Big Cherry Holler (23 page)

“It was his idea. It’s not my fault I’m alone over here for a month—”

“You’d better be careful. A woman in her prime loose in the Italian Alps sounds like a setup for a spaghetti western with a bad ending.”

“Theodore! I won’t do anything! I never do anything. I’m a sensible, practical pharmacist, remember?” Doesn’t Theodore know that
it’s the idea of an affair that excites me? I hang up the phone; my palms are sweating so much, they leave a print on the black receiver. I rub it off with the hem of my sweater.

Everyone in the house is asleep. I tiptoe up to my room on the second floor, a big, square room with a fireplace and four windows, and a high double bed with four carved wood posters that nearly reach the ceiling. It’s a princess bed. And tonight, I
am
a princess who floated on a dance floor in Italy under a box of silver stars with a handsome prince.

I close the door and slip out of my loafers. I undress in the dark. When I am completely naked, I stand in front of the long mirror with the gold-leaf frame. The soft beam from the nightlight puts me in silhouette. I turn to the side and look at myself in profile. The gentle curves of my body, from having the babies, are suddenly beautiful to me. My skin is soft and warm, and I smell like the rosewater Mafalda left for me on the vanity. I shake my head, and my hair shakes loose away from my head in full, waxy curls, as curls were meant to be. Something happened to me tonight. I’m a girl again. And I like it.

T
he rain began in the early hours of Sunday morning before I could drift off to sleep. Papa has built a fire; the smell of wood smoke, fresh rain, and Mafalda’s macaroons baking in the oven woke me up. Etta and Chiara are in the basement making a mural in chalk, and I am reading all about Ornella Muti’s life (she’s good friends with Mussolini’s granddaughter). Papa is at Giacomina’s store, helping her do inventory and place orders for the ski season. Nonna went up the street to visit a friend. Papa argued with her to let her ankle heal a little longer before she went out. (Guess who won that argument?)

Jack called this morning; fully awake, he was much more animated and attentive on the phone. He had a long talk with Etta, and when she handed the phone over to me, I realized that even though she misses her daddy, she was happier than I had seen her in a long time. She is happy because she sees how happy I am. Don’t I remember when I was a girl and my mother was happy? I would do anything to see my mother smile. I remember when I brought Mama to our cast party at the Drama and she sang an Italian folk song for the crowd. I couldn’t believe that she had the courage to sing in front of all those
people, and as I watched her, she became her best self, her most free and happy self. I’ll never forget her face that night. I wished her joy could last forever. She had so much sadness, I just wanted her to forget it all and laugh. And when she did that night, I knew that it was possible for her to have a life of joy. Etta knows I’m happy here, and it brings out the best in both of us. I must not forget that I have an insight into my daughter, because I was a daughter once too.

Jack tells me about the progress he and the guys are making on the rec center in Appalachia. He catches me up on the local gossip. Leah and Worley got married by the justice of the peace; everyone thinks Tayloe Lassiter is having an affair with the jeweler from down in Pennington Gap; and Zackie Wakin, concerned that he was getting robbed, ordered a detective kit from a magazine to trap the thief. He put a special invisible powder on everything in his store and hung a sign on the door that said he was out of town (“To throw ’em off but good,” he told Jack). Turns out someone was in the store at night—and when the police came and washed the powder with a special solvent and took the footprints, they belonged to Zackie. Evidently, Zackie is a sleepwalker. We have a good laugh over that one.

There is something different in my husband’s voice. His tone is warm but just a touch hollow. Sort of like: you’re there, I’m here, let’s not talk about anything too deep. But since I danced with Pete Rutledge, all I want to do is talk about deep things. One dance made me want to dig deep and live. How dramatic, but how true.

“Ave, were you drunk last night?”

“What?”

“When you called. Had you been drinking?”

“I had bitters at the disco. But that’s all.”

“How much?” Jack chuckles.

“I wasn’t drunk.”

“You’re on vacation. Live it up.”

Part of me wants to tell Jack everything, as I used to do, in the beginning.
We’d lie in bed for hours, and I’d share things with him I had never told anyone. It’s different now. I’m not compelled to tell him everything, and I’m not sure why. When Jack hangs up, I am relieved. We ran out of things to say.

