“Tesoro mio, are you ill?”

I shook my head. “It would appear that we’re going to have another child.”

A broad smile spread across his face. “Another baby?” He wrapped his arms around my shoulders, pulling me close to him. He put his nose to my head and breathed me in, savoring the moment. “Another piccolo Garibaldi.” His voice was distant, his eyes were closed, and he looked at peace.

“We’re going to have to tell your mother.”

José sighed. “Can we just show up with the child?”

I laughed. “You mean just walk in with a baby in my arms? ‘Oh, look what I found at the market today.’ I have a feeling she will notice before then.”

José rested his chin on the top of my head. “We could say that you are becoming more voluptuous due to all of this wonderful Italian food.” I elbowed him. “All right, we will tell her soon, but for now I want to savor this moment.” I leaned my head back against his broad chest as we watched the water gently ripple around us.

I dreaded telling Mamma Garibaldi. She already hated me for ruining her son. There was only one way that she would take this. José formed a plan. We took her out to dinner at a local restaurant with crisp white tablecloths. Crystal water goblets sparkled with the reflections of the large gold chandeliers that were scattered around the ceiling.

When the chef found out that the Great Garibaldi was a patron of his restaurant he personally came out to greet us. Dressed in a fine black suit, the portly man bowed deeply. “What a lucky man to have such beautiful women by his side. I want you to know that you can order whatever you want. It is my pleasure to serve you at no cost.”

“Sir, that is too kind,” José tried to protest.

“No, no, my pleasure. I shall be able to say that the wonderful Garibaldi has eaten at my restaurant. It’s very good for business.”

The food was heavenly. Pasta in a decadent pesto sauce as well as roasted beef so tender that it melted on my tongue. All the while José poured wine for his mother. The more she drank, the more he filled her cup. When her cheeks grew as rosy as the wine she consumed, José said. “Mamma, Anita and I have some important news to tell you.”

Mamma looked up at José with bleary eyes and whispered rather loudly, “Are you sending her back to the Americas?” She hiccupped.

José cast a worried glance at me before continuing. “No,” he said slowly. “Anita is pregnant. You are going to have another grandchild.”

Mamma Garibaldi looked over at me as if I had the plague. “Why do you hate me?”

“I don’t hate you.” The words flowed easily from my lips, unburdening me of their power. Regardless of what she said and did, she was José’s mother. Hating her would be like hating a piece of my husband.