Big Cherry Holler - Adriana Trigiani [70]
On the horizon I see a rim of clouds, but I realize that they are actually the mountains’ snow-covered tips, lit by the moon. The sugary caps are so close, I could lean out this little window and touch them. My face is cool from the breeze; it feels good, but I don’t want Etta to catch cold, so I unfold the shutter and hook it against the frame.
I go downstairs; Mafalda is preparing the table for breakfast, Nonna has gone to bed, and Papa is watching television. I go into my father’s office and pick up the phone. It’s the wee hours of the morning in Big Stone Gap. As I dial our home phone number, I cannot wait for Jack to pick up. I want to tell him about our trip. The phone rings a few times, but Jack Mac is a deep sleeper. I let it ring again. And again. I count the rings. It rings thirteen times. I hang up the phone. Maybe … he’s not there? Of course he’s there. Where else would he be? I am not going to make too much out of this. I’m an ocean away, and there’s nothing I can do. I’ll try again tomorrow.
Etta is off to Sestri Levante, an old fishing village on the coast of the glorious Mediterranean. Papa’s first cousins live there and want to meet Etta. The Bonicellis have a candy shop and a house on the beach. Nonna’s sister has a ten-year-old granddaughter, Chiara. The girls introduced themselves to each other on the phone. Papa and Giacomina are taking her; they’ll stay the weekend and get some sun. “Bronzata,” Papa calls it.
Mafalda lets me sleep late every morning. The only job I have is to write long letters to Theodore and Iva Lou, describing everything. I collect local postcards to send to Iva Lou. I know she’ll tape them to the dashboard of the Bookmobile. I’m sending Theodore a bell for his front door—it’s a small hand-painted brass bell on an embroidered rope. (Maybe next summer Theodore can come with me and see Italy for himself.) I can’t believe we’ve been here almost a week. I’m finally feeling rested. The food makes me feel sturdy. The fragrant risottos made with saffron and sweet butter; the fresh berries drizzled in honey and served cold in sterling silver cups; and the bread, spongy and light inside, with chewy, hard crust (it’s so delicious, I don’t even put butter on it).
I’ve decided that my body could use some attention; I’ve neglected myself for too long. So during siesta, instead of sleeping, I climb the steep hills behind Schilpario alone. The mountain paths, worn from time, creep up through the green in all directions. I vow that by the end of the month, I will have followed most of them. Whenever I climb, I think of my mother, who loved these mountains with their emerald green fields, dangerous cliffs, and cold streams.
Today the mountain breeze is especially cool, so I borrow one of my father’s soft leather car coats and wrap a red bandanna around my neck. Maybe it’s just looking up at the snowcaps that makes me shiver. The sun is warm, but the ground is always cold to the touch. (I don’t think the Italian Alps have ever had a good thaw.) I opt not to wear Papa’s hat, one of those Robin Hood numbers: dark green felt with a feather in it. Besides, I don’t want to mess up my new hair.
Yesterday Mafalda took me to the next village, Piccolo Lago, where I got a haircut. The sign in the window said MODERNA. I think “Modern” is a nutty name for anything in these parts. Everything should be called “Antica.” I hadn’t had a real haircut in years; I still wore it in a braid up and off of my face. Jack always liked my hair long, so I never changed it, and pulling it back is so easy. But I’ve needed a change for a long time. Don’t I always notice women who get stuck in beauty ruts? So when Violetta, a tall blond Italian with a heavy dose of German no-nonsense in her accent, sat me down and told me to throw my head forward, I obeyed. I watched as glops of my old brown curls hit the black-and-white-checked linoleum like lengths of ribbon. When Violetta was done, she told me to sit up straight (you do whatever she tells you and fast), and the girls in the shop