sky, the beautiful craftsmanship of the rustic wood exterior. Pulling a deep breath through my nose, I rang the doorbell. This would be okay. Mikah was inside. He had invited me to spend Christmas Eve with him. I was wanted here.
Usually I spent the holidays alone. For a few years after my brother married Katie, I’d piled into John’s truck with the two of them to visit Katie’s parents on the Flathead Reservation in Montana. Katie’s family was nothing but welcoming, clapping me on the back and ruffling my hair good-naturedly the moment I stepped over the threshold of their house. They were great, but I still felt out of place around the huge, boisterous family that wasn’t mine. So I rekindled the tradition of stove-top stuffing and It’s a Wonderful Life, this time without John’s colorful commentary. I didn’t mind spending the holidays with only Moose’s snores and Elvis’s music for company.
When Mikah had shown up at the farm two days ago right in the middle of a rush of harried last-minute tree buyers, I hadn’t hesitated to pull him behind the barn and kiss him senseless as the snow drifted around us and the line at the register piled up. When we’d finally parted, breathless and unable to hide our grins, Mikah had asked me to join his family for their traditional Italian Christmas Eve meal. He’d gotten flustered, blushing hotly and fumbling over his words. I said yes so quickly, we both dissolved into laughter.
This morning I’d been fidgety with excitement as I ironed the wrinkles out of my favorite green flannel shirt. I actually whistled as I oiled my nicer pair of boots. And when I came back from town last night with the flowers and a large paper bag from the outdoor supply store, John and Katie had exchanged a look that heated the tips of my ears.
I had not, however, expected to pull up to an actual mansion when I followed my phone’s GPS to the address Mikah gave me. Although Mikah had mentioned his father being a lawyer, I’d somehow assumed his family’s home would be modest. Nice, maybe one of the older houses on the outskirts of town, well cared for but nothing fancy. This place was definitely fancy. As I looked once again at the Cerullos’ house, my eyebrows knit together. If Mikah’s family was this wealthy, why did he drive such a beat-up car? Why did he wear nothing but torn-up jeans and tattered sweaters? Did he like slumming it? Was that why he liked me? Fire tore through me, a mix of shame and hurt. Then Mikah pulled the door open, and his soft smile was a splash of cool water.
“Hi.” He laughed nervously and gestured for me to come in.
I didn’t know where to look first. Both Mikah and the interior of the house were astonishing in their beauty. Both surprised me with their bright cheer. It was the first time I’d seen Mikah wearing anything colorful. His garnet sweater somehow made his creamy skin and dark hair glow warmer than usual.
“These are for you,” I mumbled, thrusting the flowers at him. Looking around, though, it was abundantly clear that the daisies would probably just end up in the garbage. There were, in addition to the huge arrangement I’d spied through the door, flowers and holiday arrangements everywhere. A garland of pine and white lights twined around the rough-hewn banister. Large pots of poinsettias flanked the archway into the kitchen. There were even swags of juniper adorning the wrought-iron chandelier.
Mikah startled me by pressing a soft kiss to the corner of my mouth. “Thank you, I love daisies. Here, come on in, and I’ll put them in some water.”
The kitchen was loud. Over the roar of the vent fan above the stove and the classical music tinkling from a built-in sound system, every member of the Cerullo family seemed to be speaking at once. As I followed Mikah into the room, however, they all stopped. And they all turned to look at me.
“Um, so this is Matt.” Mikah gave my forearm a quick, reassuring squeeze. “Matt, this is… my entire family.”
Elena waved enthusiastically at me, offering me a smile so kind and genuine, my breath came easier.
“Thanks for having me.” My voice was low and rough. I reached into the shopping bag for the apple butter and huckleberry preserves I’d put up last fall. The small mason jars with their handmade labels looked out of place in the state-of-the-art kitchen. “I brought you these.”
“Thank you so much. How thoughtful!” A slim woman with glossy black hair and lots of silver jewelry stepped forward to pull me into a perfumed hug. “I’m Naomi, Mikah’s stepmom. I’m so happy you’re here! It’ll be nice to have another person in the house who doesn’t lapse into Italian during every conversation.” Her laugh and glance at the man I guessed was Mikah’s dad were a little self-conscious.
“Matt, it’s a pleasure. I’m Stefano.” Mikah’s father shook my hand, his grip firm but not over-the-top. When Luca grasped my hand, however, I had to wonder if he was trying to break it. It was funny to see how much Mikah’s older brother resembled their father, both of them tall and broad, with dignified faces and bronze skin. I figured Mikah and Elena must have taken after their mother. They were both graceful and slim, with a kind of delicate wildness that reminded me of the foxes I saw stalking quietly through the woods sometimes: dark eyes, quick movements, guarded intelligence. They both had heavy, serious eyebrows, messy hair, and pale skin. And they definitely shared the exact same snarky grin.
“So what can I get you to drink?” Naomi asked with the poised air of a perfect hostess. “There’s a bit of champagne left in the fridge, some of the Etna Bianco I think too? Or if you’d like red, Luca can run down to the cellar.”
