Big Cherry Holler - Adriana Trigiani [77]
“Hello,” I say to him as I lean in the doorway with my arms across my chest.
“Everybody in this town knows Mario Barbari.” Pete smiles.
“He’s been the mayor for—”
“Thirty-seven years,” Mafalda finishes my sentence.
“May I borrow your Ave Maria for the afternoon?” Pete asks Mafalda.
“I cannot answer for her,” she says warmly. Even Mafalda is suckered by this American male.
“There’s an inn up the street. Want to get a cup of coffee?” he offers.
Mafalda instantly grabs the pot, and I stop her. “No waiting on us.”
“I am happy to!” Mafalda says.
“No. If Mr. Rutledge has checked out the local coffee, then the least I can do is try it.” I smile at Pete, who smiles back at me.
I grab one of my father’s coats off the rack by the door. This time I wear his silly Robin Hood hat. Pete holds the door for me, and we step out into the rain. I walk ahead a few steps, and he catches up with me and opens his raincoat, pulling me inside. I resist at first, but the rain is coming down so hard that I opt to stay dry. I have to skip to keep up with him; his legs cover twice the distance mine do in the same amount of time. He looks down at me and laughs. I hope he thinks this hat is ridiculous. I do not need this man attracted to me.
Pete holds the door for me as we enter the old inn. My father has told me that in the winter, at the height of ski season, this place is packed. Today there is just me, Pete, and the proprietor, an old man with a pipe, sitting in the kitchen and reading the newspaper. The pipe smell is familiar: he’s the same man who walks home late at night. I smile at him and wave, and he looks up and nods. Pete takes off his raincoat and drapes it over a chair. He helps me with my coat and hat. The proprietor comes out; Pete orders coffee in lousy Italian, and I let him. There are three stuffed deer heads over the fireplace. The room has Tyrolean touches, just like the homestead. The tables are waxed and the chairs mismatched, some with embroidered seats and some straight-backed and plain. I sit down in one of the two dilapidated easy chairs in front of the fire and stretch my legs out on the stone hearth. The chairs are so old and low to the ground, you might as well sit on the floor. Pete sinks into the other chair, scooting it to face me.
“How are you?”
“I’m fine. How are you?”
“A little wet,” he says as he runs his fingers through his hair. “Why don’t you wear a wedding ring?”
I look down at my hands. Why do I keep forgetting to put on my rings?
“I was helping Mafalda make macaroons.”
“You weren’t making macaroons last night.”
“No. Last night I wasn’t wearing them because I had been fishing stones out of the stream yesterday afternoon and I had taken them off.”
“You wouldn’t want to lose them,” he says, and smiles in a way that is so sexy, I’m glad I’m sitting down: if I were standing, my knees would give out.
“No, I wouldn’t,” I tell him, regaining my composure, then say directly, “What are you implying?”
“Nothing.”
“Good.” I lean back in the chair, then shift as a spring pops up and jabs me in the center of my back.
We sit in silence for a moment. The old man brings the coffee. He looks at Pete, and then he looks at me. I can see that he appreciates the happy American couple who wandered in from the rain. You can’t find a soul in this country who doesn’t believe in romance. No need to further anyone’s misapprehensions. I move my chair away from Pete’s. I have to get this conversation on a more general, friendly plane.
“What do you do?” I ask him a bit too chirpily.
“I’m a marble guy.”
“Game marbles?”
“No.” He laughs. He has a good laugh—it’s right up there with his smile. “Marble for houses. Mantels. Walkways.