Bella Fortuna (37 page)

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Authors: Rosanna Chiofalo

BOOK: Bella Fortuna
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“Take me, Stefano. Now.”
Unlike me, Stefano is painfully patient.
Straddling him, I tug at the waistband of his jeans but freeze when I feel Stefano's teeth nibbling at my teddy's spaghetti-thin straps until he manages to grasp them and pull them off my shoulders. My breasts are completely exposed now as Stefano's tongue works feverishly on my nipples, teasing them until they resemble taut, ripe raisins. Once more I reach for his pants and manage to pull them down low enough to give me access to what I'm searching for. I stroke him slowly at first, encircling my index finger around the fullest part of him. A moan escapes his lips. In one motion, he pulls at the crotch of my teddy, which has three snaps that pop open, giving him full access. Wrapping his large hands fully around my bottom and hips, he squeezes my curves greedily before he positions me above him. Slowly, I lower myself down. We keep our gazes locked, enjoying the myriad expressions of pleasure that play out over our features. When we both can't seem to take it any longer, he is finally completely inside of me. I throw my head back and softly cry out in ecstasy. Goose bumps explode all over my body.
Stefano quickly unfastens the last ties that are holding my negligee in place and tosses it on the ground. Then he removes his shirt. His pants have collapsed in a pool around his feet, but it's too late for him to stand and rid himself completely of them. For we don't dare break our bodies' contact as we press tightly against each other, reveling in the way our skin feels. Holding each other tightly, we rock back and forth. A broken leg on the wrought-iron chair we sit on keeps tempo to our rhythm, clanging against the terrace's terracotta tiles. I reach climax first, moaning deeply into the night, not caring anymore if anyone sees or hears us.
 
The Feast of the Redentore does not disappoint, as the Venetians had assured me. The hundreds of lavishly adorned gondolas and boats that have descended upon St. Mark's Basin take my breath away. The
piazza
is teeming with throngs of people as we all anxiously wait for the fireworks show to begin.
Stefano has a friend who rented his boat out to us. I can only imagine how much money Stefano bribed him with to let us have the boat. At first, I thought his friend would be joining us, but Stefano surprised me as we boarded the boat by announcing we'd be alone.
“So you're leaving tomorrow.”
“Yes, I am.”
I've been wondering for the past few days if Stefano is going to bring up the subject of my leaving.
“How do you feel about that?”
Oh, great! He's going to lay it at my feet. Well, two can play at this game, Signor Lambrusca.
“Oh, you know, one dreads flying nowadays with all the security checkpoints and delays. I'm trying not to think about it and hoping for the best. I just can't wait to get it over with.”
Stefano stares off into the distance to where the pontoons sit in the canal. Fireworks should be starting soon. He looks sad, and suddenly, I feel horrible for playing my little game with him. But I remain silent. I want to say something to take his pain away. I don't. I'm too afraid.
“Do you think you will come back to Venice someday?”
He's making this hard. Why can't he just be direct and ask me how I feel about leaving him? After all, that's what he wants to know. But what do I expect from a macho Italian god? I'm still starstruck by his good looks.
“Yes, I'm sure I will come back to Venice. I love it here.”
His eyes light up.
“So you've had a good time? With me?”
Okay. Now we're getting somewhere.
“Of course I've had a good time with you. I can't thank you enough for the free tours you gave me.”
The light that was in his eyes a moment ago has been replaced by the hollow look I saw earlier. What's the matter with me? The guy must think I've used him for his services. He probably thinks I've used him in bed, too. Oh no! I don't want him thinking that. But what do I say? And before I can regret it, I quickly blurt out, “I'm going to miss you.”
He turns his head and looks at me. His eyes are red. Is he or was he about to cry? No, this Adonis-like specimen is too tough to cry.
“I think I'm going to miss you more, Valentina.”
Now it's my turn to be rendered speechless. I search my brain to say something. A loud bang erupts into the air, causing me to jump. The fireworks have begun.
Stefano places his arms around me and for the next thirty minutes, we remain in awe of the gorgeous spectacle adorning the Venetian sky. I am so enthralled by the magnificent fireworks that I don't even notice that Stefano has left my side until I feel a gentle tug of my hand. I look down and see Stefano kneeling on the boat.
