Big Cherry Holler - Adriana Trigiani [75]
“That all sounds great.”
“I missed you tonight. There was dancing.”
“There usually is at a disco.”
“Right. Right.”
“I miss you both too,” he says.
“Thanks.” I don’t mean to be selfish, but can’t he just miss me? “Well, I guess that’s all the news.”
“Yep.”
There is a long silence; I guess I’m waiting for him to tell me about his life, but he doesn’t volunteer anything, so I don’t press. “Sleep well.” I hang up the phone. My body is shaking, but it’s not chills. I’m happy! A fine-looking stranger thought I was pretty! And I danced with him. And he felt good, and he smelled like mint and clean woods. And he wasn’t a local on the make, either, he was an American who thought I was an Italian goddess. I dial Theodore’s number.
“Hello?” Theodore answers his phone sleepily. I’ve woken him up too.
“It’s me—Ave.”
“Where are you?”
“Schilpario.”
“Jesus. What time is it?”
“Early. For you. Late. For me.”
“This better be good.”
“I danced at a disco tonight.”
“Wow,” he says with no enthusiasm.
“Don’t be rude.”
“I can be whatever I want when you wake me up at this hour.”
“Sorry. Theodore, there was a man there. Pete Rutledge. He thought I was cute.”
“You are cute. You’re also married.”
“I know. Can you print that on a postcard and send it over to me?”
“I think I’d better.” I hear Theodore sit up straight in his bed. Now he’s paying attention.
“He thought I was Italian.”
“You are Italian.”
“No, really Italian. Like from here. Born and raised. I got a haircut.”
“I really have to hang up this phone.”
“Bear with me, please,” I beg him.
“I’m trying.”
“When Violetta of the Moderna Salon cut my hair, I don’t know, my face changed. And then I felt like I was walking differently. Then all of a sudden, when I was climbing in the Alps, I looked down and there were muscles in my legs, like the ones that were there when I was young and didn’t have to work at it. And I got this lipstick that, I swear to you, is like magic—I put it on and I don’t know, I’m sexy or something. Me. Sexy.”
“Where was Jack when you were flirting with this Pete person?”
“He didn’t come. He’s back home.”
“How convenient.”
“It was his idea. It’s not my fault I’m alone over here for a month—”
“You’d better be careful. A woman in her prime loose in the Italian Alps sounds like a setup for a spaghetti western with a bad ending.”
“Theodore! I won’t do anything! I never do anything. I’m a sensible, practical pharmacist, remember?” Doesn’t Theodore know that it’s the idea of an affair that excites me? I hang up the phone; my palms are sweating so much, they leave a print on the black receiver. I rub it off with the hem of my sweater.
Everyone in the house is asleep. I tiptoe up to my room on the second floor, a big, square room with a fireplace and four windows, and a high double bed with four carved wood posters that nearly reach the ceiling. It’s a princess bed. And tonight, I am a princess who floated on a dance floor in Italy under a box of silver stars with a handsome prince.
I close the door and slip out of my loafers. I undress in the dark. When I am completely naked, I stand in front of the long mirror with the gold-leaf frame. The soft beam from the nightlight puts me in silhouette. I turn to the side and look at myself in profile. The gentle curves of my body, from having the babies, are suddenly beautiful to me. My skin is soft and warm, and I smell like the rosewater Mafalda left for me on the vanity. I shake my head, and my hair shakes loose away from my head in full, waxy curls, as curls were meant to be. Something happened to me tonight. I’m a girl again. And I like it.
CHAPTER EIGHT
The rain began in the early hours of Sunday morning before I could drift off to sleep. Papa has built a fire; the smell of wood smoke, fresh rain, and Mafalda’s macaroons baking in the oven woke me up. Etta and Chiara are in the basement making a mural in chalk, and I am reading all about Ornella Muti’s life (she’s good friends with Mussolini’s granddaughter). Papa is at Giacomina’s store, helping her do inventory