Big Cherry Holler - Adriana Trigiani [66]
“Sí. Yes. Yes.”
“What did you like about her?”
“She yelled at me all the time.”
“Good preparation for marriage.” Zio winks.
“Zia Antonietta didn’t yell,” I tell Stefano.
“Only at me. She wanted me to cut my hair.” Stefano shrugs.
“That’s a woman for you. Always trying to change the man,” Zio says.
Zia Meoli shoots him a look. But I think about Jack, and how I’m constantly trying to change him. Did I insult him when I suggested he go to college and study engineering? I said it only because I think Jack is smart and could be a great engineer. I remember something Nellie Goodloe said to me when she found out I was to marry Jack Mac. She told me that Jack and I were very different: I ran a business and my husband was a miner—how could that work? But I laughed it off at the time. I thought I knew what I was getting into; I thought I could handle our differences. Aren’t all marriages a battle of wills and a compromise of different backgrounds?
“E vero?” Zio looks at me.
“Yes, you’re right. It’s true. It’s true,” I tell my uncle.
We feast on delicate ravioli filled with leeks and tossed in creamy butter and shallots. The bread and butter and wine is a meal in itself, but the ravioli are so tender, they’re irresistible. The breeze, filled with sweet gardenia, makes everything taste delicious.
Federica shows us to our room after lunch. It’s my mother’s room, the very room that Jack and I stayed in on our honeymoon. Federica has pulled out the trundle for Etta. Etta pokes at the bed piled high with fresh linens and blankets and pillows full of soft goose down.
“Mama, the coverlet is full of marshmallows!”
“Wait till you sleep on it.”
“Sleep now,” Federica tells us. We’re ready for a nap, ready to follow any orders given us on Via Davide. She closes the door softly behind her as she goes.
I help Etta into the trundle. “Can we get me one of these back home?” she asks.
“We’ll see.” I climb up onto the bed.
Etta sighs. “I love Italy.”
I lean over the side of the bed so I can see Etta. “You do?”
“It’s not like anywhere I’ve ever been.”
“Honey, you’ve only been to Tennessee and Florida.”
“I know. But I didn’t think it would be like this.”
“That’s how I felt when I first came here.”
“Mama?”
“Yeah?”
“Someday I’m going to marry Stefano.”
I’m glad I’m in the big bed up high, where my daughter can’t see me, because my jaw is on my chest. Instead of laughing, I take a deep breath.
“You are?”
“Yes.”
“How do you know that?”
“I just do.”
I wait for Etta to tell me more, but she doesn’t. She falls asleep, no doubt to dream of the cute Italian boy with the crazy hair. Part of me wants to wake her up and tell her to stay a little girl forever. I have to remember to tell her that love is not enough. Don’t be like your mother and your grandmother whose name you share. Do better.
After a day of touring Bergamo, meeting neighbors, and going out to dinner, Etta sees la passeggiata for the first time. Folks leave their homes to walk around the fountain in the middle of town until the sun sets. Not much happens. Just conversation. A few laughs. Card games. Chess. Checkers. Or they simply stroll and catch up. Etta is invited to play pick-up sticks with some kids from across Via Davide. Papa and Giacomina know lots of people in town, so they walk about and greet their friends.
Zia Meoli finds a place for us on a bench under the fountain, so I can keep an eye on Etta.
“What do you think of her?” Zia Meoli points across the piazza to Giacomina and Papa, who are talking in a small group.
“Giacomina is very nice,” I tell her.
“Too young for him,” she says.
“At least he’s settling down.”
“We shall see.” She shrugs.
I am happy for my father. He seems content with Giacomina. She fits into his life perfectly. She owns a shop in Schilpario that sells ski equipment. My father likes the fact that she can turn a key in the front door and close the place in a flash. He likes to pick up and do things.
“We’re sorry Jack could not come,” Zia Meoli says.
“I am too. I wish he could see Etta’s face. She loves it