Big Cherry Holler - Adriana Trigiani [107]
Jack stirs the garlic in the pan. My eyes bulge out of my head like rockets. Is he serious? Have him to dinner? He’s the enemy, you idiot. He wanted me to stay in Italy with him for all eternity. Tear up that number if you know what’s good for you.
“Go on. Call him.”
I drag myself to the phone and dial. It rings a billion times. Conley Barker, the night receptionist (as well as the airport cab driver), finally answers the phone and puts me through.
“Hello?” The sound of Pete’s voice makes me happy, but just for a second.
“Hi. This is Ave Maria.”
“Oh, hey, thanks for calling me back.”
“What are you doing here?” I say gaily.
“Hiking the Appalachian Trail. Remember? I told you I was coming through in the fall. Well, guess what? It’s fall.”
“Isn’t that great?”
“Yeah. I’d like to see you.”
“Sure. Why not?”
“Great. Where do you live?”
I decide that it’s easier for me to ride down into town and pick him up rather than give him the complicated directions to get here. When I get to the Trail, Pete is waiting for me out front. He leans up against one of the entry columns, reading the town paper. He looks like he belongs here. And he looks every bit as good in southwestern Virginia twilight as he did in the dusk of northern Italy.
“Hi!” I say too loudly and too long, with about eighteen overenthusiastic syllables.
“How are you, babe?” Pete gives me a big kiss on the cheek. “What a place you live in. It’s amazing. So beautiful.”
“Thank you. Can’t take any credit for it. These mountains were here long before I was.”
I point out a few sights on the way back to Cracker’s Neck. I am determined to be a tour guide, and determined that there will be no talk of Alpine kissing or dancing. Pete seems respectful, and I’m relieved. When we climb out of the Jeep, Etta is waiting for us on the porch.
“Pete!” she squeals, and runs down the field to meet us. She throws herself into his arms.
“Chiara’s not here. She’s in Italy. It’s only me here.”
And what is that on Etta’s mouth? Oh dear God, it’s my Gina Lollobrigida magenta lipstick from the Moderna beauty shop in Piccolo Lago. My daughter looks like a hooker.
Jack greets us at the door. I love how warm and gracious he is to Pete. Shoo the Cat runs out from under a chair, sinks his teeth into Pete’s ankle, and sprints off. We check Pete’s ankle, but there’s barely any blood. Between the attack cat and my trampy daughter, this is going to be a long night.
Jack takes Pete (and Etta, of course, who follows) into the kitchen. Pete and Jack will have a beer, and the way this night is going, Etta may have her first Jack Daniel’s on the rocks. The phone rings; Etta rushes to answer it.
“She never used to run for the phone.” Jack Mac shrugs. “Now she’s either running to it or she’s on it.”
“It’s called being a girl, honey.”
“Ma, it’s Uncle Theodore.”
I excuse myself. I am relieved to be out of the hot kitchen. I close the bedroom door, pull the phone off the nightstand, and sit on the floor, so no one can hear me.
“Thank God it’s you.”
“What’s wrong?”
“He’s here.”
“Who?”
“Pete.”
Theodore laughs. “The inamorata? No way.”
“It’s not funny! He’s hiking around here and he stopped and called and Jack invited him to dinner. I’d like to die.”
“What are you going to do?”
“It’s awful. I’m so embarrassed.”
“Imagine how Jack Mac feels.”
“He doesn’t know anything.”
“Right, you’re hiding under the bed whispering on the phone, and he doesn’t suspect a thing.”
“No, he doesn’t. It would be nice if you could make me feel better in this situation.”
“How does he look?”
“Oh God. Even better than he looked in Italy.”
“You’re in trouble.”
“It’s like tenth grade. Why couldn’t I go through this nonsense at an age-appropriate level? No, here I am now, in middle age, dealing with this stupidity.”
“It wasn’t that stupid up in the cockerbells.”
“Bluebells.”
“You’ll have to tell Jack.”
“I will never tell him! Never.”
“Don’t you think he’s going to wonder why you’re acting like a fool?”
“I’ll tell him I’m sick or something.”
“Sexual tension isn’t a disease.”
“You’re not helping.”
“Call