Bellagrand: A Novel (16 page)

She found some rum hiding in the back of a cupboard, from the old days of Joe and Arturo. And Angela. Days long passed. Nowadays Arturo was writing love poetry to another lucky girl in Washington State and Smiling Joe owned a fruit orchard in San Clemente, California. Angela was at St. Mary’s.

Ben combined the ingredients, stirred them vigorously, poured the concoction into the glasses. They clinked.

“Merry Christmas.”

“Merry Christmas.”

She drank.

“Ben,” she said, pupils dilating, eyes widening. “I don’t think you should drive home tonight after drinking this. You won’t be able to see straight. I’ll barely be able to make it upstairs to my bedroom.”

“Yes, I know. I told you. Good, isn’t it?”

“Quite good.”

“But don’t worry. If you fall I’ll carry you upstairs.”

“Upstairs to my bedroom?”

He said no more and she said no more. They stood quietly side by side, leaning against the counter, sipping their eggnog.

“Can I ask you something?” he said.

“Should we have more to drink before you do?”

“What do Salvo and Mimoo think of me picking you up, bringing you home, having dinner here, being around?”

Gina swayed a little.

“I ask because Salvo especially doesn’t seem to mind. And Mimoo is crotchety, but she is like that even with you and we know she loves you, so . . .”

“Yes. You’re right about Mimoo. And Salvo would prefer Harry stay in prison for life, so he’s just peachy with it. But they do loudly judge me when you’re not around.”

“Tell them I’m your friend, Gia.”

“They know. I told them. I like my friends, Ben.”

“Yes, me too.”

I need my friends, she wanted to tell him, having drunk too much eggnog, but didn’t. “You’re sure you can’t spend Christmas with us?” She smiled. “I’ll make you
tamale fritos chickita con flan
or whatever you said.”

“What red-blooded man could say no to that? But my only living parent would disown me. I don’t want Harry and me to have
that
in common, too.”

They glanced at each other and away. Swaying, she held on to the counter. He didn’t finish his drink. He left soon after, wisely, but not before he bent and kissed the palms of her hands, one after the other, pressing his warm, eggnog-moistened lips into them for a long moment.

Six

“FAIRYLAND POND HAS BEEN
frozen solid over a month!” Ben exclaimed. “Want to go ice skating?”

“Go do what?”

January 1915 was cold like Gina didn’t remember ever being cold. For many reasons told and untold she liked being in Concord on the weekends. Told: because Rose kept the house warm for her sick patients, while in Lawrence, she and Mimoo couldn’t afford the heating bills. So unless the stove was on, there was no heat.

Reasons untold: “Ice skating!”

Ben smiled happily, showing her an open bag that contained two pairs of lace-up boots with blades on the bottom. It was a Saturday afternoon and they were done with Rose’s work early.

“What are those?”

“Ice skates.”

She took one skate out of the bag, examined it, frowned. “You want me to put these on and go stand on a pond?”

“Not stand, skate.”

“Ben, there is something about me you probably don’t know,” Gina said, carefully replacing the skate in the bag. “I was born and raised in Sicily. You clearly have never heard of Sicily, but it’s a very beautiful island in the
Mediterranean
Sea. The southern part of this sea borders
Africa
. I’m not sure how much you know about world geography, but Africa transects the
equator
. Italians don’t have ice. Italians don’t skate. We swim.”

Ben was unperturbed. “Too cold for swimming.”

“Yes,” she agreed heartily. “Too cold to be outside at all. How about you wait fifteen minutes, let me finish up here, and we walk next door? I’ll make a nice cup of mulled apple cider and we can sit by the fire, warm up, and talk about books?”

“We can do that after we skate.” He took hold of her wrist, squeezing it lightly. “Come with me. It’ll be fun.”

“Nothing done in subfreezing temperatures on ice, wearing knives on your feet, can ever be considered fun.”

He parked his car on Walden Street and they inched their way down the steep woodsy paths of Hapgood-Wright Forest to Fairyland Pond. They stood for a moment and stared through the white-covered trees down deep into the clearing where dozens of children and couples glided on an icy shimmering oval.

“Told you,” he said. “Fun.”

“Look, that poor child just fell.”

