The Spia Family Presses On Read Online Free PDF Page B

slicing before they cool, then get them back into the oven. I don’t have time to chat right now. The relatives are restless.”
    Then she hugged me, and it was so shocking my arms never left my sides. As she pulled away she said, “When someone hugs you, Mia, you should hug them back.”
    I wanted to say something like, what do you mean? You never hug back. Or, what’s going on with you today? Why are you so friendly? But before I could get the words formulated she turned and walked off toward her pastry shop.
    You could have knocked me over with a twig.
    I walked into Mom’s kitchen and called out her name, but didn’t get a response. Trays of amaretto, wedding and anisette cookies, cream puffs, torrone — a chewy flavored nougat and hazelnut candy that I absolutely loved — braided egg breads and several varieties of cannoli were piled high on every flat surface. The tiny country kitchen smelled like a bakery, only sweeter. I snitched two slices of orange-flavored torrone, took a delicious bite — Aunt Babe made the best torrone in the world — and made my way into Mom’s dining room through the arched open doorway.
    I called out for my mom again.
    Still no answer.
    I could hear my relatives out in the front yard arguing and laughing, normal behavior for that group. Accordion music rose above the din, which meant Cousin Maryann was in good spirits. Maryann and her traveling accordion never missed a family gathering, no matter what the event. She even played at my mother’s bedside during my delivery, which could account for my abnormal fondness for accordion music. I even took lessons when I was ten, but then realized that playing an accordion was just about the geekiest thing I could do, so I gave it up, but only after I learned to play and sing e’ Gumbad e all the way through, with all the musical instrument sound effects, I might add.
    I still harbored a longing to pull out my old accordion whenever Maryann came around. Problem was, if I did, she would never let up and I’d be the one accompanying her at these events instead of Jimmy. I could hear him out there picking on his mandolin. He owned and ran a tavern in North Beach called Labella. If I had our lineage correct (there were so many honorary family members that it was hard to keep up), he was Maryann’s younger brother, both somehow related to me on my father’s side of the family.
    My mom’s house was silent except for the ticking of the cuckoo clock she had inherited from Bisnonno Luigiano, which would drive me crazy in my drinking days when I was nursing a particularly bad hangover. Especially when that damn bird popped out to announce the time, boring a hole right through the middle of my skull. My great-grandfather was a masochist and a sadist, I was sure of it.
    I checked my mom’s bedroom on the first floor, a romantic shabby-chic haven of pastels and excessive lace, but she wasn’t there. Her jewelry armoire caught my attention and I decided to leave the paperwork from the bank in the top drawer instead of out in the open on her small desk. I figured she wouldn’t want me to hand them to her in front of any of our more notorious guests.
    As soon as I slid open the top drawer Torno Sorrento began to play, my mom’s favorite Italian song, especially when performed by Pavarotti. I shoved the stack inside on top of mom’s antique handgun, and closed the drawer tight, glad to be rid of the responsibility. Dickey’s ring was still tucked inside my pocket. With the amount of tension she had going on that morning, she probably would want to hand it over as soon as possible.
    I left the room and ran up the polished wooden steps to the second floor, sliding my hand along the white railing as I went. I scoped out each room. All I found were various open suitcases and clothes scattered across the beds, but no Mom. One of the bedrooms had a small balcony, but the French doors were closed so I figured she wouldn’t be out there. A black suitcase