by Carol Grace
“She's a nice girl, yes?” She turned to face him, her black eyes sparkling.
“Yes, very nice. She's American. She's here on vacation.” He stifled the urge to say She's Giovanni's girlfriend. Wasn't it bad enough that she was from another country? Someone who was not going to be around in two weeks? Someone who, if he fell in love with her, might tempt him to follow her and never come back? What kind of a grandmother would want that for her grandson? Not that he would ever be tempted to fall in love again. Or follow anyone anywhere. He was way past that. He'd tried it once. It hadn't worked.
Nonna shrugged as if being American was no more of a drawback than having blue eyes. Which just went to show how desperate she was to find him a wife.
“I like her,” she said.
“You like every woman I bring here.”
“No,” she said, waving her spoon in his face. “Not every woman.”
“All right, only the ones with two ears and two eyes.”
“Nice eyes,” she remarked. “Blue like the Mediterranean.”
“She can't speak Italian,” he reminded her.
“She can learn.”
“Does she know about the money?” she asked. “Your inheritance?”
“No one knows. Only you.”
“And your grandfather, may he rest in peace. He would want you to use it, to spend it. Wisely of course.”
“I will. I promise. When the time is right.”
“And when the woman is right. Perhaps she is the one,” she suggested.
“I don't know her. I only met her yesterday.”
“Two days is enough. The first time I saw your grandfather, I knew. It was a Saturday night at the old dance hall at the beach. I was wearing a blue dress.”
“I'll bet you were the prettiest girl in town, Nonna. And grandfather couldn't take his eyes off of you.”
“Have I told you this story before?” she asked.
“If you have, I've forgotten. Tell me again.”
“Well, your grandfather was standing on one side of the hall and I was on the other with my mother and my aunt. I said to my mother, 'That is the man I'm going to marry.' She said, 'Who is he? Who is his family? I've never seen him before. He's not from here.' Of course he wasn't from here. He was Sicilian. When she heard that she hit the roof. She was afraid I'd go off with him to Sicily and never come back. After a while he came up and introduced himself to us and kissed my mother's hand.”
“I'll bet that got her attention.”
“It got everyone's attention. A handsome stranger. Everyone was looking at him, wondering who he was.”
“Then he asked you to dance.”
“So I have told you the story.”
“I'm just guessing.”
“Yes, he asked me to dance.”
“He was a good dancer?”
“The best.” She smiled dreamily and he had a flash of how she'd looked then, her girlish figure dressed in blue, her dark eyes flashing even as they did today, her long dark hair piled high on her head. He knew exactly why his grandfather had crossed the room to ask her to dance. He felt a twinge of envy. She'd found true love at eighteen, she'd married at twenty and raised a family in her home town where she was known and loved. It wasn't a bad way to live. But could he ever adjust to such a routine? Could he live a life without the excitement of the chase?
“Do young people dance today?” she asked.
“I don't know,” he said.
“What do you mean you don't know? What about you?”
“I'm not young.” He didn't feel young. He felt old and cynical.
“But you know how to dance, don't you?”
He put his arms around her waist and twirled her around in the air. “Like this?” he said. “Am I dancing?”
Her laughter rang through the kitchen, just as young and girlish as it was sixty years ago.
Anne Marie heard the voices and the laughter that came from the kitchen. She went to the double Dutch kitchen doors and opened the top door just a crack. Just far enough to see Marco lift his grandmother in the air and twirl her around. She didn't understand their words, but she understood the wealth of love and affection in that small room. She understood that Marco, however macho and tough he seemed, loved his grandmother very much, as much as she loved him. The sight of the small old woman, her eyes brimming with emotion, being lifted in the air by the big strong man smiling broadly at her, touched Anne Marie's heart with an aching sweetness. If she left the house now or in an hour and she never saw Marco again, she'd never forget the sight of the two of them, enveloped in steam and tender affection, spinning around in that small, homey kitchen.
Hearing a knock at the front door, she started guiltily and closed the door to the kitchen. When she turned, she saw a strange man walk through the door. He looked as surprised to see her as she was to see him. He stood in the doorway for a long moment, staring at her. He was wearing skin-tight black pants, a white shirt unbuttoned half way down his chest and a whole set of gold chains around his neck.
“Ciao, bella,” he said at last. “Da dove viene?”
At last, some Italian she could understand. A phrase right out of the book.
“Sono di Stati Uniti,” she said carefully.
He laughed loudly. “You're American,” he said. “I should have known.”
The corners of her mouth drooped. Just when she'd found somebody to practice her Italian on, he started speaking English.
He held out his hand. “I am Rocco,” he said as if she should know. As if she'd at least heard of him.
She shook his hand. “How do you do. My name is Anne Marie.”
“May I ask what you are doing in the house of my grandmother?” he asked.
“Your grandmother?” she asked. Of course Marco wasn't her only grandson. There might be many others. This might be a family get-together that she didn't belong at. “I came with Marco, just stopping by for a moment on my way out of town.”
He nodded, giving her a long, appraising look from head to toe. “Of course. So you are one of Marco's girls.”