The rain is coming down so hard now, it’s making a river in the street in front of the house, and it’s dumping into the creek that feeds the waterwheel. The waterwheel whips around in a high-speed frenzy, throwing sheets of water everywhere. I get back to the glamorous life of Ornella Muti. Oh, the details.

Mafalda pokes her head into the study. “Ave Maria. You have a guest.”

Through the door from the living room, which connects to the kitchen, I see Pete Rutledge in a yellow rain slicker, standing in the doorway. He is so tall, he has to duck his head down; his shoulders barely fit in the frame. His blue eyes stand out against the bright yellow collar of the slicker. His hair is wet, and he hasn’t shaved. He reminds me of Clark Gable in
The Call of the Wild
, just a little. I wish I didn’t think this man looked like all my favorite movie idols, but in certain ways, and in certain lights, he does. He’s a little like my girlhood board game Mystery Date—which Etta still plays with her girlfriends—where the players spin a dial and a plastic door opens to reveal seven different specimens of young all-American manhood, one cuter than the next. I bite my lip; good, I’m wearing lipstick. (Loretta Young would never be caught without it, even in frozen tundra). Why am I worried about how I look? My heart skips, sending a flurry of butterflies through my chest, and lower. Shame on me! I take a deep breath. I am not excited he came to see me; I’m
surprised
, but I am definitely not excited. Maybe if I say this to myself enough, I’ll believe it.

“Hello,” I say to him as I lean in the doorway with my arms across my chest.

“Everybody in this town knows Mario Barbari.” Pete smiles.

“He’s been the mayor for—”

“Thirty-seven years,” Mafalda finishes my sentence.

“May I borrow your Ave Maria for the afternoon?” Pete asks Mafalda.

“I cannot answer for her,” she says warmly. Even Mafalda is suckered by this American male.

“There’s an inn up the street. Want to get a cup of coffee?” he offers.

Mafalda instantly grabs the pot, and I stop her. “No waiting on us.”

“I am happy to!” Mafalda says.

“No. If Mr. Rutledge has checked out the local coffee, then the least I can do is try it.” I smile at Pete, who smiles back at me.

I grab one of my father’s coats off the rack by the door. This time I wear his silly Robin Hood hat. Pete holds the door for me, and we step out into the rain. I walk ahead a few steps, and he catches up with me and opens his raincoat, pulling me inside. I resist at first, but the rain is coming down so hard that I opt to stay dry. I have to skip to keep up with him; his legs cover twice the distance mine do in the same amount of time. He looks down at me and laughs. I hope he thinks this hat is ridiculous. I do not need this man attracted to me.

Pete holds the door for me as we enter the old inn. My father has told me that in the winter, at the height of ski season, this place is packed. Today there is just me, Pete, and the proprietor, an old man with a pipe, sitting in the kitchen and reading the newspaper. The pipe smell is familiar: he’s the same man who walks home late at night. I smile at him and wave, and he looks up and nods. Pete takes off his raincoat and drapes it over a chair. He helps me with my coat and hat. The proprietor comes out; Pete orders coffee in lousy Italian, and I let him. There are three stuffed deer heads over the fireplace. The room has Tyrolean touches, just like the homestead. The tables are waxed and the chairs mismatched, some with embroidered seats and some straight-backed and plain. I sit down in one of the two dilapidated
easy chairs in front of the fire and stretch my legs out on the stone hearth. The chairs are so old and low to the ground, you might as well sit on the floor. Pete sinks into the other chair, scooting it to face me.

“How are you?”

“I’m fine. How are you?”

“A little wet,” he says as he runs his fingers through his hair. “Why don’t you wear a wedding ring?”

I look down at my hands. Why do I keep forgetting to put on my rings?

“I was helping Mafalda make macaroons.”

“You weren’t making macaroons last night.”

“No. Last night I wasn’t wearing them because I had been fishing stones out of the stream yesterday afternoon and I had taken them off.”

“You wouldn’t want to lose them,” he says, and smiles in a way that is so sexy, I’m glad I’m sitting down: if I were standing, my knees would give out.

“No, I wouldn’t,” I tell him, regaining my composure, then say directly, “What are you implying?”

“Nothing.”

“Good.” I lean back in the chair, then shift as a spring pops up and jabs me in the center of my back.

