Unforgotten

by Kristen Heitzmann

  Sincerely,

  Marco Michelli

  Muttering under my breath, I stalk to the escritoire and snatch a small sheet of stationery. With the fine fountain pen Nonno gave me just days ago, I write:

  Dear Mr. Michelli,

  My nonno is the least of your concerns. He is very forward thinking and accepting. It is my papa you will have to convince, and since he is no less discerning than I, your chances remain bleak.

  Most sincerely,

  Antonia DiGratia Shepard

  The young man who brought the first correspondence takes my answer, though Mr. Michelli could have picked up the telephone and received my refusal immediately. Did he think his formal and oldfashioned method would impress me?

  But the car returns a short while later, and the youth offers my own note back. I am puzzled, then annoyed to find Marco Michelli’s answer penned on the back.

  Bella Antonia,

  I am up to the task, I assure you. I will call tonight at eight.

  Your ardent admirer,

  Marco Michelli

  Ardent admirer? He pokes fun at me. I look up to offer a verbal and far less civil reply, but the youth has climbed into the car and is pulling away—no doubt as he’s been instructed. Taking the note upstairs, I fume.

  Bella Antonia. Ardent admirer. I have not overestimated his opinion of himself. Bene. I will see him at eight and balance his perspective. Papa will be home by then, and between us, we will teach Mr. Michelli some humility.

  But Papa isn’t home by eight o’clock when Marco Michelli arrives in the same olive Studebaker Dictator his messenger drove earlier. I have served Nonno the polenta he loves and seen him to his room since he is less steady as the day wears on and the old injuries in his leg pain him. Now I am alone to face Marco Michelli, and that is better still. No one will make me keep a civil tongue.

  But when he gets out of the car with a posy of violets in one hand and his mandolin in the other, I am hard-pressed to remember my ire. He approaches the porch holding out the flowers, which I bring to my nose without thinking. Sweet violets, sweeter than all the roses … The tune carries in my head and makes me smile. If he’d brought a big showy bouquet, I would have scorned it.

  He says, “The gazebo might be a swell place to sit.”

  I raise my nose from the violets. “How do you know about the gazebo?”

  “Your papa suggested it. When he gave permission for me to call.” He smiles.

  Oh, the nerve of him! But when he holds out his elbow, I take it. “So you transacted your business with Papa?”

  “I initiated it.”

  “At the bank.” We head around the house.

  “In town.”

  The tweed of his Norfolk jacket is coarse under my fingers. I should have grabbed a wrap myself. Away from the shelter of the porch the evening is chilly. “Why does it have to be so secret?”

  “Not everyone in this country is poor, Miss Shepard. But with so many suffering, some people with a pile of jack prefer to handle it quietly.”

  I look up at that. “Is it your money, really?”

  He tips back his head and laughs. “I don’t guess you’re a golddigger, but you better look elsewhere if you are.”

  “I don’t care about your money.”

  “Or lack of.”

  The path winds through the herb beds past the garage that was once a carriage house to the gazebo that looks out over the vineyard, now a tenth of the original land. We are blessed to have held on when the uncles and cousins and neighbors have all sold out or turned the land over to the bank and moved to the city. Many work for the cannery; some do jobs for the don who owns it. At least Papa takes no part in that, though he’s been invited more than once.

  With his hand on my elbow, Marco assists me up the stairs. There is something to be said for a man with a few more years on him than the careless youths who call. Benches fill three sides of the gazebo, but I stand at the rail, facing west over the fields.

  Marco takes the mandolin from his back and sets it on a bench, then removes his jacket and puts it over my shoulders. “Megglio?”

  “Yes, better, thanks.” My heart scampers inside my ribs. Though the darkness of his coloring suggests southern paesano heritage, he is tall and well-formed with a Roman bearing. I am three-quarters Italian, and when he uses the language I learned at Nonna Carina’s knee, it has a devastating impact on my decision to disdain him.

  And when he picks up the mandolin and sings “Che Gelida Manina” from Puccini’s La Bohème, I know the gazebo will never again be wood and nails; it will forever house the notes he sends into the night that bring my heart to his feet, as he knew they would.

  ————

  Lance closed the door of Nonna’s apartment, frustrated. “She gives stubborn a whole new face.”

