“It’s not your decision.” Bianca crossed her arms over her chest. “You disrespect me and your father’s memory with your selfishness.”

“The restaurant isn’t making money,” Angi said as frustration bubbled up inside her.

When her mother glanced around wildly, Angi realized she’d nearly shouted the words and, of course, immediately regretted the outburst.

But she couldn’t take it back.

“I know you understand how bad it is,” she continued as she lowered her voice and drew closer.

“We’re fine,” her mom insisted. “A bit of a slowdown after your father passed away. But the town is turning around. Look at all these people. More visitors for every festival.”

“People who are in line for ravioli.”

Bianca’s glossy lips compressed. “You have to honor the tradition,” she said. “What are we without our tradition?”

“I miss him, too,” Angi said softly, understanding that her mother was talking about Angi’s father.

“Tradition,” her mother repeated in a soft voice. She blinked rapidly, and emotion clogged Angi’s throat.

“I’ll serve the sausage next time, Mom. I’m sorry.”

“People might like your food,” Bianca said. “But Il Rigatone was your father’s dream.”

“I know.”

Bianca reached out and wrapped her arms around Angi’s shoulders. The embrace felt more suffocating than comforting. “You’re a good girl, my sweet princess.” She released Angi and patted her on the cheek. “Your pesto had too much oil. I can show you how to fix that next time you want to make it.”

“Thanks, Mom,” Angi said without bothering to look again toward the line at the restaurant’s booth. What was the point? Her mother waved at one of her friends and then left Angi alone. No need to discuss things further now that the guilt trip had been fully meted out.

Unfortunately, Angi wasn’t alone for long. Dabbing at the corner of one eye—it must be dust because she certainly wasn’t going to cry in the middle of the festival—she heard a loud whistle behind her. “Hey, RPC.”

“Swallow me, please,” she whispered, tapping her booted foot against the grass.

“Remember when we sneaked away from the Christmas parade they used to do down Main Street? It must have been seventh-grade year,” Brandon Mitchelson said, leading her former best friend, Sara Weathers, toward her.

Brandon had been the star center of the high school basketball team, and she’d had an enormous crush on him for most of middle school. Mostly he acknowledged her to get free food. Once she lost weight and grew breasts, he’d tried to get lucky in the empty school gymnasium after homecoming. His breath had smelled like stale beer and cheese puffs.

“I remember.” Sara nodded, her blond hair shimmering under the twinkle lights strewn around the square. It killed Angi that she’d ever thought this grown-up mean girl was her friend. “When Ang ate her weight in cheesecake in the back of her dad’s restaurant.”

Brandon laughed like Sara had told the funniest joke on the planet. They’d married right after high school, their son only a couple of years older than Andrew. Not once had any of them gotten together socially since Angi had returned to town, and she planned to keep it that way. “The cannoli princess was the master of shoveling it in.”