Free Deeply Devoted by Maggie Brendan

Peter smiled at his best friend.
    “Mmm.” Mario fingered his mustache. “You’re welcome, of course, but you needn’t have made a special trip into town just to tell us that.”
    Peter shifted from one boot heel to the other, then cast a glance at Angelina, who smiled and waved from the corner of the dining room, then continued with her work. He really liked Angelina. She was sweet and kind, and Peter hoped that she and Catharine would become good friends. But today he wanted to have a word with just Mario.
    Seeming to notice Peter’s uneasiness, Mario pulled him to the side of the gleaming wood counter, where water glasses and starched white linen napkins were stacked. He leaned toward his friend. “Is there something on your mind, Peter?”
    “Well . . . uh . . .” He shot another look in Angelina’s direction.
    That’s all it took for Mario. “Angelina!” he yelled.
    Angelina turned her head in their direction. “What ees it? You need me, Mario?”
    “I’m stepping to the back for a moment. Will you watch for customers?”
    “ Sí .” She smiled and motioned him to go with a wave of her cleaning cloth.
    Mario pushed back the swinging doors that led to the kitchen prep area, where row upon rows of staples and canned goods lined an entire wall. He wiped his hands on his apron and crossed his arms. “So, what’s on your mind, my friend?”
    Peter shrugged. “I’m not sure anything’s the matter. It’s just . . . I’m not sure . . . last night, Catharine—”
    “Ah, I see . . . matters of the heart.” Mario uncrossed his arms and smiled at his friend. “Barely newlywed, and yet . . .” His voice trailed off.
    “I think I know nothing about the art of love . . . or maybe women for that matter.” Peter stared past Mario’s shoulder, looking at the big pots on the stove. “I want to make her happy, and I do care for her. She’s . . . she’s beautiful,” he said in a hushed voice. He raised his eyes to meet Mario’s.
    His friend tore off a chunk of the fresh bread that was cooling on the table and shoved a piece at him. “Then that’s what really counts! Ahh . . . I’m remembering me and Angelina before Alfredo and Angelo came along. It was bliss, I tell you!” A broad smile lit his face. “Come, sit down.” He patted the chair next to a small table and sat down. “Let me tell you, my friend, the art of love and making a woman happy is not a hard thing to do. You find out what makes her tick. If it’s flowers, then you give her those, or better yet, plant them for her. Do extra small things for her, like draw her bath, brush her hair. Or bring her a cup of hot coffee or tea—whichever she prefers when she least expects it.” He paused a moment. “Don’t rush her, but hold her and tell her sweet and wonderful things you’ve observed about her.”
    Peter winced. “That may take some time, but I can try. Our affection grew through our correspondence, you know,” he said, biting into the crusty piece of bread.
    “Yes, yes, I do. Sometime I want you to bring her to town for a little honeymoon. Bring her here for dinner, then spend the night at the Inter Ocean. I will prepare the most delicious pasta for you that will melt in your mouth.” Mario pressed his fingers to his lips and kissed them. “ Bellissimo! It will be so romantic, I assure you.” Mario stood with his hands on his hips.
    Peter hesitated, scratching the stubble of hair now sprouting on his chin. “I don’t know . . . maybe. I’ll have to give it some thought.”
    Mario’s two young sons came running through the kitchen and chased each other around the table, their dark hair flying and heavy shoes pounding the hardwood floor.
    “Alfredo! Angelo! Stop that! Can’t you see we are having a private conversation here?” Mario put his arm out and grabbed Alfredo by the arm.
    “Sorry, Father, but Angelo started it,” Alfredo said, breathing hard.
    “I did not!” Angelo glared at his brother