“C’mere.” She waved to him. “I want to show you something.” She guided him around the gymnasium wing. Pine trees blocked the view to the sidewalk. The school tennis courts lay beyond.
She stopped. He glanced around, puzzled. She pushed him up against the brick wall.
“We’re here. Back at high school. Now’s your chance to kiss me,” she said.
JULIE SHUT THE DOOR of her RAV4 and waited in her parents’ driveway as Sebastiano beeped his car locked and walked toward her, buttoning his cashmere topcoat on the way.
“You look very smart,” she told him, slipping her arm through his.
He raised his chin and eyed her critically. “And I couldn’t help noticing that you’ve abandoned your customary black.”
It was true. She was wearing a form-fitting aubergine knit dress that emphasized her trim figure while showing off her excellent butt, even if she said so herself.
“Trying to be festive for the occasion? Or did you want me to notice your very nice derriere?”
Julie grinned. “I cannot tell a lie. Anyway, I thought I’d let Nonna have the monopoly on black for the evening.” She tugged on his arm, intent on leading him inside her parents’ home.
He held fast. “If your family welcomes you with birthday greetings, how are you going to respond?” he asked.
The ghost of guilt showed its face briefly, but Julie willed it away. “Con piacere! With pleasure! You see! I don’t need a lesson in class when I have my own private tutor.”
ZORA TOOK PAUL’S FACE between her hands and offered up a kiss. He hesitated, but didn’t refuse. He grabbed her waist, squeezing it through her Northface jacket. She slipped her tongue between his teeth and jabbed it back and forth. He slanted his head and kissed her back with a ferocity that spoke of desire and longing and something beyond the fringe. It excited and scared Zora, and that excited her even more.
She reached with her hand to unzip his jacket. She could feel heat radiating from his body. She inched the metal tab down.
But then he placed his hand on hers to stop her motion. He shifted it to her shoulders and gently pushed her away.
Zora shook her head. “What’s wrong? I don’t get it. You want it as much as I do. I can tell. You know, I’m not a teenager anymore.”
Paul ran his hand along his shaved head. “Precisely. Neither of us is. And we never will be…again.”
He stepped toward the floodlight perched on the corner of the tennis courts.
Zora joined him. She flapped her arms down hard against her sides in exasperation. “What are you trying to say? That sneaking a quickie outside the high school is a stupid idea? I’m more than happy to get a motel room on Route One if that’s what you had in mind. Though I gotta say, I’m a little disappointed to find you’ve gotten so conventional in middle age.”
Paul walked in a wide circle, coming to rest at the fence. “You just don’t get it, do you? You don’t get that things have changed, people have changed.”
“If you mean we’re older and wiser, hey, I’ve got the stretch marks to prove it. But who’s to say we can’t still have a little fun? I mean, we know what we are getting into, right?” She wasn’t ready to give up yet. What had her mother said? That she knew what she wanted too well?
Paul dropped his chin to stare directly into her eyes. “Do we? I was going to write Oscar-winning screenplays and the great American novel. What happened? I became a producer of infomercials. Whatever money I made—and you’d be surprised how much money you can make on infomercials—I blew it all on ex-wives and girlfriends whose first names I can’t even remember. But mostly in the form of tequila and coke, and I don’t mean the kind in a can.”
He looked up to the stars. In the darkened shadows, his expression was particularly grim. “So, tell me, Ms. Let’s Have a Little Fun, have you ever hit rock bottom?”
There had been that moment standing in her dorm bathroom. She’d been nineteen and had just gotten a positive result on the pregnancy test.
“Don’t even try,” Paul answered himself. “I remember how strong you were. I was the weak one, eventually looking for courage in a white powder. You’ve never gotten to the point of having no reputation, let alone no self-esteem and credibility. So, in answer to the question that you never seemed to have gotten around to asking—the reason I came back to Grantham was to clean up my act and pick up the pieces. Figure out what went wrong. Start to write again, do something productive.”
“But you have, right? I mean, you’re taking classes?” Zora said encouragingly.
