Big Cherry Holler - Adriana Trigiani [86]
“Hey, look who’s here.”
I open my eyes and look up at Pete Rutledge. My heart skips a beat, but I cover it nicely by swinging my legs off of the fence.
“How was Rome?” I ask, too abruptly.
“I bought some terrific marble from a middleman.”
“Good for you.”
“I have to get home and install it. We have a customer in Basking Ridge whose middle name is Rococo.” I laugh. Pete sits down. “When do you leave?”
I don’t answer him at first. I want to watch the white angels pour water from their pitchers into the seashells in the fountain. “The end of next week.”
“Me too.”
The waiter approaches. Pete orders for the two of us. We sit in silence; what is there to say? The waiter brings the espresso.
“I need your help, Pete. I have to buy a purse for Iva Lou and one for Fleeta. And I can’t haggle. Will you come with me and haggle?”
“Geez,” Pete says under his breath, and then he laughs. He pays for the espresso and leads me by the elbow through the umbrellas to the sidewalk. As we start down the street, I pat his back like an old dog, hoping that my platonic warmth will soothe him. “There’s a good leather place down this street. Papa told me about it.” Pete grabs my hand and stops me.
“This is my hotel,” he says, pointing to a simple white-brick building with a black-and-white-striped awning. HOTEL D’ORSO, it says on the brass plaque in black cursive letters.
“It looks nice.”
“It was.”
“It’s good to know: You know. Good hotels.”
I continue walking down the street. Pete stops me again. “Let’s go in,” he says.
I look up into his eyes. The blue of them is so clear, even though he squints. He leans down. His lips are so close to mine, I can practically taste them. If I kiss him, I know we will go to his room. I know it. My hands are deep in my pockets. I try to make the left hand into a fist. Did I remember to wear my rings today? I feel the cool gold metal against the fabric. I did remember!
“I can’t.” I step back.
“Why?”
“Because I’m married.” Now I know why there’s an ancient custom of wearing wedding rings. They’re there to remind you that you’re married and keep you out of trouble.
“Ave Maria! Ave Maria!” I turn to see Stefano, Etta’s future husband, on a bicycle. Great. Caught in the act. Perfect.
“Ciao, Stefano.”
Stefano looks up at Pete.
“This is Pete.”
They exchange pleasantries and I step back, relieved. Stefano’s interruption has given me a few seconds to regain my composure. I realize that Stefano could have easily been Etta; I have to stop this. This is wrong, and I don’t want any part of it. I almost went into that hotel, and I hate myself for it. Stefano pedals off.
“Come to my room.”
“No.”
“All right. Fine. But I want to know just one thing.”
I dread the next question, so much so that I close my eyes.
“Do you want to?” he asks me.
“Of course I want to. And I hate myself for it. I don’t even like saying it!”
“Stay with me.”
“I told you, I’m not going into that hotel with you.”
“No, I mean Italy. Let’s not go back. Ever. Let’s just stay here. Look at this.”
I look down at the cobblestones, and around at the buildings with their summer awnings, and at the people, who never rush, who always seem to savor the beautiful weather and the good food. The people move through the streets in this small town just as they do in Big Stone Gap. They look at us as they pass. And I shouldn’t kid myself; they know me. They may not know my name, but they see me, a married woman on the sidewalk outside a hotel, full of guilt, trying to resist the charms of a man who is not her husband.
“Pete?”
“Yeah?”
“You’re crazy.” I tell him this, but I know it’s really me. I’m the one who’s crazy; I think I have this under control, and deep within me, I don’t.
I found