“What are you doing down there? Are you feeling all right?”
I'm shouting as I struggle to keep my voice above the fireworks' din.
Stefano shouts back at me,
“Valentina! Ti voglio bene! Mi senti? Ti voglio bene tanto! Stai con me! Stai con me per sempre.”
The noise of the fireworks is deafening, but I'm pretty sure I caught every word. Does he realize what he's saying? And then he does it. He slides onto my finger an oval-shaped, antique-looking diamond ring that sparkles as bright as the fireworks that are still lighting up the Venetian sky.
“Did you hear me, Valentina? I said I love you very much. Don't leave me. Stay with me in Venice forever.”
22
Shoelaces and a Smile
I
thought I knew love when I was with Michael. But now I see how little I truly knew. And though it's just been three weeks since I've met this man, I can't deny what I'm feeling. I won't deny it. I'm tired of fighting an emotion that refuses to go away. My family, and Lord knows my neighbors back home, will think I've gone absolutely crazy. They'll say, “This is what the Carello kid has done to her—sent her into the arms of a much older man, an Italian gigolo no less, and made her think she's in love after only a few weeks.” And I won't blame them for thinking that way. I would've thought the same—until now.
The love I feel for Stefano makes me want to go out and save the world. Corny, I know. But that's the only way I can describe it. I want to do more and more for him. Unlike in my relationship with Michael, I have not thought once what Stefano will offer me or do for me. And it's the same way with Stefano. He showers me with love and is always concerned for my needs.
After Stefano proposes to me, the fears that I've had about loving again vanish. Before I give him my answer, I think for a moment what my life will be like without him in New York. And that's when the real fear sets in.
In these short three weeks that I've spent with Stefano, he's become family to me. I feel as if we've always known each other. Now I can't believe he wasn't in my life prior to us meeting in Venice. So when he pops the question, it's easy for me to say yes, or
si
as I answer in Italian.
Needless to say, I don't fly back to New York the next day. How can I accept the marriage proposal of the man I love, and then fly thousands of miles away from him? Again, I just can't bear his absence in my life. Stefano admits to me that my imminent departure is what had weighed so heavily on his mind the night he'd been sitting on my terrace and before he'd proposed. He'd sensed that I felt the same way about him but had wanted to be sure. And he hadn't wanted to pressure me after all that I'd been through with Michael. He acknowledges that we're having a whirlwind romance, or as he calls it a “world romance,” but he says it feels so right and he's never felt this sure of anyone before.
I call my mother the morning after my proposal to tell her that I'd missed my flight. Though I feel like I'm betraying Stefano, I'm just not ready to break the news of my sudden proposal to her. I want to enjoy my recent engagement at least for a few days before all hell breaks loose.
“Are you sure everything is okay, Valentina?”
Ma is yelling into the phone, accustomed to talking this way with her relatives in Sicily even if the party on the other line can hear her.
“Yes, everything is fine. I'm having such a good time with my new friends here that I decided to stay for another week—or two.”
The truth is Stefano and I haven't decided how long I'm staying in Venice before returning to New York. I can hear his words again in my head when he'd proposed, “Stay with me in Venice forever.” Actually, we haven't discussed much since after returning home from the feast. We've stayed up all night, making love and just holding each other. But I know. I'll be the one staying in Venice. My new life will be here now. And of course when I do eventually return to New York to make plans to ship my belongings to Italy, Stefano will be joining me. As I said earlier, we just can't picture being apart at all.
But I need at least a week to decide how to break the news of my engagement to my family. Right now, I just want to enjoy my happiness with Stefano without hearing my mother's warnings.
“Have you met someone?”
Darn! She knows. Why am I surprised? Sometimes I believe my mother possesses some psychic abilities. I decide playing dumb will be my best recourse.
“Of course I met someone. I told you I've met several wonderful friends here.”
“Valentina DeLuca, stop acting like I am a fool. I might be getting old, but my mind is as sharp as ever. Something is not right. I can sense it.”
I close my eyes and count to ten.
God, please give me strength.
