Maybe because of what happened yesterday, Teresa showed up in my dreams.
I rubbed the damp corners of my eyes with my fingers and let out a laugh.
Come to think of it, it’s been a while since I visited her grave.
The last time I went was before spring had even fully ripened, so it’s been a good six months at least. Maybe she came into my dream to say it’s time to show my face again.
An only grandson’s been neglectful—that’s the message, huh.
Teresa came from a European immigrant family and, as her name suggests, was a devout Catholic. She was also an upright person and a gentle grandmother who loved kids.
Which is why she met me while volunteering at a Catholic hospital.
Me—the kid who’d been removed from my father’s custody.
After that, as if she’d felt it was fate, Teresa went through all the proper paperwork and took me in. It wasn’t adoption; it was a foster arrangement. And I followed her without resistance, thinking anyone had to be better than my biological father.
The best part was that Teresa really was a good person.
She suggested football, said it would help me work through the trauma—thanks to that, I went to school on a scholarship.
I even made it into the college league and all the way to the quarterback—basically the ace—spot.
I wasn’t cut out to go pro, so I quit right after graduation, but…
It was fun.
Dwelling on the memories made me miss Teresa.
I should go—tidy the grave while I’m at it.
I got up without delay, washed up, and got ready.
With the heat, I figured weeds would be sprouting all around the plot, but when I arrived the grave was remarkably neat.
Huh?
Did the groundskeeper spray herbicide? I bent down to check and saw signs that someone had cut the grass with a sickle or something similar.
So someone cleaned it up.
And since the headstone wasn’t scuffed, it clearly wasn’t shaved down with a careless trimmer either.
I let out a small, impressed laugh.
“Grandma Teresa, you’re popular.”
I hadn’t requested any service, so someone must have come to pay respects and tidied up out of kindness. Having been raised by her, I felt grateful to that unknown someone.
“Don’t tell me I’m not the only grandson. I’m getting a little jealous.”
Joking, I set the bouquet on the stone.
Well, my grandma really did live kindly.
There’s a saying for it in the East—someone who could live even without laws. That’s exactly her. Teresa was the kind of person who would go her whole life without breaking a law even if none existed.
Thanks to that, she had a lot of people who adored her.
By comparison, I was the guy who used to spark trouble because of my temper.
As I got older I thought, If I keep this up, I’m going to get shot on some dark street, and I grafted on some social skills. Before that I was basically a hyena turned loose on the savanna.
“Guess the temper runs in the blood. I’m not exactly a good person.”
I was muttering that self-mocking sigh when a low, gentle voice came from behind me.
“I’ve never thought you were particularly bad.”
“Gah.”
I spun around, startled, and saw someone hidden under a cap and a mask. But the height—about six foot four—and the strong frame told me exactly who it was.
“…Caesar?”
When I asked, thrown off, Caesar tipped his cap slightly, like a polite nod.
The odd thing was that he looked a little flustered too.
I’m the one who should be surprised, so why do you look like that?
I held my pounding heart down and managed a question.
“Why do you keep showing up wherever I go…?”
“I didn’t follow you.”
With that, Caesar took a few steps and stopped at a nearby grave. He set a small bouquet on it and said,
“Check the names.”
I walked over and read the inscription.
“Alexandros O’n, Ido O’n…”
The names rang a bell.
“Your parents are interred here?”
“Yes.”
“I see. I’m sorry.”
So he’s here to visit his parents too…
I gave him a sheepish look.
“I didn’t realize San Diego was this small.”
Then I noticed he still had one more bouquet in his hand.
“It’s less that San Diego is small…”
He gazed at the bouquet for a moment, then walked back to where I’d been standing.
He set it on the stone that read “Teresa Rosso.”
“Turns out we had more points of connection than we thought.”
He looked back at me.
“Ms. Teresa taught me Italian home cooking.”
“…”
“I met her when I was hospitalized in San Francisco. She came by as a volunteer.”
Ms. Teresa…?
A question slipped out before I could stop it.
“A Catholic hospital?”
“You know it?”
“…I was admitted there too.”
