Blue Smoke

bowl, Reena chopped vegetables while Bianca basted the chicken. It was, for Reena, one of those comfort moments. Essentially, intimately female and familial.
    The back door was open to the breezy warmth, the room was full of cooking smells and perfumes. Bo’s flowers were prettily arranged in a tall, clear vase, and her niece was busily banging a spoon in a big plastic bowl.
    Work, and the worries of it, were in another world. Part of her was still a child in this house, and always would be. That was comfort. Part of her was woman, and that was pride.
    “An will be here as soon as she’s done at the clinic.” Bianca straightened, shut the oven door. “Bella will be late, as usual. So, look at you.” She put her hands on her hips, studied her youngest daughter. “You look happy.”
    “Why wouldn’t I be?”
    “Love sparkle,” Fran said and, setting the bowl aside, leaned over the island as much as her belly would allow. “How serious is it?”
    “Day at a time.”
    “He’s hot. What?” With a shrug, Fran eased back. “I can’t think he’s hot? Plus he’s got that puppy look in his eyes, so you’ve got sweet and hot, like melted man candy.”

    “Fran!” The name came out on a shocked laugh as Reena goggled at her sister. “Listen to you.”
    “It’s not me. It’s the hormones.”
    “Everywhere I look, somebody’s pregnant. I just saw Gina a couple of days ago. She ate a quarter of a three-day-old coffee cake.”
    “With me it’s olives. I could eat a vat of olives. Just lift up jar after jar and—” Fran mimed shaking them into her mouth.
    “With all my babies it was potato chips.” Bianca checked a pot on the stove. “Ruffles, every night. Nine months times four? Holy Mary, how many potatoes is that?” She came around the counter, caught Reena’s face in her hand, shook it gently side to side. “I like that you look happy. I like this Bo. I think he’s the one.”
    “Mama—”
    “I think he’s the one,” Bianca continued, undaunted, “not only because he gives you a sparkle, not only because he looks at you like you’re the most fascinating of women, but I think he’s the one because your father gets the beady eye when he’s around. That’s his radar. ‘So, this guy thinks he’s going to take my daughter away? We’ll just see about that !’ ”
    “Where’s he going to take me? Pluto? He lives in the neighborhood.”
    “He’s like your father.” She smiled when Reena frowned at her. “Strong and solid, hot and sweet,” she added with a wink toward Fran. “And that, baby of mine, is what you’ve been waiting for.”
    Before Reena could respond, An walked in with Dillon over her shoulder. “Sorry I’m late. What are we gossiping about?”
    “Reena’s Bo.”
    “Cutie-pie. Dillon was giving him a bit of a hard time. He took it like a champ.” She sat at the table, flipped open her shirt and guided the baby’s seeking mouth to her breast. “Your dad’s grilling him about his business,” she added, then waved Reena back. “No, leave him be. He’s holding his own. Mama Bee? I think you might get that back terrace on the shop you’ve been angling for.”
    “Oh really?” Bianca tapped a spoon on a pot. “I like when my kids bring useful people to dinner.”

    Xander poked his head in. “Hey. We’re heading down to the shop for a minute.”
    “Dinner’s in one hour. If you’re not back, sitting at the table, I’ll beat you all unconscious with a spatula.”
    “Yes, ma’am.”
    “Take the baby.” Fran bent to pick up her daughter.
    “Sure.” Xander boosted his niece onto his hip where she bounced and babbled. “Reena? This guy’s okay.”
    “Gee, thanks,” she replied as her brother disappeared out the door. “We’ve only been dating a few weeks.”
    “When it’s right, it’s right.” Bianca gathered up peppers, took them to the sink to wash them.
    D own the block, Bo stood with Gib, Xander, Jack and a couple of kids. He gauged the ground in the rear of Sirico’s, noted the stingy seating area that was set up for the summer season, the traffic pattern from tables to the door.
    “Bianca wants more of a terrace,” Gib explained. “Italian influence, maybe terra-cotta tiles. I figure pressure-treated wood would be easier, quicker, cheaper, but she keeps pushing for tile, maybe slate.”
    “Yeah, you could throw up a platform in lumber pretty easily. Come off the back there, angle it. Do maybe a faux paint treatment—something