Big Cherry Holler - Adriana Trigiani [91]
Etta is exhausted on the flight home. She sleeps so peacefully; while she didn’t sleep a wink on the way over, now she’s just another blasé American who uses time on airplanes to catch up on sleep. My daughter became more beautiful this summer. More self-assured. And her personality and humor came through. How lucky I am to have this great kid. She has written “Stefano” seventy-two times on the back of her notebook. Even Etta developed new romantic muscles in Italy.
I don’t think she senses how much I dread going home. Most of the time I think I’m doing a good job of shielding her from my angst. Maybe I’m fooling myself; maybe she’s like the coral sponge she brought from the beach of Sestri Levante. Maybe she soaks up everything and it becomes a part of her eternal self. Maybe she’ll realize this later and resent me for it. I hope not.
The airport at Tri-Cities is empty. Etta and I deboard the little prop plane and go inside for our bags. I look up to the viewing window on the second floor of the airport and expect to see Jack there, behind the glass like a mannequin in the Big & Tall Men’s Shop. But there is no one there. Etta and I walk into the luggage area.
“Daddy!” Etta screams and rushes toward her father.
He scoops her up in his arms and kisses her. She hugs him and kisses him. Jack looks good; too good, with a tan and a perfect patch of pink sunburn on the bridge of his nose. He looks slim too. His jeans hug his thighs. Must be from the construction work. I don’t want to think about what else he might have been doing, or with whom. I’m all Mommy right now, watching the two of them fussing over each other. I will forever be a sucker for fathers and daughters. Jack looks up at me and grins.
“Isn’t Mama pretty?” Etta says loudly.
“Yes, she is,” Jack says, and kisses me on the lips lightly.
I want to say, “Pretty enough to keep you faithful?” but instead I say, “Thank you.”
“Etta, honey, guess who’s in the truck?”
“Who, Daddy?”
“Why don’t you take a look?”
Etta opens the door of the cab, and Shoo the Cat tiptoes across the front seat with his tail in a stiff loop like a Christmas ornament hanger. He jumps into her arms.
“God a-mighty, did your luggage give birth over there?” Jack laughs as he hoists our bags into the back.
“What can I tell you, I learned how to haggle,” I tell him, doing my best impression of Gala Nuccio.
Etta talks nonstop on the trip home to Big Stone Gap, and I’m glad. I don’t want to start a conversation with my husband, because I know it will get serious fast. It’s best for all of us if I keep it light. As we roll into the Gap, from the top of the hill on the descent into town, I see the stage lights from the Outdoor Drama. Rose and white beams shoot out into the blue twilight. I have always loved this time of day best. It wasn’t so many years ago that I spent every night at the theater. We drive past, and I don’t mention it. As we make the curve off of Shawnee Avenue, on our way out of town through the southern section and then on to Cracker’s Neck, Etta looks up at her father.
“Daddy, can we stop in Glencoe? I brought Joe something.”
Jack makes the right onto Beamontown Road. When we get to the entry arch, the curlicue gates are locked with a chain. Jack starts to turn around and head for home.