“And got back up again and skated.”

Gina pretended to be trepidatious, but secretly she was thrilled.

“Is it really called Fairyland?” she asked as they made their way down the hill.

“Rumor is,” Ben told her, “the Alcott and the Emerson children named it. Ask Rose later. She would know. She seems to know everything. Now come. Stop delaying. You’re walking deliberately slow.”

“It’s steep. I’m being cautious. You don’t want me to fall, do you?”

“I suppose not.”

She mulled over his answer. “How thick is that ice?”

“Not at all,” he replied. “On the plus side, it’s not that deep.”

“Ben!”

Getting the skates on her feet was an ordeal, but nothing compared to what it was like when she finally stepped out onto the ice. Instantly she went down, her feet sliding out from under her.

A laughing Ben helped her up, but as soon as he let go, she fell again. After that, she sat on a bench near an old toothless woman with a cane and watched Ben skate around the pond by himself waving to her as he spiraled in circles.

“Come on, try again,” he kept calling.

She kept shaking her head. “When did you learn to skate like that?”

“I grew up in New England. Everybody skates.”

“Not everybody. Not Harry.”

Ben smiled. “Oh, indeed Harry. He’s an excellent skater. Better than me. He and I played hockey together in Barrington when we were kids.”

“Harry played
hockey
?” She was dumbfounded. “You are talking about Harry, my husband, right?”

“You think all he does is read books?” He helped her off the bench, leading her onto the ice.

“Ben, all he does
is
read books.” She tried not to put too grim a point on it.

“Well, before he became a bookworm, he was quite the skater,” said Ben, holding her hand tight. “Now, wait, wait—don’t do what you’re doing.”

“What am I doing?” she said, falling.

“Falling.” He picked her up again. “Wait! No, don’t do that—Gina, look at me,” he said, turning her to face him. “Keep your knees slightly bent, you’re not walking, you’re gliding; tilt your body forward, arms at your sides, slightly out, and now . . . bend and push, with alternating feet. Bend and push with your right, then bend and push with your left. Look at my feet.”

“You just told me to look at
you.
”

“Okay, but now look at my feet. Watch. Don’t worry, if you fall, I’ll catch you. On first bounce, promise. Come!”

He held her hand and she tried. After another half a dozen slips and falls, she almost succeeded in standing up on the ice for five or six seconds. Ben was so balanced, so graceful on his skates, and he laughed at her as if he didn’t understand how someone couldn’t instantly grasp gliding on a quarter-inch metal edge over a sheet of ice.

She clutched his hand and pretended it was for balance.

And he didn’t let go and pretended it was for safety.

She did it! She moved one foot and slid forward and then the other and slid forward some more. She was so happy she clapped—and promptly fell again.

“I told you not to let go,” Ben said, both arms under hers, helping her up.

They were on the ice for over two hours. He had to drag her away after it got dark. The town had strung up white lights on the bare trees around the pond, and Gina thought it was magical, like skating on white diamonds. She wished they could stay.

On the way to dinner, and at dinner, all Gina could talk about was the skating. “You were right. I admit that was a
lot
of fun. But I still don’t understand how you do the things you do—how do you skate backward, without falling?” Her nose, her cheeks, her hands were still cold; she didn’t care. “It’s amazing. You’re amazing on that ice. I like watching you.” She became more sedate. “I had a good time. Where did you get the skates? Maybe . . .” She broke off.

Ben watched her joyfully, from across the candlelit table, his head tilted forward. “Maybe what? We can go again? Maybe we can get you your own pair of skates?”

“How about tomorrow?”

She dreamed about the ice while they shared a slice of warm apple pie.

“What do you think the ice is doing when no one is on it? Like now?”

“What is the
ice
doing? I suppose it’s just sitting there under the trees getting more icy.”

“Do you think the lights are still on? Or does an orderly come around and turn them off?”

“I don’t know.” Ben thought for a moment, chewing his lip. “What are you asking me? After dinner, what? Do you want to go and see if the lights are still on?”

She almost clapped. “But no, no—I can’t. I can’t walk down those woods in the dark. We’ll wait.” She was disappointed. “But the lights won’t be on in the daytime. We won’t see them.”

“So let’s go now.”