We sit in silence for a moment. The old man brings the coffee. He looks at Pete, and then he looks at me. I can see that he appreciates the happy American couple who wandered in from the rain. You can’t find a soul in this country who doesn’t believe in romance. No need to further anyone’s misapprehensions. I move my chair away from Pete’s. I have to get this conversation on a more general, friendly plane.

“What do you do?” I ask him a bit too chirpily.

“I’m a marble guy.”

“Game marbles?”

“No.” He laughs. He has a good laugh—it’s right up there with his smile. “Marble for houses. Mantels. Walkways. Tabletops.”

“Interesting. Is there a lot of call for marble in New Jersey?”

“Are you kidding? It’s the goomba capital of the world.”

“Hey. I’m a goomba,” I tell him.

“Me too. Half.”

Half Italian. Okay. That explains the dark hair and the good nose and the hitting on married women.

“My mother was Italian,” he explains. “Her people were from Calabria. They’re very passionate.”

“I’ve heard.”

“You don’t like small talk, do you?” he says.

We sit quietly for a moment, and I consider this stranger as he gazes into the fire and sips his coffee. Who is this guy anyway? What kind of man uses words like “passionate” and persists with a woman whether she’s wearing her wedding ring or not? He eases his long legs out and rests his feet against the wall. I feel dwarfed sitting here next to him, but I shouldn’t—I’m far from tiny. But there is something about this man that fills up a room. The size of him makes me want to take him on and set him straight: no, I don’t like small talk. In fact, I don’t like anything frivolous. I would prefer it if folks just got to the point. I learned the value of time the hard way. It’s a sin to squander it.

“Maybe I don’t like small talk because you’re not very good at it,” I tell him.

I catch him off guard and he laughs. Is there anything sexier than a man who laughs at your jokes? I don’t think so. I take a sip of the coffee. I’ve never had a cup of coffee so good.

“Have you read
Browning’s Italy
?” he asks.

“By Helen Clarke? I love that book!”

“I don’t know how anyone can come to Italy without reading it.”

“That’s my favorite love story.”

“Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett?” he says.

“Who did you think I meant?”

“Maybe you and me.” He smiles. “I’m kidding around.”

“Good.” Boy, this guy is bold. “It’s awfully hot in here.” Let me get back to the Brownings before he says something else that makes me sweat. I push my chair away from the fire.

“Why is it your favorite love story?” he asks.

“Because it was an impossible situation. Elizabeth Barrett was living a terrible life; she was sick and housebound, writing poetry. Oppressed by a cruel father. And then Robert Browning sent her his poetry, and they began to correspond and fell in love through their words.”

Pete picks up the story. “And then Browning proposed, and Elizabeth was afraid to tell her father, so they eloped and moved to Rome.” The man is finishing my sentences. “You know, you can rent their apartment in Florence.”

“Really?”

“I’ve been in it.”

“You have?”

“A friend of mine rented it last summer, and I went over and checked it out.”

“Did you know they had a son?”

“Penn.”

“Right. And she defied the doctors; they told her that the trip to Italy from England would kill her. And that she would never have a child.”

“So she followed her heart, and everything worked out. That’s very reassuring, isn’t it?” Pete looks at me.

“Yes, it is.”

“Have you read
Casa Guidi Windows
?”

“My mother had the poem in Italian.”

“It’s a beaut. I think it’s Elizabeth Barrett Browning’s best poem,” he says, then looks back into the fire. I can’t believe I’m talking poetry with a man. When was the last time I did that? When did I ever do that?

“So … what’s your story, Pete?” I ask him, feeling a jolt from the caffeine.

“You want the whole thing?”

“Sure.”

“I grew up in New Jersey. I went to Rutgers. Studied theater. Set design. Graduated. Worked in not-for-profit theater in New York. Got sick of that. Hooked up with an old buddy of mine; we started this marble thing. Now I live in Hoboken. And once a year, I come over here for a couple of weeks to buy marble.”

“Are you married?”

“No.”

I don’t know why his answer makes me smile, but it does.

“What’s funny?”

“I don’t know.”

“You’re glad I’m not married?”

“No.”

“It would be nice if
you
weren’t,” he says, tapping my leg with the toe of his shoe. I move my leg.