Rose was making two kinds of ravioli. The first was your traditional wheat and egg pasta filled with ricotta cheese plus other top secret ingredients. The second was a wheat free, egg free, dairy free dough filled with a rice cheese substitute and vegetables. Angelica’s disease meant that every meal was full of substitutions and omissions.

But pineapple was always on the menu.

I blinked at her. My eyes moved back to the pasta. It did indeed look like the shape of an alligator. “You mean Pinky Pie from My Little Pony?”

She nodded then wiped her hand on my shirt, as though it were the most natural thing in the world. This caused me to blink at her again. “Did you just wipe your hand on my shirt?”

Angelica turned her wide, green eyes to mine, and then she laughed. It was an answer of a sort. It was a yes, I just wiped my hand on your shirt, but, more than that, it was a yes, I wiped my hand on your shirt, but I’m sure you don’t mind because now I’m going to giggle with extreme cuteness and make you forget about the impropriety of using people’s garments as hand towels.

It worked. I opened my mouth in mock outrage. “I can’t believe you just did that!”

This caused Angelica to laugh harder, her eyes bunching at the corners, which made her look even cuter. More pineapple drool tumbled from her mouth.

Rose watched our exchange with an approving smile up to that point. Her smile morphed in to an expression of mock outrage—mirroring mine—when Angelica leaned over and wiped her mouth on Rose’s shirt.

“Angelica!” I could tell, and so could Angelica, that Rose’s indignation was as bogus as mine. “That’s a no, Angelica!”

The small girl’s giggles only increased with our fake reprimands. This game of human napkin continued for a while and ended with me pretending to use Angelica’s hair to dab at the corners of my mouth. At this point Rose sent her off to the bathroom to go properly wash her hands and face.

We both watched her go with a smile on our lips. But, as soon as she was gone, I felt Rose’s eyes shift to me.

“You know, that is a sign that she likes you, is comfortable with you.”

I quickly glanced at Rose then refocused my attention to the butchered ravioli I’d abandoned. “I am glad. I want her to be comfortable with me.”

“For the study? So she doesn’t fear the visits?”

I shook my head. “Well, yes. I don’t want her to fear the visits. But that’s not the main reason I guess.” I frowned at the pasta, finally decided it was beyond repair and tossed it in the trash. I cut out a new square and tried repeating the filling procedure.

“Then why?”

I responded although I was somewhat distracted by my previous pasta-fail as well as my current attempt, which was also shaping up to be a past-fail. “She is so easy to like. She’s brave and sweet and smart. She’s also illegal levels of cute, that smile of hers could melt metal. And she’s important to . . .”

I swallowed the end of the sentence, realized a little too late what I’d been about to say. I tucked my chin to my chest and redoubled my effort to focus on the ricotta cheese.

“Yes. She is very important to Nico. That’s true.”

I discerned the teasing behind Rose’s words, and I struggled against the heat of embarrassment. Luckily, Angelica chose that moment to reappear. She held her hands out in front of her as though to prove she’d washed them.

Surprisingly, Rose said no more about my slip, and we spent the rest of the time in light-hearted conversation. Angelica had a great time laughing at my sad attempts to make the pasta. Most of my shells ended up torn, wonky, or in the trash; regardless, Rose was patient and kind and kept the red wine flowing. I may have purposefully disfigured a few of my attempts in order to sustain Angelica’s giggles. She had a great laugh.

We were feeling pretty happy and loose by the time dinner ended. I cut myself off at two glasses around five thirty, conscious of Angelica’s looming infusion.

After the treatment I stayed for Monday movie night. But halfway through the movie—Angelica’s current favorite, The Secret of Kells—the distinct sound of someone messing with the lock of the front door made my stomach cramp in fear. I stiffened and stood, placed my finger on my lips to silence Rose and shook my head.

Nico wasn’t due back until the next day.

If it were a guard they would have announced themselves. I felt an immediate and fierce surge of protectiveness for both Angelica and Rose.

“Call Quinn,” I whispered to Rose. “Tell him there is someone trying to get in the apartment.”

