Bianca bent to give her a gentle hug. “You were at the funeral, Iris. My Vincent loved how much you loved his meatballs.”

“I really did,” Gran said. “Do you live here, too?” she asked Bianca, who brushed a wisp of hair from his grandmother’s forehead.

“No. My daughter, Angela, and I are here to teach a cooking class for some of the residents. Maybe you’d like to join us?”

“They took away my kitchen.” Iris shrugged. “I like to bake my own bread, and I can’t now.” Her chin trembled.

“I’ll bring you some bread from Sunnyside Bakery,” Gabe offered. “Not as good as yours, but I’ll make sure it’s warm. Right now, we should get you back to your room, Gran.” He looked over his shoulder at the jumble of unused ribbons and plastic ornaments still spread across the tables. “I’ll clean up for today, and we’ll finish decorating tomorrow.”

Iris squeezed shut her eyes like she was in pain and nodded.

“I’ll wheel her back,” Sharla offered, “and get her settled. You can put away your things and then say goodbye.”

No, that wouldn’t work at all. Gabe could not be left with Angi and her mother and their sympathetic, pitying gazes. But the director had already taken the handles of Gran’s wheelchair, talking softly to her as she pushed it forward.

“She’s lucky to have you,” Bianca said, placing her soft hand on Gabe’s arm, just like a good mother would do. Something his mom hadn’t ever done as far as he could remember.

“I’m the lucky one.” He swallowed back the emotion that lodged in his throat. “She’s still confused after the stroke,” he explained. “The doctor says she’ll be back to her normal self eventually.”

The doctor hadn’t said anything of the sort, and he had a feeling both Guilardi women knew it. He refused to look at Angi. It had been bad enough to see pity in her gaze back when he was the misfit wimp during those summer months spent in Magnolia. He’d grown out of that kid, and no way was he going back there now.

“Iris is a treasure in this town,” Bianca told him with another squeeze of his arm. “You should stop by the restaurant for a meal. You know my daughter, yes? You and Angela played together when you were younger. She had a little more meat on her back then, but—”

“Mom, stop.”

Now he did look at Angi. Her olive complexion had gone bright pink in the cheeks as she glared at her mother. “I remember her,” he nearly whispered.

“She liked to sneak food from the kitchen as if we wouldn’t notice.” Bianca gave a knowing laugh. “She could have taken anything she wanted. Her father, rest his soul, would have done anything to make his sweet cannoli happy.”

“Enough with the cannoli nickname. Ma, please.”

An unexpected chuckle burst from Gabe, earning a narrow-eyed glare from Angi. He couldn’t help it. The only time she spoke like she was a member of some Italian mob movie cast was when something or someone got under her skin. Gabe wanted to get under her skin.