“Where does the electricity come from to light them?”

“I think they’re kerosene lights.”

“Oh.” She deflated. “So they must burn out. When the kerosene oil runs out, the lights turn off.” The secret of the magic lights revealed, she sank in her chair.

They went for a walk through the town park after dinner. The paths were still lit up by the kerosene lamps in the snow-covered trees.

“If only there were a small pond here,” she said, “we wouldn’t have to walk down deep into that grisly forest.”

His hand on her forearm tightened. “There
is
a small pond here,” he said.

“There isn’t!”

Ben knew about these things, about taverns and ice rinks and ponds all over Concord, and of course he was right. It was a tiny pond, a glorified puddle, and the lights didn’t twinkle, they were dim in the distance as he laced up her skates, laced up his, and led her onto the frozen milk. She laughed and glided. She couldn’t believe she had joy again and at nighttime too. They were alone. She stumbled and fell and he caught her, their woolen coats snowy and icy, with mittens on their hands and hats on their heads. He stood close while she was still laughing and then took off his hat and held it in his hand.

“Why did you take off your hat?” she asked.

“Because,” he replied quietly, nearly whispering, “no gentleman can kiss a true lady without first taking off his hat.”

“Oh,” she breathed, inaudibly.

Bareheaded, Ben leaned forward and kissed her. Their lips weren’t icy, their breath wasn’t icy. Her legs went out from under her, she lost her balance and fell and he fell too, the hat slipping out of his gloved hands and rolling onto the ice like a wheel.

Gina didn’t stay overnight at the Wayside that evening. Or again. She stayed at Ridge House with Ben.

Oh, to be touched, to be loved.

The pain will go away.

No, it won’t. But it will be hidden for a while.

What are we doing, what will become of us, what have we done.

Just planting flowers, gardening, weeding.

This is not that.

No, it’s better. It’s sweeter.

Do you know how long I have loved you, Ben whispered. How long I have longed for this.

Don’t tell me. Don’t ever tell me. Plant the violets, watch them grow, cut them down. Don’t speak about the intervening years. Please.

This is so sweet.

Yes, it’s like the syrup from the sugar maples.

And hills and streams, the wild, the swallow, the sparrow, it’s aster, birch, and pine. It’s everything.

She didn’t reply. It wasn’t everything.

Can you believe, he whispered to her, that Louisa May Alcott thought Concord was the grayest of towns?

I don’t believe it. She lived and died here.

Yes. But she said the last time the town saw a startling hue was when the redcoats were here.

Gina laughed, her breath so hot, it could have burned Ben’s throat.

The red maple is the brightest scarlet, he whispered into her slick neck, into her parched mouth. It’s the most vivid of all earthly things.

This she believed.

Oh, to be touched, to be loved.

They had a linen-colored room facing the morning sun. And on Sundays, after a night of love, a morning of tenderness, of kindness, they didn’t want to venture out into the world of the sick and the downtrodden, and even the incarcerated. Leaving the room felt like torture.

Please don’t ever be unhappy, she would say to him. What a blessing to wake up here and see your loving face. Every week I kiss it, I thank our gracious Lord for blessing me so bountifully.

You’re not Salome, are you, Gina?

I don’t know. She pondered. The name sounded vaguely familiar. It was precisely because the name was so unusual that it jogged her memory. The strict Catholic education came in handy when playing bedroom games with her Panamanian explosive-detonating lover.

Does Salome have something to do with John the Baptist?

Give this girl a prize! Ben grinned with pleasure. Not just beautiful, but smart too.

She pinched him lightly. If I’m Salome, are you equating yourself with John the Baptist, a messenger heralding the coming of Jesus?

Perhaps I’m King Herod instead, Ben said.

If you’re Herod, then who do I ask you to behead, as I bask in my wickedness?

They dropped the analogy. I told you, you weren’t Salome.

I’m not Cassia either, Gina said. Luke’s repentant woman. All she wants is to be forgiven for her sins.

One day that will be you.

One day it will be me. Just not yet.

She raised her lips to him, her face, her long, bare arms, her hips. Not yet. Not yet.

You are red wine to me, to my mouth, he whispered, covering them, both man and woman, with the ardent white quilt, climbing, climbing.