“I'm not a girl, and I'm not Marco's,” she said. “I'm a tourist, that's all. Just passing through.”
He nodded as if that was always the case with “Marco's girls.” “Where are you from?” he asked.
“California.”
“My cousin Georgio lives in LA.”
“I live near San Francisco.”
He put one hand over his heart. “I left my heart in San Francisco,” he sang in a poor imitation of Tony Bennett. “Did you leave your heart there too?”
“No,” she said. “Where did you learn to speak English so well?”
“I'm just now returning from the States,” he said. “I go every summer to work for my uncle in Maryland. Do you know Ocean City?”
She shook her head.
“He has a cannoli stand on the boardwalk. Ocean City is a fantastic place in the summer. You would love it.”
“I'm sure I would. I love cannoli.”
Rocco sniffed the air. “I hope I'm in time for lunch. It smells like puttanesca sauce.” Then he sat in one of the overstuffed chairs and stretched his legs out in front of him. “So Ana Maria,” he said. “Sit down and tell me more about yourself. If you are not one of my cousin's girls, who are you?”
She shifted uncomfortably from one foot to the other and finally perched on the edge of the sofa across the room from him.
“Just a tourist,” she repeated. “Traveling on my own.”
“On your own? No husband? No family?”
“I'm not married. And I'm old enough to be on my own, believe me. I have a son in college.”
Rocco's eyes widened and his mouth fell open in surprise, or at least in mock surprise. Anne Marie almost laughed at his response, it was so dramatic.
“I can't believe this,” he said.
Inside her wallet was a recent picture of her with Tim at graduation. She crossed the room to show it to Rocco. “This is my son.” She
couldn't help the pride that crept into her voice.
“So, it is true,” Rocco said, staring at the picture. “I see the resemblance. He's a handsome boy. He takes after you.” He stood and handed back the photo, but caught Anne Marie's wrist between his thumb and forefinger. “You say Marco is not your boyfriend.”
“Of course not,” she said. “I just met him yesterday.”
“That means nothing to Marco. He's a fast worker.”
Anne Marie sensed a certain amount of cousin rivalry in the air.
“Do you have a boyfriend?” Rocco asked.
“No.”
“Marco doesn't bring just any girl to the house of our grandmother, so I am wondering....”
“There's nothing to wonder about. I'm here only by accident.”
“By accident? There was an accident? Was that how you met? Did you break the law or lose your passport or are you wanted by Interpol for some high crime?”
“No,” she said with a laugh. “I don't think so. Why?”
“Why? Because my cousin Marco is working for the...”
At that moment the kitchen door flew open, Marco and his grandmother came in carrying large steaming bowls of pasta and sauce to the round oak table.
Anne Marie started guiltily and pulled her hand from Rocco's grasp.
“What in the hell is going on here?” Marco asked, glaring at his cousin.
“Niente affatto,” Rocco said with a shrug. “Just getting acquainted with your friend Ana Maria. You can't have an exclusive on all the pretty women in town, Marco.”
“No, I leave that to you,” Marco said.
Their grandmother shook her finger at both of them. Then she kissed Rocco on the cheek and motioned him to sit at the table. A few minutes later, a young woman with a baby in her arms came in the front door.
Nonna waved her toward a seat at the table. Marco explained she was a next-door neighbor and her name was Magdalena and her baby daughter was called Cecilia. They told her Anne Marie was a tourist and Magdalena asked where she was going next.
“A Paestum,” Anne Marie said.
“Per macchina?”
“No, per autobus,” Anne Marie said.
“Santo Cielo,” Magdalena said, clapping her hand to her forehead.. “No lei sentire? El autobus e soppresso.”
“What?” Anne Marie said.
“She says the buses aren't running. The drivers are on strike,” Marco said.
“Oh, no.” Now what? She had to get to Paestum tonight or Giovanni would think she'd stood him up and she wasn't coming.
“Don't worry,” Rocco said. “I'll drive you there.”
“No you won't,” Marco said. “She's going with me. It's already been decided.”
“Is that true?” Rocco asked.
Anne Marie looked from one man to the other. She had to get to Paestum by ten. Giovanni had told her to come alone. Which man would she have the least trouble getting rid of?
“Nothing has been decided,” she said. “Excuse me. I have to make a phone call. Telefono. Is that all right?”
Nonna waved her hand in the direction of the kitchen. Anne Marie went into the kitchen and closed the door behind her. She stood in the middle of the room listening to the voices from the next room. She put her hand on the old fashioned black telephone receiver that hung on the wall and stared at it. She could call the hotel at Paestum and make sure Giovanni had made a reservation for her. She could ask the desk clerk if anyone had asked for her.
Another idea - She could use her calling card to call home and find out what had happened at the wedding. Or she could walk quietly out the back door, take her suitcase from the trunk of Marco's car, and walk down the side streets until she found a taxi to take her to Paestum and leave Marco and his cousin Rocco behind. She stood there, wavering. She didn't really care what Marco or Rocco would think if she left. But Nonna was a different matter. She didn't want that dear old lady to think she didn't appreciate her offer of lunch. Then there was the lunch itself. Maybe she could eat first and sneak out afterward.
