Big Cherry Holler - Adriana Trigiani [74]
“I saw you dancing with those kids. And well, anyway, I think you’re cute. And I’d like to dance with you. I’m American. I guess you could tell that from the English I’m speaking. You’ve got a great face. In fact, everything is pretty fine on you, to tell you the truth.”
“Yes?” I say.
Galvanized that I am making the attempt to communicate, he continues. “So you’ll dance with me?”
“Sí,” I say slowly, sounding like Gina Lollobrigida in La Bellezza di Ippolita.
The American takes me in his arms and pulls me close, placing his hand on my waist, a little too low for a stranger. I reach back and put his hand above my waist. (I’m having fun, I just don’t want to have too much fun.)
As the song ends, he seems to screw up his courage to say, “You have beautiful eyes.”
I try to smile in a way that is enigmatic yet noncommittal.
“Could I take you to dinner sometime? I’m here for another few weeks …”
Okay, Ave, game over. Let the nice man off the hook. “I’m murried,” I tell him in a pure country accent straight out of the Appalachian Mountains.
“Say that again.”
“I’m murried. Married. And I’m American. I can’t do this to you for another second. I’m sorry.”
“You’re Southern!”
“Uh-huh. Virginia.”
“You’re just loaded with accents. Can you do Garbo from Camille?” I can’t tell if he thinks my little game was funny or offensive. “Where in Virginia are you from?”
“Southwest. In the Blue Ridge Mountains. Where they meet the Appalachians. Near the Cumberland Gap.” When you’re from Big Stone Gap, you always have to overexplain the location. No one ever knows where we are.
“You aren’t on the Appalachian Trail, are you?”
“We’re right on it. In fact, it runs through our home-ec room at the high school. At least that’s what I was told in ninth grade by my home-ec teacher, Mrs. Porier.”
“I’m hiking that trail this fall!”
“You are? Well, you’ll have to stop in.”
I extend my hand to the tall American with the pretty eyes. “My name is Ave Maria Mulligan. I mean, MacChesney.”
“You don’t know your own last name?”
“I do. I just forgot it for a second. My married name, I mean.” I’m so embarrassed. Why am I embarrassed? Why is he laughing in that conspiratorial way? Am I flirting with this man?
“I’m Pete Rutledge.”
“Well, it was nice dancing with you.” Nice, Ave. Could you sound more awkward?
“Thank you for the dance,” he says. We stand and look at each other. I don’t want him to go, but I don’t want him to stay, either.
“Thank you for saying I was cute,” I blurt.
“I meant it.”
“I could tell. So thank you.” I smile at him as one does when a stranger compliments your car.
He tilts his head and looks at me directly. “How married are you?” he says with a half smile. (And I thought the only wolves in Italy were Italian.)
I don’t answer his question, I throw my head back and laugh. I turn to walk away and he grabs my hand.
“How long are you here?” Pete asks, then follows me off the dance floor.
“I’m leaving soon.”
“You’re lying.”
“Yes, I am. But you make me nervous, and I lie compulsively when I’m nervous.”
“That’s good to know.” He smiles.
“I’m here all month. Not here in this village. I’m with my father, over in Schilpario.”
“What’s his name?”
“Mario Barbari.”
Pete leans down and pushes an unruly curl off my cheek. “Will I see you again?”
“No.”
Pete laughs. “You’re a Play-by-the-Rules girl?”
“You have no idea.”
I hustle the girls to bed so I can be alone and think about what happened tonight. Why am I so jazzed, so giddy? I’m a grown woman. I’m acting more like Chiara and Company than the sensible woman I am! I feel guilty for replaying the excitement of Pete Rutledge in my mind, so I go into my father’s study and call Jack. The phone rings three times.
“Hello?” he says, groggy with sleep.
“Hi, it’s me.”
“Ave?” Then he seems to wake up and listen. “Is everything okay? How’s Etta?”
“She’s great. We went to a disco. And she’s made friends with my second cousin Chiara, who’s ten. She’s here with Etta now.” Why am