Finding Isadora(112)

“You forgot to translate that part,” I pointed out to him.

“I’m hungry,” he said quickly, his gaze darting from my face to the older woman’s. “Maria, something smells wonderful.”

I rolled my eyes at his avoidance tactic.

“Always smells wonderful in here,” she said. “And you change subject.”

I stifled a giggle, realizing her mind worked the same way mine did.

Then she smiled widely. “Is shrimps you smell. We have very good shrimps tonight, grilled with garlic butter. You will have that, with caldo verde to start.” It was a statement, not a question.

“What’s caldo… ?”

“Caldo verde,” Gabriel said. “Literally, green soup. Made with kale. It’s delicious.” He turned to Maria. “And a bottle of vinho verde.”

“Yes, of course. What else would you drink with shrimps?” She bustled off.

“Vinho verde?” I repeated. “Does that translate to green wine?”

“Yes, that’s right. It’s young white wine, very refreshing.”

“Sounds good.” I studied him. “Maria’s wonderful. She’s the one who helped you after … after your parents died, right?”

He nodded. “I’ve known her since I was seven or so. She and her first husband, Benedito, were from the same town in Portugal as my mom. They came over here, and though my father really didn’t let Mom have friends, she and Maria managed to get together for coffee occasionally. Benedito was a tile layer and did beautiful work. He died in his forties. Heart attack. Maria struggled as a widow with kids, then she met Martin Russ, a Haida from the Queen Charlottes, who was widowed himself, and they got married.”

“I noticed her beautiful jewelry.”

“Martin owns a First Nations arts and crafts store in Gastown. Maria’s always wanted to have a restaurant, and he financed her to start it up. They have four kids: two from her first marriage, one from his, and one together. On any given night, you can figure on one or two of their kids showing up for dinner here, along with their families or whoever they’re dating.”

Gabriel had shown up regularly too, maybe with colleagues or friends, but never—since Diane—with a date. Until me.

To hell with his terror. I smiled at him across the table. “I love you, Gabriel.”

His jaw dropped.

Maria picked that moment to bustle up with a bottle of wine and a corkscrew.

Gabriel stared at her as if he didn’t recognize her, then gave himself a shake. “Give it to me. You always get cork in it.”

“No, is my job.”

“It’s not your job to get cork in my wine.” He grabbed the bottle from her. “Let me do it, Maria.”

I sensed this was a family ritual they both enjoyed. Grumbling, she handed over the corkscrew.

He made a lengthy and rather clumsy production of opening the wine.

Maria snorted, and I guessed he was normally more efficient.

God knows where I got the confidence, but when he’d finished and Maria had poured wine into both our glasses, settled the bottle in a cooler, and left us alone, I said, “How do you say it in Portuguese, Gabriel?”

His eyes widened and he cleared his throat. “Say what? Vinho verde?” He raised his glass and sniffed.

I raised mine toward him. “I love you.”

He froze in the act of smelling his wine. Then, very slowly, he lifted his head and met my gaze. “Eu amo-te.”

Those words, in his voice. Directed to me. I wanted to cry with happiness. “That’s beautiful. Say it again.”

His lips curved and his eyes started to sparkle. “You’re a witch, you know that?”

“What do you mean?” I asked with pretend innocence.

He raised his glass and clicked it against mine. “Fuck. I guess it means I love you. To the extent I even know what those words mean. But you’re teaching me, Isadora. Proving your point that old dogs can learn new tricks.”

My eyes misted and I couldn’t think of a single thing to say.

“So, yeah,” he went on. “I’ll say those words in Portuguese. Eu amo-te. In Italian, it’s ti amo. Then there’s plain old English. I love you, Isadora.” He reached for my hand and his grip was firm. “I’ve never said those words to anyone before.”

“N-never?”

He closed his eyes, then shook his head. “I lied. My mother.”

I wrapped both my hands around his and blinked back tears. “I love you, Gabriel. Teach me how to say it in your languages.”

He nodded. “You taught me how to feel love. Yes, I’ll teach you how to say it. Portuguese first. Eu amo-te.”

“Eu amo-te,” I repeated, my voice shaky. The mist in my eyes had turned to tears, ready to overflow.

“Caldo verde now, romance later,” Maria said, plunking bowls of soup down in front of us. “Then babies.”

“I think that’s a good order,” I said, choking back the tears and trying not to laugh at Gabriel’s stunned expression.

“Eat your soup,” Maria ordered, then bustled away.

Deciding to take mercy on Gabriel—after all, if I had my way I’d have the rest of our lives to torment him—I tasted the soup. “You’re right. This is delicious. I wonder if she’d part with the recipe.”