Before she could do any of these things, there was a loud crash in front of the house and the sounds of glass splintering and metal crunching.
Chapter Six
Anne Marie stood frozen in place on the rustic earth-tone tiles in the kitchen listening to the shouts from the other room, then footsteps and the slamming of the front door. Finally her feet propelled her through the kitchen door past the empty dining room table laden with bowls of pasta and sauce and out the front door. There a crowd of neighbors, including Marco, his grandmother and his cousin had gathered around Marco's car with its rear end smashed and shards of glass and chrome in the street.
Anne Marie felt like she'd stumbled into an Italian movie, with extras on the sidelines, gesturing and shouting. Marco, obviously the star of the movie, with his dark good looks, his eyes narrowed, his jaw like granite, stared at his damaged car in disbelief. In the distance, instead of a siren, the piercing sound of two-pitched horns indicated that at least one fire truck and certainly the police were on their way.
What if this was all part of the ongoing drama that had begun yesterday, starring Marco? What part would she play? The innocent tourist who was drawn unwittingly into a dark, dangerous intrigue? No one knew where she was. What if they really had been followed this morning and now the police were coming to round them all up and take them to some dark, dank prison where no one spoke English. She'd be put in a cell with prostitutes who would laugh at her clothes and her innocence. She'd try to call the American Embassy, but her calling card wouldn't work, and her passport would be taken away along with her purse. Her heart pounded.
“Marco is very upset,” Rocco said, sidling up to Anne Marie and jostling her out of her reverie. “He loved his Alfa Romeo very much. More even perhaps than he's ever loved a woman.”
By the look on Rocco's face, Anne Marie gathered this was saying quite a bit. “What happened?” she asked.
“Someone hit him from the rear,” he said. “It looks serious. The trunk is crumpled, his gas tank ruptured and maybe even his rear axle is damaged.”
“The way Italians drive, I'm surprised there aren't more accidents,” she said.
Rocco shook his head. “This was not an accident.”
She frowned. “What do you mean? Why would anyone rear-end a parked car on purpose?”
“Marco has more than a few enemies,” he said.
“Really? He seems so...” What could she say, seems so friendly, so solicitous, so generous... On the other hand there was a mysterious side to him. Among other things, there was that altercation in the restaurant last night. But it was one thing to slap your boyfriend and quite another to ram his car.
“Ah, yes, 'seems,'” Rocco said with a smirk. “Marco seems many different things to many different people. I've known him all my life, but only Marco knows who Marco really is.”
Before she could get any more information from him, Marco walked over to them, his expression stern. “Go in the house now,” he said to both of them. “The fire truck is going to spray some foam on the engine to keep it from catching on fire. Everyone must get off the street. My grandmother is anxious about the food getting cold. I will join you as soon as I fill out some forms and make a report to the police.”
“How did it happen?” Anne Marie asked, still wondering if someone would really destroy his car on purpose.
Marco shrugged. “Just an accident. Nothing serious.”
“Nothing serious? Your car is ruined and Rocco said...”
Marco shifted his gaze to his cousin and raised his eyebrows. Immediately Rocco changed his story.
“I only said you were lucky you weren't in it when the accident happened.”
Anne Marie was amazed at how easily the lie rolled off his tongue and how easily Marco accepted it. There was an undercurrent here that she didn't understand. Maybe because she wasn't Italian or because it was a guy thing. Whatever it was, soon they were back at the dining table,
everyone but Marco, and it was hard to tell there'd been a disaster outside. Marco's grandmother was ladling sauce onto the pasta and urging everyone to eat. Rocco was pouring wine and Magdalena's baby had fallen asleep in her lap. As far as Anne Marie could tell, listening to the babble in Italian with Rocco translating from time to time, no one spoke of the accident, or the non-accident, whatever it was.
When Marco came in, his grandmother passed him a plate of pasta and he began to eat as if nothing had happened. Only the set of his jaw and a deepened line between his eyebrows hinted that anything was wrong. After a few minutes of trying to follow the conversation Anne Marie felt bold enough to ask a few questions of her own.
“Is everything straightened out?” she asked Marco who was seated across from her. “I mean with the police and so forth.”
“More or less. As you saw, the car is damaged. I don't know if it's worth repairing or not. The tow truck is on its way. In the mean time I must rent a car, but there isn't anything available. The tourists have cleaned out all the rental agencies.”
He certainly didn't sound like a man devastated by the loss of a beloved car, Anne Marie thought. Perhaps Rocco exaggerated or maybe Marco was good at hiding his true feelings.
“I still don't understand how someone could have hit a parked car from behind with such force,” she said. “I was wondering if it had something to do with being followed when we were...”
She stopped abruptly when Marco sharply nudged her with his knee under the table.
“Followed?” Rocco said, setting his fork down. “Who was following you?”
“No one,” Marco said. “She is mistaken. Americans have imaginations which are, how do you say, overbaked?”
Rocco reached for Anne Marie's hand. “Don't worry, my car is here and I'll drive you wherever you need to go.”
