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Cooler weather indeed! Santa mia Madonna! The weather man was out of his head. He had been dropped as a bambino, and not on that portion of his anatomy that had been plumpest at the time. It stood to reason the heat wave would continue. Was this not New York? Was this not August? As for himself, as certainly as his name was Giovanni Lorenzo Garibaldi Fabriano Bianco, Papa Bianco hoped it would grow even hotter.
Santa mia Madonna!bambinoA big man given to flesh, he lay next to Mama in the early dawn thinking of his garden growing hourly more beautiful and fragrant in the small yard back of the restaurant. Where tin cans and ashes had been before he had made a thing of beauty. And now—with the beautiful birthday present from Mama. Papa Bianco’s bulk quivered with emotion and he patted M
