Big Cherry Holler - Adriana Trigiani [78]
“Interesting. Is there a lot of call for marble in New Jersey?”
“Are you kidding? It’s the goomba capital of the world.”
“Hey. I’m a goomba,” I tell him.
“Me too. Half.”
Half Italian. Okay. That explains the dark hair and the good nose and the hitting on married women.
“My mother was Italian,” he explains. “Her people were from Calabria. They’re very passionate.”
“I’ve heard.”
“You don’t like small talk, do you?” he says.
We sit quietly for a moment, and I consider this stranger as he gazes into the fire and sips his coffee. Who is this guy anyway? What kind of man uses words like “passionate” and persists with a woman whether she’s wearing her wedding ring or not? He eases his long legs out and rests his feet against the wall. I feel dwarfed sitting here next to him, but I shouldn’t—I’m far from tiny. But there is something about this man that fills up a room. The size of him makes me want to take him on and set him straight: no, I don’t like small talk. In fact, I don’t like anything frivolous. I would prefer it if folks just got to the point. I learned the value of time the hard way. It’s a sin to squander it.
“Maybe I don’t like small talk because you’re not very good at it,” I tell him.
I catch him off guard and he laughs. Is there anything sexier than a man who laughs at your jokes? I don’t think so. I take a sip of the coffee. I’ve never had a cup of coffee so good.
“Have you read Browning’s Italy?” he asks.
“By Helen Clarke? I love that book!”
“I don’t know how anyone can come to Italy without reading it.”
“That’s my favorite love story.”
“Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett?” he says.
“Who did you think I meant?”
“Maybe you and me.” He smiles. “I’m kidding around.”
“Good.” Boy, this guy is bold. “It’s awfully hot in here.” Let me get back to the Brownings before he says something else that makes me sweat. I push my chair away from the fire.
“Why is it your favorite love story?” he asks.
“Because it was an impossible situation. Elizabeth Barrett was living a terrible life; she was sick and housebound, writing poetry. Oppressed by a cruel father. And then Robert Browning sent her his poetry, and they began to correspond and fell in love through their words.”
Pete picks up the story. “And then Browning proposed, and Elizabeth was afraid to tell her father, so they eloped and moved to Rome.” The man is finishing my sentences. “You know, you can rent their apartment in Florence.”
“Really?”
“I’ve been in it.”
“You have?”
“A friend of mine rented it last summer, and I went over and checked it out.”
“Did you know they had a son?”
“Penn.”
“Right. And she defied the doctors; they told her that the trip to Italy from England would kill her. And that she would never have a child.”
“So she followed her heart, and everything worked out. That’s very reassuring, isn’t it?” Pete looks at me.
“Yes, it is.”
“Have you read Casa Guidi Windows?”
“My mother had the poem in Italian.”
“It’s a beaut. I think it’s Elizabeth Barrett Browning’s best poem,” he says, then looks back into the fire. I can’t believe I’m talking poetry with a man. When was the last time I did that? When did I ever do that?
“So … what’s your story, Pete?” I ask him, feeling a jolt from the caffeine.
“You want the whole thing?”
“Sure.”
“I grew up in New Jersey. I went to Rutgers. Studied theater. Set design. Graduated. Worked in not-for-profit theater in New York. Got sick of that. Hooked up with an old buddy of mine; we started this marble thing. Now I live in Hoboken. And once a year, I come over here for a couple of weeks to buy marble.”
“Are you married?”
“No.”
I don’t know why his answer makes me smile, but it does.
“What’s funny?”
“I don’t know.”
“You’re glad I’m not married?”
“No.”
“It would be nice if you weren’t,” he says, tapping my leg with the toe of his shoe. I move my leg.
“Why?” I’m only asking because I’m dying to hear what he’ll come up with.
“Well, for starters, if you weren’t married, we wouldn’t be sitting down here having coffee.” Pete’s eyes travel from me to the sign that says ROOMS,