I’m finally revisiting the characters from The River City Chronicles nine years after their original timeline. I’ll be running the series weekly here on my blog, and then will release it in book form at the end of the run. Hope you enjoy catching up with all your faves and all their new secrets!
Today, Diego visits the farmer’s market with Gio for a little papà to figlio chat…
< Read Chapter Twenty-Two
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Chapter Twenty-Two
All Roads Lead To…
“I don’t know why you needed me today. I’ve got a lot to do for… well, just a lot to do.”
Even though Gio was two steps behind him, Diego could almost hear his son’s eyes rolling. “I asked you to come because I wanted your help. I intend to buy a lot for the restaurant today, and your Papà’s back isn’t getting any younger.”
Gio snorted. “Neither is the rest of him.”
“What?” Diego glared at his one and only child over his shoulder.
“Nothing, Papà.” Gio hung his head.
He waved at the Salsa Sazona guys—he and Matteo secretly called the adorable gay couple the Salsa Gays—and tucked the tub of mango salsa in his backpack. That was for him and Matteo later.
Then he stopped at one of his favorite produce booths at the Downtown Farmer’s Market. “Better. Now help me find two dozen good onions.” He turned away, hiding a smile from his son. In truth, he was very proud of the boy—man, now. Giovanni was well into his third decade, after all. He’d taken on so much responsibility at Ragazzi, and Diego was worried he’d lose himself in the work and forget that everyone needed to have a personal life. Porco cane, I feel that way myself sometimes.
He lifted an onion and sniffed deeply. It was firm and plump and had a heavenly aroma. Into the bag it went.
Gio joined him, sorting through the pile of white onions.
The late spring sun was warm on their backs, the golden scaffolding of the Tower Bridge sparkling in the mid-morning sun in the distance.
Diego loved coming to the farmers’ markets to buy the freshest of the season. Sacramento was a “foodie” town—one of those fun English words to say—in the heart of California’s breadbasket. He almost always found the essentials there, and sometimes a little something extra and surprising. Like the dragon fruit he’d turned into an exquisite semifreddo the previous week.
Gio cleared his throat. “Did… Babbo talk with you?”
Diego kept his son waiting for a minute before responding. It was good for kids these days to learn patience.
He picked up another onion and turned it over. It had a soft spot on the underside where the fruit was bruised. Three more, and he found another one he was satisfied with. Into the bag with you.
“Papà…”
“I heard you the first time.” He winked at Gio to take the sting out of the words. “Yes, your Babbo talked with me.” Gio had an easier relationship with Gio than he did. Diego supposed it was always harder when you were blood. So it had been with his own father.
“And?” Gio was practically bouncing. With anticipation.”
“And… I think it’s a good idea. You have a good eye for things. You’ll pick up a lot in Rome” He handed the bag to the vendor for weighing, and moved on to look over the heirloom tomatoes. They were a riot of colors…. yellow ones, exotically-stripped green ones, orange ones… so many choices.
In Italy, they didn’t like you touching the produce. Here, they encouraged it. Americans were wacky in so many ways, but in this one thing, he liked theirs better.
“Seriously? That’s all?” Gio bit his lip.
Diego glanced at his son. Something was eating at him, and he had a good idea what it was. “Say it.” He selected a few close-to-ripe tomatoes that would make for a wonderful caprese salad.
Gio squeezed his hands together, looking down. “You never tell me when my ideas are good. You just bat them away like flies.”
Diego sighed. You’re not wrong.
He paid for the tomatoes and onions with cash. “Thank you. These will make some wonderful meals.”
Artie Johnson grinned. The black Central Valley farmer—all six-foot-four of him—was a regular at Ragazzi on Saturday nights when he was in town. “Such a pleasure to know that my work goes into your divine artistry.” He handed Diego back his change.
“Hope to see you tonight!” Diego took care of his vendors, giving them a steep discount when they dined at the restaurant.
Artie winked. “You can count on it. You two have a great day.” Then he turned to help the next customer.