“Everything is fine, Ma. The truth is I'm not ready to return to the shop. This trip has done wonders for me. I just don't feel rested enough.”
Please forgive me, God.
I will have to risk Ma's full wrath at discovering her daughter has lied to her—a transgression she can't stand.
There's silence on the other end.
“Are you still there, Ma?”
“
Si, si
. I'm here. Okay, I will leave you alone. When you are ready to tell me what his name is, I will be here waiting. Have a good time. Don't worry about anything here. The intern is working out well in the shop. I'm thinking of offering her a job when she graduates from school in January.”
“Really?”
This doesn't sound like my mother. She's always prided herself on keeping the business in the family, especially the seamstress and design work.
“Yes. We've gotten so busy since that article the magazine did on us. I can't be stubborn and just have your sisters and you handle the sewing. I want to cut back a bit myself. I'm getting too old.”
Now my curiosity is really piqued. And I suddenly realize why Ma has let me off so easily with my true intentions for staying in Venice. She's hiding something as well.
“What's going on, Ma?”
“
Niente, niente
. Like I said, we are just getting too busy. And after so many years, I need a bit of a break. I want to enjoy life before I die. Surely, you can understand that with what you just told me about wanting to stay in Venice longer.”
Hmmm . . . clever woman. She's giving me a dose of my own medicine. But I'm not giving up just yet.
“Ma, this doesn't sound like you. I can
sense
you are not leveling with me.”
“
Basta!
Just trust your mother.”
“So something
is
up! I knew it!”
“When you are ready to tell me what's really going on in Venice, maybe I'll tell you.”
“Maybe? That's not fair!”
“I'm the parent. It
is
fair!”
After we hang up, I wonder if my sisters know what's going on. Stefano kisses me on the cheek while I'm talking to my mother and leaves for work. He's a saint. He understands about my needing time to tell my family about him. I throw a sundress on and pile my hair on top of my head, securing it with a clip, and head over to the closest Internet café to e-mail Rita and Connie.
As I walk to the Internet café, I glance down at my engagement ring from time to time, still in shock that I'm engaged again. But my heart swells every time I glance at my ring and think of Stefano. I'm so in love with him. Though I know I shouldn't, I can't help comparing how different this feels from when I was engaged to Michael. I had loved Michael. There's never been any doubt of that. But something had been missing throughout our relationship. And now I know what it was—passion. My love for Michael had started as a girlhood crush. Then he'd been there for me when Tracy had betrayed me and had me beaten up. And of course, he was there for my father's death and afterward, when I was grieving. Though he'd been the first man whom I'd made love to, I never experienced the strong desire I now feel for Stefano. I finally feel like a woman with Stefano. That's the only way I can explain it. A large part of me had always remained that childhood girl whom Michael had rescued in Mr. Li's grocery store even though my body had matured.
Suddenly, my bitterness for Michael softens a bit. He'd been ahead of me. He'd sensed that we were different in spite of our shared pasts growing up. And he'd realized that I was still the little girl he'd been protecting throughout her childhood. But out of not wanting to hurt me any more than he had, he'd withheld from telling me this. Can I finally forgive him? My mind immediately answers the question. No. I'm just not ready to pardon him for the mountain of grief he's caused me even if he'd been right in canceling our wedding. I guess my mother—or the Calabresi—aren't the only stubborn ones.
Today is a very gray, foggy day with intervals of mist. Normally, I don't mind the overcast days Venice is known for, and I'd been lucky coming here in the middle of summer, when it rains only occasionally. But for some reason today, the cloudy weather is casting a gloom over my joy of being engaged. And as I near the café, my unease grows. My mother's behavior has really bothered me.
In order to get to the Internet café, I have to pass the Parco delle Rimembranze. Stefano and I love to take some of our daily
passeggiattas
through this park, which isn't far from my hotel room in Castello. The Parco delle Rimembranze, or the Park of Remembrance, memorializes the soldiers that died in World War II. Full of immense trees and lush foliage, the park almost makes me forget that I'm in a city surrounded by water.
I arrive at the Internet café and order a double
espresso macchiato,
an
espresso
with just a drop of milk. The café's owner, Frederico, has come to know me. His nickname for me is
L'Americana,
of course.