Paul emitted an abrupt laugh. “If you call taking an Adult School course classes. And you want to know why I chose Italian?”
“Of course. Tell me. I want to know.”
“A long time ago when I first went out to L.A., I tried unsuccessfully for this assistant producer job. It was for a film being shot in Italy. Anyway, even though I didn’t get it, the whole episode kind of lit this fire under me. I became obsessed with all things Italian—food, clothes, you name it. I even took private lessons. And then when I started raking in the money, I’d vacation in these amazing villas in Tuscany and Umbria, sometimes on Capri. It was like heaven. Can you say infinity pool? Well-stocked wine cellar? Of course, my money went and so did the vacations, but the memories remained. So now I have this dream—to go back, older and wiser, no pools and no wine. Just me, working on my book. Meaning, I’ve got to be content with Grantham, and I can’t complain—even though I do—because the book’s coming along, slowly, in large part due to joining A.A. And Italy? Well, that’s still on the back burner.”
“It all sounds wonderful, the way you’ve tackled your problems, not to mention your plans. I had no idea you had gone through such a rough time. But now you look great. Really, I mean it. And it seems to me that you’ve come out the other side and pulled yourself together.”
“Not quite yet. I haven’t sold the book, let alone secured an agent, just some nibbles—favors from a few old friends I didn’t totally alienate,” he said, not giving himself an inch.
“Still, it sounds like you have come a long way. Doesn’t that mean you can make a fresh start?” Zora suggested. “Put the past in the past?”
“Does it? Isn’t there something you’d like to share, too?”
AS SHE STEPPED ACROSS the threshold of her parents’ home, her welcome was immediate. “Zia Julie! Aunt Julie!” The twins, Rosy and Amelia, her brother Dom’s seven-year-old girls, tugged at her jacket.
“Where’s the candy?” Rosy shouted.
Teddy, her other brother Joey’s son, squirmed his way in and plunged his small hands into her pockets. “Choco, choco,” the toddler Teddy chanted.
Normally the indulgent aunt, Julie squirreled away Hershey’s Kisses in her pockets when she knew she was seeing her nieces and nephew, much to their delight and the horror of their parents, especially her sisters-in-law.
“I’m sorry, guys,” she apologized. “I didn’t expect you to be here on a school night.”
“Dad said it was a special grown-up night, but that we were mature enough to come. I just learned that word—mature,” Amelia said seriously. And then, taking a complete about-turn, she twirled around on the point of her Mary Janes, holding out the wide skirt of her plaid dress. “Do you like my dress?”
Julie felt a lump in her throat. “It’s beautiful. Can I borrow it some time?” she asked.
Amelia giggled and pulled her twin away with her.
“Choco-choco.” Teddy grabbed on her leg some more.
Julie’s mother came scurrying over. “Don’t bother Zia Julie. You know where I keep the Chex Mix in a dish on the sideboard.” She gave him a friendly slap on the rump and pushed him in the right direction.
Julie slipped off her jacket and bent over to remove her black boots, silently cursing the fact that it would probably take twenty minutes to remove the skin-tight suede Cole Haans. Ah, the price she paid for vanity, and trying to impress Sebastiano. Geez, since when had she ever
dressed to impress a man. Never was the answer.
“If you’re trying to impress me, you’ve succeeded,” Sebastiano whispered behind her.
She smiled, head pointed toward the floor. It had been worth it after all.
“Oh, don’t bother with your shoes, Giulietta,” her mother said. “We don’t worry about things like that.”
Julie straightened up. “Since when?”
“Since when it’s a party.” Her mother clucked, kissing her on both cheeks. She stepped aside to offer the same greeting to Sebastiano. “Ah, Dottore, we are honored you could make it. Here, Lou, take their coats.”
Lou did as he was told, but before leaving he whispered in Julie’s ear. “Happy birthday. But don’t worry. Nobody will say anything.”
She winced a smile of thanks as he squeezed her hand. Then she turned to Sebastiano. “So, once more into the breach, dear friend?” she offered, pointing the way to the center of the living room.