All the vendors on Capitol Mall gave him un bel sconto. He was a regular, an accomplished local chef, and he returned the favor when they wanted to stop by at the East Sacramento restaurant that was well on its way to becoming a local institution.
He gestured to his son. “Come on. Follow me.” Without looking to see if Gio was behind him, he set off toward a shady patch of asphalt next to the curb. Settling down—a little slower than he once would have, if he was honest—he patted the curb next to him.
Gio sat on his hands, long, lanky legs extended out, looking at him uncertainly.
Diego switched over to Italian, the language they were both most comfortable with. “Mio padre was a good man to others. He worked for the city as a garbageman, picking up waste all over Bologna, helping to keep the city clean.”
Gio stared at him. “You never talk about him.”
Diego closed his eyes. “My father was also a bad man. He provided for his family, but he had a fierce streak of pride, and when he felt that someone had crossed him, he became angry. Molto arrabbiato.” He shivered, remembering hearing his father’s voice raised against his mother, the horrible sound when he slapped her in the kitchen or threw her up against the wall, as Diego and his sisters cowered in their room together. Valentina would hold her hands over his ears and whisper over and over, “It’s going to be all right.”
Gio reached out and took his father’s hand. “Cazzo. I had no idea.”
Diego bit his lip and closed his eyes. “I don’t like to think about that time. Papà died in a car accident when I was thirteen. Mamma moved us all to another town, south of Bologna, called Forlì, and took a job in a local restaurant there. She never took another husband, and she never spoke about Papà. It was like he never even existed.”
His heart ached, remembering her. His three older sisters had closed around her like palace guards, never letting anyone get close enough to hurt her again. “I know you only met her once, at the wedding. But she was a beautiful woman. Radiant, when she stepped out of his shadow.” Some of his favorite memories of his mamma were of her in the restaurant kitchen, rolling out pasta dough.
Diego nodded. “I liked her. I wish…”
“I know. She lived so far away.” He should have gone back to see her more often. He’d meant to. But things were always so busy at Ragazzi and he’d found excuses not to go. And then, two years later, it had been too late.
Gio edged closer and put his arm around Diego. “She knew, Papà. She knew you loved her.”
“I know she did.” As you got older, regrets for all the things you didn’t do when you had the chance began to pile up.
They sat there together for a bit like that, each lost in their own thoughts.
At last, Gio let go. “But why tell me now?” His deep brown eyes—almost black—sought his father’s.
You beautiful boy. “I didn’t want you to grow up like I did. I mean, I didn’t even know you existed until you were seventeen, so you were already cooked—”
Gio snickered.
Diego shook his head, smiling. “You know what I mean. I wanted to protect you. I thought of you as my little boy—”
“Not so little anymore.” The edges of Gio’s lips quirked upward.
“No. You’re not. But I still see you like that gangly, lost seventeen-year-old you were when I met you. Non sei così piccolo.” He squeezed Gio’s shoulder. “I need to start seeing you as an adult. I need to start listening to you more.”
Gio’s eyes were wet. He wiped them with the back of his hand. “That… that would be good.”
Diego laughed. “Yes. I think it would.”
Gio’s eyebrow arched. “So the franchise idea…?”
“Don’t push it.” Diego let go of his shoulder. “So go to Rome. Learn new things. Have some adventures. And when you get back, we’ll talk about making some changes around here.”
Gio’s eyes lit up. “Really?”
“Really.”
This time, Gio threw his arms around Diego and squeezed him so hard that his eyes almost popped out. “Grazie mille, Papà. Ti voglio bene.”
Diego hugged him back. “I love you too, tesoro.” And I’m so proud of you.
He got up, picking up the bags full of vegetables. “Come on. I want to pick out some fresh flowers for Ragazzi!”
“How about tulips this time?”
Gio started to tell him that he didn’t like Tulips, that they were too plain. Then he stopped himself in his tracks. I have to do better. “Yes. Some tulips would be perfect.”
< Read Chapter Twenty-Two
Like what you read? if you haven’t tried it yet, check out book one, The River City Chronicles, here.