Now, sitting at the table, the rousing aroma of the coffee just starting to waft through the air, Giancarlo passed a hand over his stubbled cheek and looked over to Celeste, who had found the right-size plate and was just opening the box of pastries.

“So, what did you bring from the bakery?” he asked her, nodding at the box.

“Eh, just some biscotti, a couple of cannoli, and some sfogliatelle,” she said, laying each of the pastries onto the plate before setting it on the table. “You two help yourselves,” she told them. “The coffee will be ready in a minute.”

Anthony gave a nod to his cousin, who in turn gestured for him to help himself first. Anthony selected a cannoli, while Giancarlo opted for one of the sfogliatelle, a shell-shaped puff pastry filled with ricotta. Before long the coffee was poured, and Celeste joined them at the table.

“So, tell Giancarlo about our trip,” she said, taking one of the biscotti and dunking it into her coffee.

“You two have been traveling?” said Giancarlo.

“That’s why we’re here,” said Anthony. “We just got back from Italy last week.”

“What a nice trip we had,” sighed Celeste. “Rome, Capri, Sorrento, and then up to Perugia and Florence. We went all over before going to Abruzzo.”

“Ah, Abruzzo,” said Giancarlo matter-of-factly.“I guess it really was quite a trip.”

“Yes, we spent a few days in the paes’,” Anthony added hurriedly at seeing the drawbridges of disinterest go up in Giancarlo’s eyes. He paused, and gazed at his cousin, hoping perhaps to see if this particular pronouncement would stir some emotion in him, some inclination not to retreat into himself, as he always did whenever the subject of his hometown arose. If it had such an effect, Giancarlo’s faraway expression did not betray it, and a rare but awkward silence fell over the three.

At last Celeste reached out to Giancarlo and patted his hand. “They were all asking for you, you know,” she said in a gentle voice.

Giancarlo gave a shrug and looked down at his mug. “They always do,” he said before taking a sip.

“Yes, they do,” said Anthony thoughtfully before adding, “And that reminds me . . .” He reached into his jacket pocket and withdrew a small package, the size of a paperback book, wrapped in brown paper and tape. “I was asked to give this to you,” he said, sliding it over to Giancarlo.

Giancarlo turned the package over in his hands, judging the heft of its well-padded contents, before putting it aside.

“Don’t you want to open it?” said Celeste eagerly.

“Perhaps later,” said Giancarlo. “For the moment I’d prefer another piece of pastry.” He reached to the plate and took one of the biscotti.

Celeste cast a questioning glance at her husband. The latter simply shrugged, and nothing further on the subject of the package was said.