Easier said than done. Not only were her parents and Nonna there, but her brothers Dom, Frank and Joey, their wives and all the nieces and nephews—another boy of Dom’s and Frank’s baby—also filled the small room and overflowed into the dining room. Dom’s wife, Barb, immediately grabbed Julie and started pumping her about Sebastiano. Her brothers hauled Sebastiano away and could be heard loudly predicting the outcome of the Eagles’ football season. And meanwhile the kids, darting in and around everyone’s feet, food stuffing their cheeks and fists, were not paying the least bit of attention when their parents’ shushed them. Only when they came close to Nonna, did they think about stopping. She sat regally in her gold upholstered chair. A corner of one of Julie’s pillows peeked out from behind her. And when the children were an arm’s length away, she’d dart out her hand, slip them each a caramella and demand a peck on the cheek.
At one point, Julie, standing in the middle of the living room, glanced over the chaos in search of Sebastiano. She found him standing at the picture window with another sister-in-law—Mary Beth, Frank’s wife. All seemed to be going well, and then Mary Beth handed him the three-month-old baby—breech, C-section, Julie cataloged in her brain.
“Oh, no,” Julie said when she saw how uncomfortable he looked.
“You’d have thought he’d never held a baby before,” Dom joked, coming over to Julie’s side. He was holding a bottle of Sam Adams and munching on a large handful of Chex Mix, which Julie thought he could really have done without considering how the pounds were gradually creeping up on his stocky frame.
“What are you saying? Of course he has. He’s a doctor, right?” Frank, the proud father, joined them. “Hey, you want me to take over?” he volunteered.
Sebastiano was gently jiggling the baby. He looked over. “That’s okay. I think I can handle it.” He smiled at the baby. “Stella, stellina,” he softly sang the words to a traditional Italian lullaby, beginning “Star, little star.” He glanced up again. “It’s been a while, but it comes back, like riding a bicycle, no?”
“See, what did I tell you,” Frank said. “A natural.”
“Oppure, come qualcuno ch’è veramente un padre,” Nonna announced behind them. “Like someone who is a father himself.”
Julie glanced over her shoulder at her grandmother. “That’s ridiculous. Sebastiano isn’t even married.” She watched him rock the baby and then saw that expression she knew all too well in new fathers.
Above the din of voices and squealing of children, Nonna’s canary could be heard warbling some off-key tune—the only pet bird that had a notoriously off-kilter musical sensibility.
Sebastiano continued to sing softly, more in key than Caruso. “La notte si avvicina…night is approaching.”
“Wait a minute,” Julie called out. “You’re not married, right?”
Sebastiano stopped the lullaby and raised his head to Julie. “Technically, your grandmother’s right. I am. Married. And I had a child.”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
“I’M NOT SURE WHAT you’re getting at, Paul,” Zora answered.
Paul guffawed angrily. “Oh, please. Don’t pretend like you don’t know.” He strode close to Zora and stared her down. “Katarina.”
He didn’t need to say any more. She glanced away. Then covered her mouth with the back of her hand, swallowed and met his gaze with a steely one of her own. “Oh, that.”
“That indeed.” Paul’s voice rose in indignation. “Didn’t it ever occur to you to tell me you were pregnant? Clearly not. You didn’t even think to give me the option. Maybe I could have helped? Maybe it would have been the wake-up call I needed? Maybe it would have made me be something better than I was?”
“Don’t lay your problems on me for not telling you I was pregnant,” Zora countered.
“How do you think that makes me feel knowing that people think I abandoned you, abandoned her?”
Zora peered around nervously. “How about lowering your voice, would you?” She checked over her shoulder but didn’t see anyone within earshot. She was angry and wanted to set him straight, once and for all. “And you can put your ego to rest. Nobody knows you’re the father. Nobody. I never even told my mother. Even Katarina doesn’t know,” she confessed.
“And you think that’s fair?”