“I’m okay for now, thank you.”
“If you are worried about driving, don’t be. You are more than welcome to spend the night. We are not prudes in this house,” Mikah’s father stated matter-of-factly, his voice heavily accented.
“Jesus, Dad!” Mikah turned from the stove where he’d been checking a bubbling pot. Our eyes met across the room, and my heart jolted in my chest. I’m sure we both blushed like teenagers.
Next to him Elena snorted. “Okay, food will be ready in, like, ten minutes. We can all stop embarrassing Mikah until we’re at the dinner table.” She winked at me.
When I slid into a chair next to Mikah around the wide, tree-slab dining table, my mouth automatically curved into a smile. Although he’d been dashing around, putting the finishing touches on the elaborate meal, Mikah had taken the time to arrange the daisies in a vase, placing them in the middle of a cluster of red and gold candles at the center of the table. When he noticed me looking at them, he reached for my hand and didn’t let go.
“Allora, before we eat, I propose a toast.” Mikah’s father stood, brushing nonexistent lint from his blazer. He began speaking in rapid-fire Italian, and Naomi caught my eye, shooting me a look that said told you. I pressed my lips together to hide my smile.
“What did he say?” I whispered in Mikah’s ear after we’d clinked glasses and sipped our champ
agne. Or, prosecco, Mikah told me. I’d never had it before, but I liked the soft fizziness in my mouth.
“Oh, just a bunch of stuff about family and new beginnings and how lucky he is. He gets way too sentimental this time of year.” Mikah rolled his eyes, but I could tell his heart wasn’t really in the gesture. Then his eyes widened, and his expression shifted from snarky to panicked. “Wait, do you like seafood?” He glanced at the sideboard, crowded with numerous platters under silver domes.
I shrugged. “I like trout and salmon. Haven’t tried much else.”
Mikah bit his lip and want flashed through me. “Okay, well, if you’d like, I can make you a plate?” His sheepish expression morphed my want into need. I was desperate to pull him into my lap, to wrap my arms around him, to drag the tip of my nose along the warm skin of his neck.
“Sure.” I nodded easily.
“Don’t worry at all if you don’t like something.” Mikah was still holding my hand, and I was reluctant to let him go as he stood.
He returned a moment later with a plate full of unfamiliar food. I couldn’t help but eye it skeptically. I recognized spaghetti, lightly coated in tomato sauce and studded with olives. There were fried things and a thick slice of bread smeared with white and dusted with flecks of parsley. There was also something that looked horrifyingly tentacled. I took a giant gulp of champagne.
Mikah tipped his head back in a bright laugh. “You look pretty freaked-out.” When he grasped my hand again, I relaxed.
“Nah.” I glanced around the table. Naomi and Stefano were still serving themselves while Elena and Luca were caught up in an argument about which wine would be best to serve first. “Just, uh, what is all this?”
Again Mikah grinned. It was nice to see him so relaxed. “So, it’s the Festa dei Sette Pesci. Most Italians, the Catholic ones anyway, don’t eat meat on Christmas Eve, so we do a big seafood meal.” He pointed down at the spaghetti on my plate. “That’s pasta puttanesca; it’s a little spicy but really good if you like anchovies.” He raised his eyebrows as if waiting for a response.
“Never had ’em,” I murmured.
“I think you’ll like it. Next to that is bread with baccalà mantecato. It’s a salt cod spread. We’re kinda flexible with what we serve every year, but I always make this.” Mikah fake-preened. “It’s kind of my specialty. Anyway, let’s see. I gave you a little bit of fried calamari and smelts. Make sure you squeeze the lemon over them. And, um, in the middle, that’s sea bass. Oh, and insalata di mare. Basically, it’s a whole bunch of shellfish and octopus.”
As strange as the food was, it was undeniably delicious. I was aware of Mikah watching me eat, so I paused and set down my fork. Damn, I ate way faster than anyone in his family. “You made all this?” I asked.
“No! He so did not!” Elena cut in, all mock-indignant. “I made the sea bass and the salad.”
“Yeah, the two easiest dishes.” Mikah waved a piece of octopus speared on his fork.
“Oh, okay, so who spent two hours making the cannoli, then?” Elena had perfected the art of the arched eyebrow.
“Fair enough.” Mikah laughed.
I returned to eating, willing myself to chew slowly and actually savor the balanced flavors of garlic, lemon, and herbs. Around me the conversation flowed in undulating waves of Italian and English. But even if I’d understood every word, I still would have been at sea. There were snippets about the upcoming opera season in New York. Mikah and his father argued about a poet I’d never heard of. Elena and Luca resumed their conversation about wine. I liked the way they talked, interrupting each other and filling in the ends of sentences, a soft thrum of genuine care underlying every word and gesture. This was certainly nothing like the meals I’d grown up with. Before I knew it, I’d cleaned my plate.
“Matt!” Mika’s father’s voice rang out over the din of conversation. My head snapped up. “You need more food. What can I get you?”
Patting my stomach, I declined. “I’m pretty full, thanks, Mr. Cerullo.”
