The Sunflower Girl

by Rosanna Chiofalo

  Anabella swallowed and glanced back up at the sunflowers. “We’d better hurry up. Surely, it must be time soon for me to go.”

  But Dante remained standing beside her. He then squatted down to his knees so he would be closer to her on the ground. Pushing back a curl that was dangling along Anabella’s cheek, he tucked it behind her ear. As he did so, he let his finger gently graze her earlobe. He could see the slight shiver Anabella gave, but she remained silent. Dante then let the back of his hand lightly stroke her cheek as he whispered, “You are the most beautiful woman I have ever laid eyes on.”

  Anabella turned her head, meeting his gaze. Her eyes then rested on his lips. It was too much for Dante. He lowered his head and softly kissed her. He waited a moment to see if she would push him away. When she didn’t, he placed another kiss on her lips and waited again, and then kissed her for a second longer this time. After the next pause, she kissed him back. He let his knees come fully down on the ground as he placed his hands on either side of her face, deepening the kiss. Anabella rested her hands against his chest. His heart was beating frantically now, and his breathing was coming in short rasps. He wrapped his arms around her back, hugging her fiercely to him. Breaking the kiss after what seemed like an eternity but must’ve been no more than a couple of minutes, he stroked her hair as he inhaled deeply her fragrance. She smelled like roses, which shouldn’t have come as a surprise to him being that she worked on a rose farm, but still.

  He laughed softly. “How is it that you smell like roses?”

  Anabella pulled back. “Why do you find that funny?”

  “Naturally, you are surrounded by roses, but I wouldn’t think their fragrance would rub off on you. But what do I know? I am just an artist who is locked in his own world of make-believe.”

  Anabella smiled. “Well, you are correct. I make my own rose perfume out of the roses’ petals.”

  “It’s beautiful. Don’t ever stop wearing it. Promise me.”

  She looked down, blushing slightly.

  “I hope I did not make you feel uncomfortable by kissing you again. What you must think of me after I promised you that I wouldn’t disrespect you. But I cannot hide my feelings any longer, Anabella. Surely, you must have realized after I first kissed you last week that I am very fond of you, so fond of you that I would like us to be much more than friends.”

  Anabella shook her head. Dante froze. She didn’t feel the same way as him. Then why did she let him kiss her? And he was still holding her.

  “No, you did not make me feel uncomfortable. It is my turn to be forward now. I was hoping you would kiss me again today.” She smiled shyly at him before lowering her gaze again.

  Relief washed over Dante. He sighed deeply before resting his head against hers.

  “You gave me a scare there for a second when you shook your head. I thought you were going to tell me you don’t feel the same way about me.”

  They remained locked in each other’s embraces for a few more minutes before Dante said, “I suppose I must ask your mother for her permission to let me court you.”

  At the mention of her mother’s name, Anabella pulled back sharply.

  “What time is it?” She picked up his arm and glanced at his wristwatch. “It is nearly one! Mamma will be worried. I must go.”

  Dante stood up and quickly packed his art supplies. He had borrowed the truck of a friend so he could safely transport his painting of Anabella, giving it enough room so the paint could continue to dry while propping it carefully so the vehicle’s movements wouldn’t wreck his work. This was crazy. He couldn’t continue to paint Anabella outdoors like this. If he got into an accident or even had to slam on his brakes suddenly, his work would be ruined in an instant. But they were also approaching autumn, and, soon, it would be too cold for them to work outdoors. He knew it would still be premature to invite Anabella to his apartment where he could paint her indoors. He would have to figure something out. Of course, this could all come to an abrupt halt if Signora Ferraro found out and forbade her daughter to see him. From the little Anabella had told him about her mother and her upbringing, Signora Ferraro had sheltered her daughter, more so than the average parent. But he was prepared to win Signora Ferraro over. For he couldn’t imagine life without Anabella any longer.

  As he drove Anabella to her parked car, he kept stealing side glances in her direction. Deep wrinkles furrowed her forehead, and her brows were knitted together like two swords clashing in battle.

  “Anabella, are you afraid that your mother will be upset with you for coming home late?”

