Big Cherry Holler - Adriana Trigiani [73]
“Ave Maria! Andiamo!” Chiara says, grabbing one of my hands while my daughter takes the other. They yank me onto the dance floor. Some Italian singer has covered an old American disco standard, and the girls want me to dance with them. At first I don’t want to dance. I’m old, I want to tell them. I’m a wife and a mother and a pharmacist. There’s no place for me on the dance floor; I have no business moving to the rhythm that makes the floor buckle under the impact of all these feet. But I look at my daughter’s face, and she wants me to dance. She seems to be saying, “If you dance, then I can. I want a mother who is happy and free and moves without worrying about what other people think.”
And for some reason, on this mountaintop, hidden inside all of these bodies as they sway and bounce, it’s okay for me to let go. I feel safe in this place where I am not known. My daughter is with me, and her cousin, but really, I am alone. I’m not married in this moment, and I am not a mother. I took my wedding rings off to collect stones in the stream above Papa’s house, and I forgot to put them back on. No, tonight I am Ave Maria Mulligan, the girl I left behind before I decided to give everything away to be simply a part of the MacChesney family. I let the music take me to that place where I was before I knew life could be so complicated.
Chiara and Etta and I have locked arms and are spinning in a circle, laughing. People on the dance floor make room for us. I throw my head back and look at the open sky above. I am connected and at the same time completely free. I am here, in my body, in this moment, but I’m also flying overhead in the inky sky streaked white with stars.
When the song ends (and I’m so sorry it did!), Chiara and Etta giggle and run off to find my father. I breathe deeply; my heart is beating fast. I lean over and rest my palms on my knees. I am hot and winded and sweaty and I like it.
“Ciao,” a man’s voice says to me. I look up and into an amazing pair of blue eyes.
“Ciao,” I say. He extends his hand to me. To be polite, I take it.
He looks as though he is searching for words. And he is. Italian words.
“Uh, dove e …” I do my best to follow along. In a few broken sentences, he has asked me to dance and to point him to the garage (we’re in a field, there is no garage), and inquired as to what village I’m from. I’m getting a kick out of him. He has beautiful hands, which make grand gestures to help me decipher what he’s trying to say in Italian.
He is also really handsome. He’s tall. And what a face. He reminds me of Rock Hudson in Pillow Talk. Maybe it’s the dark hair. Or maybe it’s the look in his eyes. That’s where the movie-star dazzle ends, though; he’s pretty trim, but I can see he has to fight a gut. (Who doesn’t? Maybe he’s a little older than me, but not much.) The chest is broad; I’ll bet he’s a runner. He isn’t wearing glasses, but I can tell he wears contact lenses, because he blinks a lot. He has beautiful white teeth, with the front teeth a little longer than the rest, which is sexy. He has thin but well-shaped lips (no cruelty there, just practicality in buckets, according to face-reading). The nose is amazing: straight, a little bulbous on the end (this is the nose of humor and wisdom—the tip is the giveaway).
“Non capisce,” I say to him.
“Okay, okay,” he says, more to himself than to me. Frustrated, he looks off, giving up the Italian. “You’re looking at me like I’m nuts. Okay, maybe I am nuts.” I get it: he thinks I’m a native. I feel as though I won the Nobel Prize, I am so proud of myself! I have passed for a Bergamosque! The pants, the cardigan, and the haircut have worked. I appear to be a real Italian through and through! I could kiss this guy.
“Sí. Sí.” I motion that he should