He walks over to the bin of fresh brioches, takes one out with his tongs, and then pulls a tall glass from the shelf of just washed glasses. I hold up my hand.
“Grazie, Frederico, ma non voglio granita oggi.”
“Ma quando mai lei non vuole una granita?”
“Non ho fame. Ma grazie. L'espresso basta per oggi.”
“Si, si. Com'é vorrei.”
I still find it amusing how Italians take personal insult when you don't want food they're offering you. To ease the pain I've inflicted, I say to Frederico,
“Prepara mi un kilo di biscotti con mandorle per mi portare con me.”
Bingo! That does the trick as Frederico's eyes light up, and he immediately gets to work taking a few
biscotti
out from his display shelf and weighing them on his scale. I overhear him say to one of the locals who is sipping
espresso
at the bar,
“L' Americana non puo resistere i miei dolci.”
He's right. Normally, I can't resist his sweets or any desserts for that matter—one thing I share in common with my sister Rita. But today, I don't have much of an appetite.
I haven't signed on to my e-mail account in over a week. My in-box is showing that I have ten unread e-mails. I'm relieved there aren't more messages than that. Stefano has been distracting me. But I must admit, I haven't wanted many reminders of home while in Venice. I scan through the subject lines of the e-mails. My stomach immediately coils into knots when I notice the first three e-mails all have urgent subject headlines.
The first one is from Aldo:
WE MUST TALK—NOW!!!
The second e-mail is also from Aldo:
CAN'T GET THROUGH ON YOUR CELL—CALL ME ASAP!
 
The third e-mail is from Rita. Though it's more subdued and isn't in bold caps like Aldo's e-mails were, the message is enough to convey urgency:
Some Bad News . . .
I quickly scan the subject lines of the remaining e-mails and notice there are three other e-mails from both Rita and Connie imploring me to call them. They have the number of my hotel room. If they can't get through on my cell as Aldo hadn't been able to, why didn't they just call my hotel? What the hell is going on? And why didn't Ma tell me when I spoke to her this morning?
It can't be that bad if Ma hadn't mentioned it—unless this is what she's keeping from me. But no, it's not. Her secret seems to have to do with her and no one else. But still, wouldn't she have told me of any bad news that my sisters and Aldo know about? Can she possibly be in the dark about this bad news like me?
I click first on Rita's e-mail titled “Some Bad News,” since it seems like I will get the most info from that e-mail, and begin reading. My heart stops. I do not believe what I'm reading even though it's staring back at me in black and white on the computer monitor.
Hey, Vee. How are you? I hope you're having a blast in Venice. I probably should have waited to tell you this when you were back in New York, but something told me I should tell you now even though Ma didn't want me to. Connie and I tried to call you, but as you've probably noticed by now from your earlier e-mails, we haven't been able to get through on your cell in the past two days. I know. You're probably calling us idiots right now for not calling you at your hotel room. But we were torn between even giving you this news now while you're in Venice trying to have a good time. But the more we thought about it, the more we thought you'd want to know in spite of everything that happened between you guys.
Okay, here it is. I hope you're sitting down. You're not going to believe this. And again, I probably shouldn't be telling you over e-mail, but . . . anyway, it's about Tracy. She died. It happened over the weekend—on Saturday. Her family hasn't made funeral arrangements yet. She had a heart attack. I know. We didn't believe it at first when Michael told us. Oh sorry. I probably shouldn't be mentioning him, but Connie and I ran into him at Anthony's Salumeria on Saturday. You know Astoria. Word spread quickly even though she died only that morning. And then yesterday Tracy's cousin Kathleen, you know the one who's buying her wedding dress from us, came by the shop for her final fitting. We were shocked that she still made the appointment. She was a mess. Of course, we convinced her to come back for the fitting when things were calmer. The poor girl. Her wedding is only a month away. She told us she'd have to find another maid of honor now that Tracy is gone. Anyway, when Michael told Connie and me, we didn't believe she'd had a heart attack. She was too young and a workout addict. That's why there aren't any funeral arrangements yet. Her family is waiting for the autopsy results to come in. Her doctor suspects she might've been born with a congenital heart problem.

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