  Rese looked up. “How?”

  “She won’t let me tell her what I have, what I found.”

  “I thought she wanted you to find it.”

  He expelled a short breath. “So did I.” But he was beginning to suspect a purpose-deficit disorder when it came to knowing what was expected of him.

  In the dim hall he inserted the key to open his apartment. From upstairs came his nieces’ and nephews’ voices, wild with the start of vacation and making his sisters crazy, no doubt. Below, Gianni Schicchis “O Mio Babbino Caro” rang out from Momma’s stereo. She didn’t always listen to opera, only when performing her Italian mother routine, triggered now by his bringing a girl home.

  “Is it always this noisy?” Rese said.

  “This is nothing.” It could get noisier, and in his parents’ days, before air-conditioning when all the windows were open, it had been worse still.

  He gripped the knob but didn’t turn it. Standing there with Puccini’s opera coming through the floor, he wanted to take Rese in his arms and kiss the breath from her. Come to think of it, why was he holding back, anyway? “Com bella,” Nonna had said, not just stating the obvious, but approving.

  He took in her face—brown, thick-lashed eyes with no mascara; milk-smooth cheek that felt as soft as it looked; strong, determined chin that supported a mouth so … He leaned, but a squeal rose from the staircase at the end of the hall, followed seconds later by a rush of pale limbs and rosy spirals. Rese turned to receive Star’s hugs.

  Lance hooked fingers and tapped fists with Rico. “Hey, man. Good timing.” He let them all into the apartment.

  Rico whistled as Star dragged Rese into her room. “You’ve got more lives than a Hindu cat.”

  “Hardly.”

  “You’re walking on water, ’mano.”

  Lance glanced toward the bedroom. “If she didn’t need me at the inn, I’d be bottom feeding.”

  Rico laid a book on the table, and Lance caught the title. Beloved Sonnets?

  Rico read his thoughts. “Star likes Shakespeare. I read to her in the park.”

  Lance dropped his jaw. “You can read?”

  “Funny.”

  “Still celibate?”

  Rico grinned.

  “Impossible.”

  He spread his hands. “I’m a new man.”

  Lance pictured Star just weeks ago with bruises from the boyfriend who “couldn’t let her go.” Moments later, she and Rico had started a chaste courtship unlike any of his others. There were issues, Star’s especially, but Rico didn’t seem to see them. He had taken the admonition not to mess with her as a holy decree, though Lance was just trying to get Star through a bad spot. He hadn’t expected Rico—who spent his life in two places, the drum set and the bedroom—to manage it indefinitely.

  But who was he to judge? Maybe it was just that Tony wasn’t there to do it. Here in the city Tony’s absence gaped. The towers had come down too long ago to still feel it so bad. But Lance would have liked to show his big brother the woman he’d brought home. He’d have liked to tell him, “This one won’t get me in trouble; she makes me better.” And that was a feat for anyone, given his propensity to mess
up.

  His throat tightened as he imagined presenting her to Tony. No other introduction would have meant so much. He imagined Tony’s face, his ability to read a person’s character. He’d have seen it, that special quality in her that reached in and took hold.

  “This is it, Tony. I know it.”

  “Then don’t screw it up.”

  I won’t. A hard wave of desire hit him, not the kind that tempted, but the kind that put a hunger in his soul. As Rese and Star came out of the bedroom, he had to remind himself she had only agreed to a working relationship plus neck rubs. His family would assume more, that he wouldn’t have brought her unless she mattered. They would see who she was to him.

  And Rese would see who he was. So far she seemed shell-shocked. Though she’d grown up on the construction sites of her dad’s renovations and worked her way into partnership with him, they’d been high-class renovations, and Sausalito was not the Bronx.

  Star’s diaphanous dress clung and fluttered as she flitted over to the small refrigerator, moving through the place as though she’d been there longer than two and a half weeks. But then, she had made herself right at home in the Sonoma villa as well. She took out a soda. There wasn’t much else in there since they shopped the local markets and bakeries daily.

  He hated to think what all Momma had purchased for tonight. He’d been joking about Ferragosto, but Momma would be cooking something—a lot of something. Unfortunately, quantity had never satisfied his need for quality, as Sofie pointed out—one reason he’d preferred Nonna’s kitchen to any other.