  “Si. But don’t worry.”

  Dante was moved. Although she stood a good chance of getting in trouble because of him, she was still concerned about his feelings.

  “I’m sorry, Anabella. I should have been more careful. It won’t happen again.”

  “Does that mean you won’t kiss me again?” Anabella looked at him, smiling in the most sensual way.

  He felt his knees go weak, and he had to quickly return his attention to the road before he got them both killed. Although, upon first impression, Anabella seemed shy and meek, which she was no doubt, there was also a daring side to her that was coming out more and more each time he saw her. He wondered where she got this from, especially given the sheltered life she’d had. Perhaps her late father had been confident this way, unafraid to speak his mind and take chances. While he had only seen Signora Ferraro once, he couldn’t imagine her as an assertive woman. And this life she had created on the farm for herself and her daughter only further convinced Dante that Signora Ferraro was a person who had taken few chances in her life and had always played it safe.

  CHAPTER 14

  Signora Ferraro

  Pienza, 1970

  Signora Ferraro was standing at her stove, making manicotti—Anabella’s favorite dish. Though she often made manicotti for special occasions like Anabella’s birthday or on certain holidays, sometimes she surprised her daughter by making them out of the blue. She picked up her cast-iron skillet and swirled the manicotti batter so that it filled the pan’s diameter. Her thoughts turned to Anabella.

  Lately, Anabella’s attention seemed to be elsewhere, and her enthusiasm for her work on the rose farm seemed to be diminishing. In fact, Signora Ferraro had noticed that Anabella was losing interest in the activities that had always given her so much pleasure like her cooking. Since she was twelve years old, Anabella had taken an interest in cooking. But lately, she seemed only too glad to let her mother do more of the cooking. And when Signora Ferraro asked Anabella to cook if she wasn’t feeling well or had an especially tiring day on the farm, Anabella’s heart didn’t seem to be in it. Then there was her increasing forgetfulness. Anabella’s attention to detail had always been flawless, but recently, she’d forgotten to add ingredients to a few of her dishes or she’d overseasoned the food.

  Signora Ferraro was worried about her daughter. But when she asked her if everything was fine, Anabella always nodded. Even their conversations had become strained. Whereas in the past, Anabella had always shared stories with her mother about her day on the farm with Chiara and the other workers or what she might have witnessed on her weekly visits to the Piazza del Campo, now she just said nothing much had happened. Signora Ferraro had always heard that children became this way when they were teenagers, but thankfully, Anabella had never gone through that phase. But she was now twenty-six years old, too late to be going through a moody, rebellious adolescent period. Then again, she knew her daughter had always been a bit immature for her age and unlike most of her peers. She supposed she was to blame, having homeschooled her and not providing more social interaction for her. But whenever Signora Ferraro encountered the other young women from the village at church or when she went grocery shopping, they seemed haughty. She’d even witnessed a few of them talking back to their mothers. No, she did not regret how she had raised her daughter. For Anabella had become a thoughtful, respectable young woman.

  Suddenly, Si
gnora Ferraro felt a constriction in her chest. She pressed her hand to her heart. It was nothing. She knew that. Signora Ferraro had suffered panic attacks since the war. They only happened occasionally now. She waited a few moments, closing her eyes and willing her heart rate to slow down. After a couple of minutes, the attack subsided. She looked down at the manicotti shell she’d been cooking. It was burning. Turning off the gas, she walked over to the kitchen table where she had left her glass of rose water. She gulped the water down quickly. When she was done, she wet a dish towel and dabbed her flushed face with it. Sighing deeply, she sank heavily into one of the kitchen table chairs.

  Had she done right by Anabella? Though she’d begun asking herself this question more as Anabella had become an adult, she’d always defended herself as she’d done in her thoughts a moment ago. But lately, her doubts were beginning to cloud her confidence. Most of the other young women in Pienza had already married or were engaged. Soon, they would be starting their own families. But Signora Ferraro couldn’t imagine her life without Anabella. She was her world. What would she do without her? And who would protect Anabella? Naturally if she married, her husband would take on that role. But a mother’s fierce loyalty and protection overshadowed anyone else’s. Signora Ferraro wasn’t foolish enough to think she would be here forever. And what would become of her daughter then, alone on this large farm?

