Page 13 of Storm in a D Cup

‘Me?’ Marcy said in drunken horror. ‘You didn’t even want to come out here in the first place! I had to drag you!’

Julian glanced at me but I was too busy keeping my eyes downcast and praying Marcy wouldn’t be there when I reopened them.

‘OK, Marcy,’ Julian said softly. Even though she lived on the other side of the ocean her outbursts were legendary to him. ‘Come and help me dish up dessert now?’

That’s when she turned to me.Me.I hadn’t evenbreathed. ‘Dessert? When are you going to understand that I don’t eat dessert? How do you think I manage to fit into my clothes, by having dessert after every meal like you?’

I shot a quick glance around the table. Besides Julian, no one seemed to have heard a word. So she continued, in a louder voice. ‘If you’d only listened to Ira instead of complaining about what a bad husband he was you wouldn’t be on your second marriage, with all due respect to Julian here.’

‘I never complained to you about Ira,’ I countered, always flammable but still wary of an argument in front of the entire family. ‘Never. I always kept my problems to myself.’ And before I could stop myself, I added, ‘Besides, you’d be the last person I’d turn to.’

Marcy looked at me with rounded eyes. ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

I snorted. ‘That if it weren’t for Nonna Silvia who raised us I’d be a basket case.’

My maternal grandmother Silvia had left Tuscany for Boston to give her daughters a new start in life after she was widowed. She’d sold her farmhouse near San Gimignano to buy a shop with an apartment above. She sold imported goods from Italy and had rapidly established herself in the area as an honest and capable businesswoman, earning the respect of everyone. Her daughters – Maria, Monica and Martina – followed in her footsteps, working in the shop and eventually opening their own restaurant called Le Tre Donne (the three women) while Marcella (Marcy) the black sheep of the family, preferred to dedicate her entire life to fawning over the inconsolable widower of her dead twin Emanuela (my real mother, nicknamed Manu).

Only there was one huge fly in Marcy’s champagne, i.e. Manu’s little orphan (me). If she wanted Edoardo (my dad) she would have to agree to be a loving (ha) mother to me. Marcy had wanted him so badly she had agreed, but soon after she had Judy and Vince who absorbed her completely. Let’s say I was lucky that we had Nonna Silvia taking care of us for as long as she lived.

‘Youarea basket case!’ Marcy assured me. ‘Look at yourself! You lost Ira because you couldn’t take care of him, or yourself. He had to blackmail you into surgery so you could fit through the door!’ (Surgery that never happened as he’d dropped his phone on my gurney minutes before my stomach bypass. When it had beeped with a message from his lover, you can imagine my reaction. Let’s just say it involved escaping the hospital buck naked and a police car chase with a female cop who understood where I was coming from.)

Julian cleared his throat, but Marcy interrupted him. ‘And now that you’re married to a sex symbol who’s on all major chat shows youstilldon’t take care of yourself! Look at you in that bland green sundress, ponytail and your flip-flops.Flip-flops– where do you think you are, the beach? Do you want to lose him to some Hollywood movie star or something?’

Julian coughed. ‘Uh, actually, Marcy, I like the way my wife looks very much.’

I beamed at him and he squeezed my hand. ‘Now,’ he continued. ‘Who wants dessert?’

There was a collective ‘me’ as I cleared the dishes, eyeing Marcy who sat back in her sloshed stupor, barely able to sit upright, let alone help.

‘I hope it’s not one of Erica’s fat-bomb cakes,’ she muttered to anyone who would listen.

But Maddy was too young and inexperienced in the Cantelli affairs to know any better. ‘I like Mom’s cakes, Nana.’

Marcy snorted. ‘Well then watch out you don’t explode like your mother. And don’t call me Nana.’

‘Why not?’ Dad suddenly barked and I flinched at the unfamiliar sound of his raised voice. It was like he’d finally found a backbone from under the table. Good for him. ‘They are your grandchildren. You’ve got seven of them.’

‘And God knows how many more,’ Judy added. Everyone, me included, stared at her.

Dead silence. ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ Vince suddenly demanded.

Marcy waved her glass around, the martini sloshing around the sides. ‘I don’t need to be reminded of my grandchildren with all the babysitting I’ve done in my life—’ (at that Judy, Vince, Sandra and I snorted. Steve, who was too polite, and Julian, who hadn’t been around early enough back then, sat in silence) ‘—it’s a wonder they don’t callmeMom.’

‘No onedarescall you Mom,’ Judy snapped, then turned to me. ‘What is it she said whenever we asked her to babysit?’

‘Children belong to their parents, not their grandparents,’ I answered. I knew the spiel by heart.

‘I don’t recallyourmother ever saying that to you when she used to watch them while you slept your afternoons away,’ Dad said, glaring at Marcy who shot him an injured look. ‘What?’ he said. ‘I’m not allowed to say the truth? If it wasn’t for poor old Silvia, bless her soul in heaven, and your sisters here, we’d all be dead by now.’

‘Yeah, and what a great job she and my marvelous sisters have done!’ Marcy spat. ‘My eldest daughter’s a fat loser, my youngest is a slut who sleeps around—’ (at that Steve turned beet red and excused himself) ‘—and my only son has had more affairs than I can count.’

Sandra blanched and turned to Vince. ‘Theyknow?’ she squeaked.

Vince swallowed and dared a quick glance around the table. ‘Let’s go upstairs, honey. I think I’ve heard enough.’

‘But I haven’t!’ Sandra snapped.

I put my head in my hands again.

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