“Zia, I was telling Damiana of our family in Florence.”
Damiana coughed, choking on the bite of wine-soaked pear in her mouth. Sophia thumped her on the back while her gaze begged for complicity.
“Do we still have cousins there?” Sophia rushed on, raising her voice over her friend’s whoops and sputters.
“Oh no, no. That part of the family either moved on or died off years ago.” Elena hefted her large form up, and her pudgy, dimpled hand splayed over the table, caught up a pitcher of water from the sideboard, and poured a small mug of it for the still-sputtering Damiana. “No, there is no one left but your mother and me.”
“Ah, sì. But who would leave the beauty of Florence, I can’t imagine.” Sophia struggled to appear nonchalant but her stilted, singsong tone only sounded contrived. She