  The church held dances for single people in town. Perhaps she should take Anabella. Yes, that was what she would do. She would take her next Saturday. Signora Ferraro’s mind leapt forward to what life would be like once her daughter married and left her. What if Anabella’s husband found work far away and took her daughter away from her? What if he didn’t treat her well? Signora Ferraro’s heart began racing again. No, it would be better for her daughter never to marry—for this way, she would be spared the heartache she herself had experienced with Franco. While she had been very happy with him, what later followed was not worth the short bliss they’d shared.

  She was startled out of her thoughts by the sound of the screen door opening. Signora Ferraro looked up at the clock that hung above the kitchen’s entryway. Two o’clock? That couldn’t be right. She frowned. Why was Anabella coming home so late? She then realized she’d been lost in her thoughts for too long, and the manicotti should have been in the oven by now. Anabella would be starving.

  “Ciao, Mamma.” Anabella entered the kitchen. Her gaze avoided her mother’s and instead rested on the empty kitchen table. “Are you not feeling well? Is that why lunch isn’t ready yet?” She then turned her back as she made her way over to the china cabinet and took plates out.

  Signora Ferraro knitted her brows as she watched her daughter set the table. Anabella didn’t even seem to notice that she had not answered her question. What was going on with her daughter? If she hadn’t known better, Signora Ferraro would have been convinced Anabella was hiding something from her. But Signora Ferraro had often explained to her the importance of not keeping secrets from her mother.

  “Why are you getting home so late?”

  Anabella finally glanced at her. Fear flickered in her eyes for a brief moment.

  “Ah! I’m sorry, Mamma. There was an accident. The traffic delay was horrible.”

  Anabella noticed the burnt manicotti shell sitting in the skillet. She picked it up with a spatula and tossed it in the garbage.

  “Is everything all right, Mamma? You’re never late with lunch.”

  “And you’ve never been late coming home from the piazza before.” Signora Ferraro crossed her arms over her chest.

  Anabella looked up at her, not missing the cross tone in her mother’s voice. She blushed as she returned her attention to the manicotti shell.

  “I’m sorry, Mamma. As I said, there was an accident. It could not be avoided. I see you made my favorite! I cannot wait to have them. I’m famished.” Her voice shook slightly as she said this.

  They remained silent for the duration it took to finish preparing the manicotti shells and placing them in the oven.

  “Mamma, I’m going to take a quick shower while the manicotti cook.” Anabella left the kitchen without waiting for her mother’s response.

  Forty minutes later, as they ate lunch, Signora Ferraro was having a difficult time enjoying her meal. She kept thinking about Anabella’s strange behavior for the past few weeks. And today seemed to be the oddest. It was time she got to the bottom of what was going on with her daughter.

  “Anabella, I want to talk to you about something that has been troubling me.” Signora Ferraro placed her fork down and took a sip of water before continuing. Anabella continued eating.

  “Please, look at me. You have barely looked at me since you came home, and you haven’t said much. Is something wrong? You know you can tell your mamma anything.”

  “No, Mamma, I’m fine.”

  “But you have been so quiet lately and withdrawn. And your thoughts seem to be elsewhere. Are you not feeling well?” Signora Ferraro’s voice had a slight tremor as she asked this. “That is it, isn’t it? You are sick and are not telling me.” Signora Ferraro rose out of her seat and rushed over to Anabella’s side, feeling her forehead with the back of her hand.

  “Please, Mamma!” Anabella’s voice rose sharply as she pushed her mother’s hand away. “I am not sick. Do I look like I am dying?”

  Signora Ferraro froze. Never had her daughter raised her voice to her. And the expression on her face right now. She was looking at her with disdain.

  “I . . . I am sorry. I was just worried. You haven’t seemed yourself lately.” Signora Ferraro returned to her seat. She resumed eating her manicotti, but she could barely chew as she fought back the tears that were threatening to break through.