“Stefano,” he corrected with a very Mikah-like grin, “and nonsense. You want some more fish, or perhaps some calamari?”
Knowing I wasn’t about to win this argument, I asked for more of the baccalà, although I forgot the word and had to communicate by pointing to Mikah’s still mostly full plate. As I started in on my second helping of food, Luca’s gaze rested on me.
“So, Matt, Mikah told me you’re a farmer?” Luca’s voice was perfectly neutral. I didn’t know what kind of law he practiced, but I knew I would hate having to face the guy in a courtroom. I always found it difficult to talk to people like him, people with unreadable expressions whose every word seemed calculated to produce a specific effect.
“Yup.” I nodded once, unsure of what else to say. I dragged my finger through the condensation on my glass of fizzy water.
“How’d you get into that? Seems like a tough business.”
“My brother and I inherited the land after our parents passed.” No point in beating around the bush. “Now we’re certified organic and doing pretty well. I like the work.”
“What made you decide to go the organic route?” Luca sounded genuinely interested now, so I answered honestly.
“My folks didn’t really lead the healthiest lifestyle. Didn’t take great care of the land. My dad just dumped chemicals on the crops and hoped for the best. The yields were low, and we struggled to make it. My brother, John, was real into 4-H. Knew a lot about actual growing practices and stuff. Honestly, the profit margins are better for organics if you’re a small farm like us. The certification was real expensive, but it means we have a wider appeal to a lot of the restaurants and markets in Jackson. Chefs go pretty wild for fancy vegetables, I guess. And I make a lot of value-added products for us too. Pickles, jams, that kind of thing.”
Truthfully the decision to overhaul the farm had been all John’s. After my parents died, I stuttered to a halt. I quit football, quit school, quit doing anything. But John had been solid. He was single-minded in his dedication to care for me and the land. When I woke up from my shock, I found the fields cleared, the house cleaned up, the rusted-out cars gone from the driveway. I was proud of the business we’d built and grateful for my brother.
Mikah twined his fingers with mine, as if he sensed my slight discomfort. “Okay.” He shot his brother a pointed glare. “You can stop interrogating him now.”
Luca laughed easily, a surprising, hearty sound from such a refined-looking guy. “Fine. You seem like a good dude, Matt. I’m glad Mikah invited you.”
AS we settled on the floor in front of the massive stone fireplace, Mikah nuzzled into my side, his head resting on my shoulder. It was nice, sitting together in comfortable quiet, sipping strong coffee and listening to the crackle of the flames. Through the huge windows, I noticed that the snow had stopped, and the moon glazed the landscape in an opalescent glow. Inside everything was warm and peaceful. I couldn’t help looking again and again at the spruce in the corner, surrounded by silver-wrapped gifts and decorated so elegantly, it looked straight out of a design magazine. It had been a long time since I’d felt this good.
After insisting on cleaning up the dishes, I’d been once again stuffed with more food than I could ever eat. And I loved eating. This time it was Elena, plying me with cannoli and some kind of delicious honey-coated fritters. Having tried more new foods in a single day than I had in the rest of my adult life, I was impressed with Mikah’s and Elena’s cooking abilities. Once we were comfortably situated in the living room with our desserts and coffee, Mikah told me excitedly about learning to cook with his grandmother. This year, for the first time, she’d stayed in Italy for the holidays, and Mikah’s disappointment was etched into his features. Again, I was struck by how close-knit his family was.
“Actually”—Mikah sat up, shaking off his sleepy haze—“should we skype Nonna? I think it’s morning in Palermo, right?”
Mikah’s dad glanced down at his gold watch and made
a face. “Eh, it’s early.”
Elena laughed. “She’s awake. She probably got up at, like, three to start making the timballo. I’ll grab my computer, and we can see if she’s online.”
A moment later Elena slid on socked feet back into the living room, a ringing sound emanating from her laptop.
Everyone aside from me and Naomi crammed together on the toffee-colored leather couch. Wondering if I should excuse myself to text John, I stayed seated by the fireplace. My brother and his family were probably headed back from Montana now, making the nearly seven-hour drive so Abby could wake up and open presents at home on Christmas morning. Abby would be passed out in the back seat; Katie would be buzzing with excitement to lay out gifts and eat the cookies her daughter made for Santa. I didn’t know if Mikah would actually want me to spend the night, but if he did, I could ask John to take Moose. Abby would be thrilled. I had a nagging suspicion that one day I would come back from the market only to find that my niece had kidnapped my dog.
Vaguely I was aware of another voice, spunky and heavily accented, mixing with the others. But it was only when Mikah lobbed a throw pillow at my head that I realized that his grandmother was asking to meet me. My stomach dropped. Why did this feel like such a big deal? When I stepped behind the couch, Mikah twisted to look up at me, his eyes so soft, I wanted to bend and kiss him. Instead I rested my hand on his bony shoulder, peering down at the woman on the screen. She was one of those older women whose age was hard to pin down. Her gray hair was pulled back into a smooth bun, and she had laugh lines around her mouth. Her dark eyes glimmered with humor.