Big Cherry Holler - Adriana Trigiani [87]
I bought a puffy black ski jacket for Jack Mac. And a pair of boots for me. Pearl will have a handmade white lace shawl to wear on her wedding day. We won’t have to do any back-to-school shopping for Etta; her grandfather has spoiled her with clothes, clogs, and even a gold chain with a dangling angel.
We haven’t seen Pete Rutledge since the day he almost kissed me. He begged out of dinner at Zia Meoli’s. He called once during the week to say he was checking out some marble farther into the Dolomites before he flew back to New Jersey. I don’t think about him. That’s a lie. I do think about him, and to be perfectly honest, I imagine what would have happened had I decided to kiss him on the sidewalk in front of the Hotel d’Orso.
“Ave Maria! Teléfono!” Mafalda calls to me from the base of the stairs.
“Ciao?”
“Girl, it’s me, Iva Lou.”
“Hi, honey. How are you? Wait till you see the purse—”
“I don’t have a lot of time. James Varner has a summer cold he can’t shake, so I took over the Bookmobile run.”
“Okay. What’s up?”
“When are you gittin’ home?”
“Next week.”
“Damn. You’ll be too late. Honey, this is an emergency situation.”
“Is Jack all right?”
“He’s fine.” Iva Lou stretches out the word “fine” until it goes from a hum to a hiss.
“Are you all right?”
“Oh God, girl, everybody is fine. But you need to git home. You got to hurry.”
“Why?”
“The word up in Coeburn is not good.”
“What?” My legs give out on me. I sit down on the steps.
“Yes. I don’t want to hurt you, but honey, the word is that Jack Mac wants to divorce you and murry that low-to-the-ground little witch Karen Bell. We all think that he’s just goin’ through some silly midlife crisis or somethin’, and we don’t think it’s anything but loneliness. I think the man misses you somethin’ turr-ible. You need to git home and tend to yer business, honey. The barn is burning. Understand?” I hear Iva Lou taking a drag off a cigarette; she smokes only in times of complete duress.
“How could he do this? He said he’d wait.” This is all my fault. I’ve been spending the summer with Pete while, thousands of miles away, Jack Mac sensed that I left him emotionally, so he has left me.
“I have got to figure out a way to get that sow out of the picture.”
“Iva Lou, don’t do anything.”
“A man never leaves a woman unless he’s got someone to go to. If she wasn’t around, you wouldn’t have a problem.”
I must have said good-bye to Iva Lou, but I don’t remember it. I hold the receiver like a tasting spoon. The buzz of the telephone line must have gotten Mafalda’s attention; she takes the receiver out of my hand and hangs up the phone.
“Where are the girls?”
“They went to the waterwheel.”
I go up to my room and sit on the bed. I have an amazing sense of calm all of a sudden. I believe in long leashes for men; if you give them space, they’ll find their way back to you. Maybe Jack Mac is testing the length of the leash, and if he is, that’s his journey. It was, after all, the point of our spending the summer apart. So we could make the journeys. Decide what we want. And there is nothing I can do about it until I get home. I am not going to poison my glorious Schilpario with schemes involving Karen Bell. I am not going to call Jack, either. I am going to remain calm. For the first time in my life, I am not going to panic and I am not going to worry about what I cannot control.
I slip out of my new pale blue suede loafers (how I love Italian shoes) and into my hiking boots. I’m going to climb the mountain. That will take the edge off any anxiety that might creep in. I tell Mafalda where I’m going, and she promises to watch the girls. I walk up the street, past the houses, and