After the envelope left at the hospital I felt certain that the fancy stalker had found her way into the building. I didn’t know how she’d managed to get past all the security, but I knew I wasn’t going to let her into the apartment. There was no way in hell she would have an opportunity to hurt Angelica or foxy Rose.

I rushed into the kitchen and grabbed a cast-iron frying pan. As quietly as I could I tiptoed to front door and heard the bone-chilling sound of someone turning the lock. I tightened my grip on the pan, prepared to knock out the intruder.

The door swung open, I lifted the cast iron, and was met with the startled expression of Nico—wide eyes, hand on chest, audible gasp. He took a step back into the hall.

“Jesus, Elizabeth!” he breathed out, still gripping his chest. “You scared the shit out of me.”

My arms fell to my sides, the pan to the floor, and I raced into his arms, hugging him tightly around the neck. “Ditto.”

He hesitated a moment then returned my hug, holding me with equal force. “What the hell is going on? Is everyone okay? Where’s Angelica? Are you okay?”

I buried my face in his neck, inhaled. He smelled like his cologne and mint. Faintly I registered that the scent of cigarette smoke was missing.

“You weren’t supposed to be home until tomorrow!”

“I caught an earlier flight.” His hand rubbed circled over my back.

“Oh god! I thought you were the fancy stalker.”

His hand stilled. “Fancy stalker? Wait—what—”

“Uncle Nico!” Angelica’s small voice carried to my ears, and I released my strangle hold on his neck. I stepped out of his embrace, which he reluctantly allowed, and shuffled to the end of the entry way, giving his niece plenty of space to welcome him home.

I stood at the end of the hallway and watched the homecoming ritual unfold, tried to calm my frayed nerves while avoiding eye contact with both Rose and Nico.

Angelica was embraced first.

“I missed you, Uncle Nico.” Her typically diminutive voice sounded unusually fervent.

“I missed you too, muffin.” Came Nico’s muffled response, his face obscured by her mop of hair. After a long moment Angelica pulled away and smoothed her hands over his cheeks. Nico proceeded to ask about her day, about the status of her dolls, about the antics of Pinky Pie on My Little Pony.

Next, still casting stern looks in my direction and still holding Angelica with one arm, he hugged Rose and gave her a kiss on the cheek. She returned his kiss then inspected his face and clothes.

“Are you eating anything at all in New York?”

“Yes, Ma.”

“What are you eating? Not much, that’s what. You’ll come in and eat now.”

“I already grabbed something at the airport.” Nico glanced at the ceiling, but then his gaze snagged on mine, he frowned.

“That’s not food, Niccolò. You’ll eat again. Elizabeth and I made ravioli,” Rose said.

“That’s not true. Rose made ravioli. I watched.” I held my hands up.

“No.” Angelica rested her head on Nico’s shoulder and gifted me a small grin. “You did make some, but they all went in the trash.”

Feeling a bit calmer, I wrinkled my nose at her. She laughed.

Rose exhaled loudly and took Angelica from Nico’s arms. “I’m not going to stand here and argue about the ravioli when Nico should be eating it instead. And you,” she held Angelica close, “should be in bed.” Rose turned and winked at me as she carried Angelica out of the entryway.

Nico watched his mother and niece depart then his eyes found and held mine. We stared at each other, as was our habit, and I realized how deeply I’d missed seeing him. He reentered my life a few weeks ago, we spoke on the phone every day for the last five days, and he’d only been gone a week, but I missed him. I held my hands clasped in front of me, my fingers wound tightly together, to keep from blurting out the truth of it.

“Hi friend.” His voice was both teasing and concerned.

“Hola amigo.”

“Do you want to tell me what happened?”

I returned his interrogating stare with an ashamed, evasive, shifty eyed, stalling-shrug. “Sure . . . But first, you should probably get something to eat—”

“No, Elizabeth.” His face was suddenly granite. “Did she come back? Did she approach you?”

I was caught. “She didn’t approach me. But she did show up today.”

He cussed. His voice rose, and he checked himself, pulled his hands through his hair, mussed it to perfection. I placed my hands on his forearms, pulled his attention and focus back to me; “Calm down. Just calm down—it was really nothing, okay?”