Page 38 of The Cupid Chronicles

Every summer, I’d stay with them at The Serendipitywhile my parents traveled. Even when I got old enough to go along on their trips, I always chose to come here. It’s why this place has always felt like home.

Always felt special.

Meals weren’t just something to “get through” with my grandparents. Food wasn’t just fuel. It waslife.Meals were events. Something to look forward to all day and talk about all night. Sometimes they’d open their apartment to anyone passing by. Other times, we’d spill out into the courtyard, bringing dishes and plates and glasses and wine and a lot of raucous laughter.

Everyone was always welcome.

Nobody was turned away for being a stranger.

“Did you know my grandparents?” I look at Winnie. “I just realized you might’ve lived here at the same time, and they liked to entertain.” And then, I’m not sure why, but I add, “They used to host these big Italian dinners out in the courtyard.”

My mind lingers on that memory because those were some of the best moments of my childhood . . . and also because life and communities aren’t like that anymore. It’s not something I actively miss, and yet, as nostalgia sets in, I can see the part it played in my upbringing.

Winnie seems to consider this for a long moment. “I do vaguely remember the very loud dinners out in the courtyard. I never attended one myself—I wasn’t here nearly as much in those days, always out at charity functions with William, things like that.” Her smile is fleeting. “But I wish I’d met them. I bet they are wonderful people.”

I nod but don’t say anything else. The realization that things are so different now—for me and for the world at large—hits me sideways.

Winnie must sense the pang of grief at the lost memories, because she glances at Iris and thankfully pulls the attentionaway from me. “I’d say that empty plate is a raving endorsement.”

Iris wipes her mouth with her napkin, then tucks it back onto her lap. Her cheeks flush pink as her gaze falls to the plate in front of her.

It’s been literally wiped clean, because she used bread to sop up all the sauce. If I did that, my grandmother would say, “Bravo, ragazzo! Bravo!”

Roughly translated, it’s “Attaboy!”

She winces, a little sheepish, because Winnie and I are still working on our meals. “It was really good.”

People compliment my cooking all the time but rarely to my face. For one reason or another, this simple sentiment sparks something inside of me. Something familiar but maybe forgotten.

I dismiss it, of course, because who gets sappy over a plate of pasta?

The kitten wobbles into the eating area, seeming to explore its new home, and I think about the article. It did mention that Winnie had recently lost her beloved pet.

I brought food, and Iris brought a cat.

For years, I’ve been sorting out the newspaper’s demands, and in all that time, I’ve never had any help. Which makes me wonder again . . . why now? And why her?

I watch Iris as she serves herself another heaping portion of the pasta, and she looks up at me and gives a quirky little smile.

“Yeah, I’m not going to apologize. It’s freaking good. You should feed this to the Pope, seriously.”

Something odd happens.

I laugh.

And an unfamiliar rush of attraction zips through me.

I glance at Winnie and find her watching me watch Iris. She gives me a knowing smile.

And . . .that’s my cue.

I’ve been around enough older women to know that the second they find out you’re single, they turn finding you a love match into their full-time job. “I should go,” I say.

“But you’re not done eating,” Winnie says. “And it gets my seal of approval too. I hope you’ll add it to your menu immediately.”

“I might,” I say, still undecided. I stand. “I don’t think it’s right yet.”

“So . . . you’re a perfectionist,” Iris says—a statement, not a question.

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