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porchetta, sausage-stuffed rabbit fragrant with wild fennel. Risotto and polenta to complement but never overwhelm. Nonna’s was the only Northern Italian restaurant in the neighborhood, and she had opened it in self-defense.
    Now it was closed indefinitely, until someone decided what to do. He leaned on the wall and watched Rese and Star chat, Star effusing and Rese soberly responding. Even knowing what he did about their backgrounds, it amazed him they’d maintained their friendship. He and Rico had their differences but came from the same streets, schools, and religion. He couldn’t find the connecting point for Star and Rese, unless it was that they’d both needed someone.
    Rico batted his arm. “Handball?”
    Lance shrugged, guessing the women might catch up for a while and knowing Rico talked easier in motion. There was a court at the park, but he and Rico went down and played against the wall with the closest thing to an old Spaldeen they could find these days. Back when the rest of the country was discovering Atari, he and Rico had still been out there with sawed-off broom handles for stickball, or chalk to make a game floor for skelly, or nothing but their hands and a ball.
    Rico set up to serve. “Juan’s back.”
    It had seemed strange at first when Rico called his father Juan, but the lack of relationship or even time spent under the same roof explained it. This was his family; this was his home. He had recognized that before third grade.
    “When did he get out?” Lance returned the serve hard and high to win the rally.
    Rico chased the ball down, then tossed it over lightly. “A week, two. Don’t really know.”
    “Parole?”
    “Only two conditions with that man. Locked up or paroled.”
    Lance served. “Have you seen him?”
    Though his parents’ home was less than two miles away, Rico shook his head. Interesting how judgmental Rico could be after their own close calls, when nothing but Tony’s influence had kept them from lockup. But Lance didn’t say so. They played hard for the next few minutes. With his sparrow’s build Rico was swift and cagey. Though not huge himself, Lance had him in strength and form.
    They finished one game, and Rico held the ball. “So whatchu really doing?”
    Lance stretched and fisted his hand. “Settling things with Nonna involves Rese. I wanted her here to—” Rico’s expression stopped him. “Wha-a-t?” He cocked his head. “I don’t need her approved. This isn’t Naples.”
    “May as well be for your Neapolitan family.”
    “Napolitano, Calabrese, Piemontese, and, as I have recently learned, one part pure American.” His great-great-grandfather Quillan Shepard without a lick of Italian.
    “And you the dutiful son.”
    “Tell that to Pop. He thinks I’m the screw-up.” He sighed. His purpose was to enlighten Nonna and get her agreement on their plans for the inn. While he hadn’t set foot on that property until three months ago, it had drawn him the moment he arrived. He loved this neighborhood, all the family and friends and traditions that made it special. But Nonna’s roots were in Sonoma, and it was there his restlessness had stilled.

C HAPTER T HREE
    How gently on my mind his presence rests,
    as though belonging there.
    It is my heart he traps and bests,
    my hope that he lays bare.
    T he next time Marco comes, I am prepared. I didn’t know the first time how difficult it would be to resist, but I know it now, and when he suggests the gazebo, I tell him, “I prefer the porch.” I set the swing in motion until he steps close enough that it is either hit his kneecap or stop.
    “May I?” Before I can answer he takes his place beside me. The swing protests with a soft creaking voice, but he pays no attention, saying only, “This is a swell spot too.”
    Hibiscus and wild roses scent the air, with now a hint of his pomade, which he must use with a light touch because the hair is scarcely tamed by it. “Are you always this