Without thinking, I touched the corner of my left eye and murmured,
“The attending was a leading specialist in eye surgery…”
“Same for me.”
Casual as anything, Caesar added the explanation that the damage had been severe and his eye had to be removed.
And I couldn’t figure out how to respond to that, so I didn’t.
It’s not something you can answer lightly…
When I gave an awkward smile, he immediately shifted the topic, clearly reading my mood.
“I learned to cook during my stay.”
His voice stayed calm.
“After that I got interested in Italian home food, so we exchanged email addresses. We emailed maybe twice a month.”
“Ah…”
“Then we lost touch… and a few years later I learned by chance that she’d passed away. I think I was in twelfth grade.”
At that, all the puzzling little pieces clicked together.
So that’s why the taste felt familiar.
She’d been your cooking teacher.
Caesar asked me a question while I was still reeling.
“Did she pass after an illness?”
“Myocardial infarction. Her heart had always been weak.”
Because I’d left for a dorm on campus, our response was late at the worst possible time…
I swallowed the rest and looked away, and Caesar eased in a gentle word of comfort.
“She’ll have gone to a good place.”
“She’d better have. She was a good person.”
To lift the dark mood, I forced an awkward smile and kept talking.
“I knew Grandma could keep a secret, but this is new. How did she manage to keep quiet that she was exchanging emails with you of all people?”
Caesar let out a shallow breath—probably a tiny laugh.
“She probably didn’t know I was a public figure.”
“Huh?”
“The wound area was wider than expected, so my face was wrapped in bandages. After that we only emailed, so it makes sense she wouldn’t know.”
Right—she might not have known he was famous.
I nodded calmly and asked another question.
“Then… are you the one who’s been tending the grave?”
“I haven’t done anything fancy enough to call it tending. The groundskeeper handles a certain amount anyway.”
Blatant lie. The groundskeeper sprays herbicide and pesticide to keep mites at bay. Cutting tall grass is a different job.
So it was Caesar taking care of it.
Feeling grateful, I gave him a small smile.
“…Thank you.”
By now I was thinking, Maybe I really am fated to cross paths with this man.
Around then, Caesar spoke.
“Is there something you’ve been craving to eat?”
“Why are you asking me that…?”
When I looked confused, he added an explanation.
“I thought you might miss it.”
Of course I do… But I’m the one who owes the favor, aren’t I?
And he’s the one I rejected, one-sidedly, at that.
Feels like it’s my turn to reach out first… but I can’t exactly do that, either. I’m still worried about paparazzi and scandals.
While I hesitated and couldn’t answer, Caesar gave the prompt again, even gentler.
“The last recipe she sent me was eggplant lasagna.”
Parmigiana di melanzane.
The second he added the Italian name, my shoulders flinched on their own.
Watching my face closely, Caesar said,
“I bought ingredients to make it again. Should I portion it out and send it to you like last time?”
“…”
“This time I’ll courier it through my manager. That way you won’t have to suffer any scandal.”
He sounded certain I wouldn’t be able to refuse eggplant lasagna. And he was right.
She must have added a note when she sent the recipe.
Probably something like, It’s my grandson’s favorite, or, My family loves this.
Otherwise he wouldn’t use it as his joker card…
I looked up at Caesar, conflicted, then let out a hollow laugh and spoke.
“Did my grandma teach you to lure people with food?”
He answered without a shred of hesitation.
“Yes.”
“…”
Shameless didn’t begin to cover it.
Before, I would’ve blown up—Do you think I’m the kind of guy who can be trained with treats? But if it was my grandma’s teaching, I didn’t have much to say.
Grandma, why did you have to teach Caesar how to cook…
Your grandson is in a bind now…
I hovered between relief and dismay, then finally sighed and accepted.
“All right. Please do…”
Reluctant as it sounded, he must have been genuinely happy. The corners of his eyes, visible above the mask, crinkled just a little.
“I’m glad. I’ll put my heart into it.”
Hearing that, I wondered what exactly I thought I was doing, stringing along someone this straightforward.
Maybe I was too suspicious from the start.
Feeling both sorry and embarrassed, I said I’d be in touch later and left in a hurry.
…Without knowing what kind of man he really was.