Page 2 of Love You, Mean It

“Okay, that aside, Mrs. Pinsky’s a regular. That counts for something.”

“I have dozens of lovely regulars for whom I amendlesslygrateful,” I said with an exaggerated bow. “With Ruth…what counts is what shepaysme.”

“I think it’s sweet that you’re part of her routine. She must really care about this place to make the trip that often.”

“Or they blacklisted her at every other grocery store and deli in a twenty-mile radius.”

“Can they do that?” Bella looked genuinely shocked.

“I think they’d invent it just for her.”

“I suppose she can be a little…unaware of herself at times,” Bella conceded, “but she doesn’t mean any harm.”

“And yet none of that gives me back the hours of my life she steals.” I finished scooping the beets into a four-quart tub, closing the lid with an emphatic snap. Bella was frowning, trying to find an excuse for Ruth Pinsky, no doubt. The usual prick of guilt at seeing her much-better-personness in action flickered through me as I flipped off the lights in the deli cases one by one.

“Is that a new top? It hangs really well on you.” I gestured at the emerald-green boatneck blouse Bella was wearing, delicate seaming through the midsection and a flouncy peplum giving low-key corset vibes. It was clearly off the rack, but it seemed made for her particular shape, clinging without pulling or sagging anywhere. Honestly…I wouldn’t have even bothered tailoring it if she’d brought it to me.

Bella rolled her eyes, repressing a grin.

“I’m sure you could make a better version…”

“Take the compliment, Bell.”

“Well…thanks. I liked it.” She shrugged, pleased. Which made me feel slightly better about my general saltiness.

“I cannotwaitfor Mimi’s lasagna. I think it’s going to be restorative.”

“Oh, is she making lasagna tonight?” Bella’s eyes lit up. Of all the many fabulous Italian dishes our grandmother produced for the weekly Greco Sunday dinner, lasagna was understood to be her masterpiece. The secret was somewhere in the spiced lamb, but so far, I hadn’t been able to replicate it. Which was probably for the best. I already spent my entire working life surrounded by pork-fat-stuffed pork products, after all.

“If she isn’t, there will be hell to pay, mark my words.” I flippedoff the last of the lights and joined Bella at the front door. “On that note, let’s get out of here before Ruth realizes I charged her for the Genoa salami instead of the spicy hard.”

“Not onpurpose,though?” Two vertical lines of worry appeared on the preternaturally smooth, light brown skin of Bella’s forehead. Somehow, the faintly anxious expression accentuated her high cheekbones that much more; she really did have unfair advantages in the looks department. I widened my eyes meaningfully as I set the alarm just inside the door.

“Bella, she asked forfive samples.”

By the time we made it to my grandparents’ sturdy robin’s-egg-blue cape on the edge of town, the rest of the family had already arrived.

Grandpa was installed in his worn leather armchair in the corner of the living room, Auntie Susan flanking him, her birdlike figure perched at the very edge of the overstuffed scroll-armed brown velvet couch that dominated the space. She leaned in to say something directly into her father’s oversized (but underfunctioning) ears, the thicket of dark hair that had long since migrated off the top of his head to their interior perhaps dampening their abilities.

“You don’t need to do that, Susan. We’re fine.” He frowned, waving a hand through the air, eyes glued on whatever game was playing on mute on the massive, boxy television.

“Dad, wewantto. Anyway, the man who shovels our walk said he’d throw it in for practically nothing.”

“Auntie Susan, stop trying to make Grandpa feel old,” I said, moving over to drop a kiss on his liver-spotted head. He smiled vaguely at me, laying his hand over the one I’d rested on his shoulder. “Until he actually breaks a hip, he can shovel his own snow.”

“Don’t be morbid, Ellie.” Auntie Susan pursed her lips, annoyed.

“I’m not the one worried about Grandpa handling a shovel.” Iraised an eyebrow, gratified by Grandpa’s low chuckle. He wasn’t wired to stand up to people—especially not the women in his family—so at some point, I’d elected to take on the role for him.

At the other end of the couch, my uncle Bill, Susan’s gentle giant of a husband, was trying to carry on a conversation with their son, Max, who was resolutely focused on his phone screen. Max was sixteen but still had that overgrown-adolescent-boy scrawniness, arms and legs spidery in the fitted, vaguely goth clothes he’d started wearing when he hit high school. I felt a general solidarity with Max—all manner of “alternative” kids got stamped as weirdos in Milborough, and I’d been similarly…disaffectedduring my theater-kid teenage years. But talking to him felt like pulling teeth.

“Hey, Max,” I called out. He glanced up through the spikykeep outgate of dyed-blacker hair on his forehead. Man, lately he evenlookedat odds with Bill. Max had the same olive-skinned Greco coloring I’d inherited—our genes seemed to override all attempts to input new DNA, including Bill’s Midwestern sandy-blond pallor. “Have any new music recs for me?”

He frowned, thinking, then his face lit up briefly, in a way that made him look like the sweetly nerdy kid we all used to actually enjoy.

“There’s this synth-pop band that’s kinda cool, Pistachio Dream,” he said, tapping at his phone more urgently. “I just sent you a link to their latest video.”

“Sweet. Anything else you think I might like, let me know. I’m too busy to be cool anymore.” Max scrunched his face in awaytoo quick expression of grim agreement.

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