  “I’m sorry, Mamma. I didn’t mean to talk to you like that just now. Really. I am fine. Please don’t be upset with me.” She looked at her mother and gave her a small smile.

  Signora Ferraro felt relieved.

  “What can I say? A mother is always worried. I have been feeling better. Maybe next week I can come with you to the Piazza del Campo. You’ve probably just been tired from the extra work you’ve been doing with my being under the weather lately.”

  Anabella’s eyes quickly shot up.

  “You know, Mamma, I can manage on my own. As you’ve seen, I have been selling all of the flowers. And it would probably be best if you reserved your energy. Perhaps I can permanently handle selling to the flower vendors at the piazza.”

  Suspicion began seeping into Signora Ferraro’s mind. Her daughter was keeping something from her. But it was apparent she was not going to get it out of her—at least for today.

  “Si, you have been doing a wonderful job. And you know how much I appreciate all you do for me.” A thought then entered Signora Ferraro’s mind.

  “Anabella, I was thinking, while I was cooking. How about I escort you next Saturday to church? I don’t know if you are aware that they have a dance for people your age every weekend.”

  Surprise etched across Anabella’s features.

  “Oh, I don’t know, Mamma. You know how shy I can be, and besides I am content with my friends here on the farm—even if they are not my own age.”

  “I can buy a new dress for you.”

  “That is all right, Mamma. Besides, I don’t know how to dance.”

  “I believe it said in the church bulletin there is a dance instructor on hand to help beginners. I could even practice with you here at home. I used to be a good dancer.”

  “You?”

  “I was young once, too.” Signora Ferraro felt embarrassed. She knew she had let herself go over the years, not that she cared. But for some reason having her daughter scrutinize her now made her extremely uncomfortable.

  “Did you dance with Papà?”

  “Of course. We used to dance at a club we belonged to.”

  “A club? What kind of club was it?”

  Signora Ferraro bit her lip. She’d said more than she should have
. “Oh, just a church social club, with events much like the social functions of our church here in the village. It was fun as I’m sure the dances at our church are. You would probably enjoy the dances. So, we will go next week.”

  “Mamma, grazie, but I really do not want to go.” Anabella stood up and cleared the dishes from the table.

  Signora Ferraro watched her daughter as she stood at the sink washing the dishes. Maybe she was being paranoid. Why would Anabella want to go to the dance at the church when she had barely interacted with her peers over the years? Yes, that was it. She was shy. Of course she would be terrified of going to church and having to meet new people. And as Anabella had mentioned, she didn’t know how to dance—yet another reason for her to be afraid.

  Still. Signora Ferraro remembered last year when Anabella had expressed an interest in joining the church choir. It was innocent enough, but Signora Ferraro had told her they were too busy at the farm. She couldn’t spare Anabella for the weekly choir rehearsals. Regret filled her when she thought of the small lie she had told her daughter. The truth had been she didn’t want Anabella meeting new people—people who could either take her daughter away from her or hurt her. She had allowed her daughter to become friends with Graziella when she was younger, but that was different. Graziella had been shunned at school because of her weight. There had been no chance that she would lead her daughter astray. Graziella had been even shyer than Anabella, and her parents had been quite strict with her—more so than Signora Ferraro ever was.

  Signora Ferraro didn’t want to entertain the thought, but once it had entered her mind, she could not let it go. Had her daughter met someone? A young man? Is that why she wanted to continue going to the Piazza del Campo alone? Is that why she was late today? Anger began coursing through her. She was ready to demand that Anabella tell her the truth. But what if she were wrong? She couldn’t hurt her daughter that way. Then, she remembered how Anabella had spoken to her earlier. Her heart cringed. Anabella was so much more to her than her daughter. She was a companion and a friend. That was why it had been even more disturbing these last few weeks that she hadn’t engaged in much conversation. Signora Ferraro missed their talks. But now, none of the subjects Signora Ferraro brought up seemed to hold interest any longer for Anabella. She would merely nod her head politely in assent. Signora Ferraro had wondered at times if her daughter was even listening to her.