“Where do you get off? You think it was easy being a single mom in the eighties, still in school, practically a child myself? Don’t tell me about fair. My decision to have Katarina had nothing to do with you. You were nothing more than a sperm donor. I don’t know why I even contemplated sleeping with you again. I must have been out of my mind.” She fumbled around for her knapsack, pawing in the dark for the side pocket where she kept her car keys. “I’ve had enough. I’m out of here.”
“You’re not the only one calling the shots now, Zora.” Paul stepped even closer. “When I say it wasn’t fair, I meant to Katarina, too. I’m going to talk to her. Tell her who I am. Maybe, if I’m lucky, start some kind of relationship. I’m not expecting a lot, but I think it would be good—for both of us.”
Zora’s head shot up. “No, you can’t! I forbid it!”
“Forbid it? You don’t have the right.” Paul paused, looked sideways and gave himself a minute before he spoke. “Listen, I’m prepared to be reasonable about this. You can break the news to her first. But you’ve got until the end of the week—max. Then it’s my turn.” He waited.
She kept silent, hoping he’d just give up the argument.
“Do we have a deal?” he persisted.
Zora swung her backpack around and held it against her stomach. She frantically checked one pocket and then the next.
“Zora, are you even listening? Did you hear what I said?”
She nodded. “Yes, yes, I heard you. It’s just that I don’t know what’s going on. I usually put my keys in one place, and I can’t seem to find them. I like to keep things nice and neat just so this doesn’t happen.”
“Well, I’m sorry,” Paul responded with little or no compassion. “But sometimes life isn’t so nice and neat, is it?”
CHAPTER NINETEEN
SEBASTIANO’S ADMISSION STUNNED JULIE. But the dinner went on—for three courses.
Normally, she would have relished the meal, but tonight it tasted like dust, even her grandmother’s deceptively simple yet flavorful soup minestre con polpettini, her mother’s velvety lasagna made with homemade noodles and béchamel sauce and then veal Saltimbocca, that incredible combination of the thinnest of veal cutlets, prosciutto di Parma and mozzarella topped with the lightest chopped tomato sauce.
And normally, she would have embraced the bonhomie around the dining table crowded with the four generations of Antonellis. It would have been fun to play patty-cake with Rosy on one side, and on the other, listen while Mary Beth told her all about the latest food processor technology—her sister-in-law was a buyer for a high-end housewares retailer. She should have been laughing along with little Teddy while she amused him with touching the tip of her tongue to the point of her nose and then ba
lancing a spoon on it—all her usual party tricks. And she should have been stealing glances at Sebastiano, who had been seated in a place of honor, at the far corner by the head of the table between Nonna and her father, catching his eye when he’d turn in her direction, smiling as she passed the bread toward that end of the table.
But she couldn’t. “Technically, I’m married.” What the hell did that mean anyway? Technically?
In fact, the only thing that gave her any pleasure after clearing the plates was volunteering to scrub the pans. She worked the scouring pad so hard she nearly wore the enamel off the big pot.
Then she angled her head around the open kitchen door and saw Frank had cadged Sebastiano’s attention. Her brother was rotating his shoulder and pointing out the place where he was feeling some pain or other. Frank had played football in high school and still liked to think he could join pick-up games on the weekend. What a mistake. Long ago she had told him to see an orthopedist. Had he listened? Of course not. She was only his sister. What did she know?
She turned her attention back to the kitchen, searching the speckled Formica countertop for something else to clean. But there was nothing left to wash. With a sigh, she dipped her hands in the sudsy water and lifted the drain.
“Tutti a tavola! Everybody to the table!” her father called from the dining room. If three courses weren’t enough, there was still dessert to go.
She wiped her hands on the dishtowel and, pulling back her shoulders until her spine cracked, ventured out the kitchen door, a smile affixed on her face.
“Buon compleanno a te, boun compleanno a te.” The whole family was singing the Italian rendition of “Happy Birthday.” There was a large sheet cake in the center of the table, its tiny candles alight. Flowers of frosting rimmed the edges like a Baroque frame. The only thing lacking was the gilding.
Invitation to Italian Page 13