  Not, as Momma thought, because he’d inherited Nonna’s scorn for anything south of Piemonte, but because cuisine from either region could be ruined, and, in their house, the Southern fare more frequently was. Momma was a beautiful dancer and a gifted instructor, but she attacked her kitchen like a member of a chain gang; heavyhanded on the seasonings, maybe to make up for the overthickened sauces, the gummy pastas, and gnocchi that could serve as cement shoes. She just couldn’t find the light touch in the kitchen that she perfected on the dance floor.

  If Nonna were herself, she’d have closed down the restaurant with a sign in the window: Family Only Tonight. Then she’d have filled the space with the finest aromas and welcomed Rese with copious servings of perfectly prepared coscia di aguello, leg of lamb brushed with garlic and olive oil using branches of rosemary tied together, and coniglio in porchetta, sausage-stuffed rabbit fragrant with wild fennel. Risotto and polenta to complement but never overwhelm. Nonna’s was the only Northern Italian restaurant in the neighborhood, and she had opened it in self-defense.

  Now it was closed indefinitely, until someone decided what to do. He leaned on the wall and watched Rese and Star chat, Star effusing and Rese soberly responding. Even knowing what he did about their backgrounds, it amazed him they’d maintained their friendship. He and Rico had their differences but came from the same streets, schools, and religion. He couldn’t find the connecting point for Star and Rese, unless it was that they’d both needed someone.

  Rico batted his arm. “Handball?”

  Lance shrugged, guessing the women might catch up for a while and knowing Rico talked easier in motion. There was a court at the park, but he and Rico went down and played against the wall with the closest thing to an old Spaldeen they could find these days. Back when the rest of the country was discovering Atari, he and Rico had still been out there with sawed-off broom handles for stickball, or chalk to make a game floor for skelly, or nothing but their hands and a ball.

  Rico set up to serve. “Juan’s back.”

  It had seemed strange at first when Rico called his father Juan, but the lack of relationship or even time spent under the same roof explained it. This was his family; this was his home. He had recognized that before third grade.

  “When did he get out?” Lance returned the serve hard and high to win the rally.

  Rico chased the ball down, then tossed it over lightly. “A week, two. Don’t really know.”

  “Parole?”

  “Only two conditions with that man. Locked up or paroled.”

  Lance served. “Have you seen him?”

  Though his parents’ home was less than two miles away, Rico shook his head. Interesting how judgmental Rico could be after their own close calls, when nothing but Tony’s influence had kept them from lockup. But Lance didn’t say so. They played hard for the next few minutes. With his sparrow’s build Rico was swift and cagey. Though not huge himself, Lance had him in strength and form.

  They finished one game, and Rico held the ball. “So whatchu really doing?”

  Lance stretched and fisted his hand. “Settling things with Nonna involves Rese. I wanted her here to—” Rico’s expression stopped him. “Wha-a-t?” He cocked his head. “I don’t need her approved. This isn’t Naples.”

  “May as well be for your Neapolitan family.”

  “Napolitano, Calabrese, Piemontese, and, as I have recently learned, one part pure American.” His great-great-grandfather Quillan Shepard without a lick of Italian.

  “And you the dutiful son.”

  “Tell that to Pop. He thinks I’m the screw-up.” He sighed. His purpose was to enlighten Nonna and get her agreement on their plans for the inn. While he hadn’t set foot on that property until three months ago, it had drawn him the moment he arrived. He loved this neighborhood, all the family and friends and traditions that made it special. But Nonna’s roots were in Sonoma, and it was there his restlessness had stilled.

  CHAPTER THREE

  How gently on my mind his presence rests,

  as though belonging there.

  It is my heart he traps and bests,

  my hope that he lays bare.

  The next time Marco comes, I am prepared. I didn’t know the first time how difficult it would be to resist, but I know it now, and when he suggests the gazebo, I tell him, “I prefer the porch.” I set the swing in motion until he steps close enough that it is either hit his kneecap or stop.

  “May I?” Before I can answer he takes his place beside me. The swing protests with a soft creaking voice, but he pays no attention, saying only, “This is a swell spot too.”

  Hibiscus and wild roses scent the air, with now a hint of his pomade, which he must use with a light touch because the hair is scarcely tamed by it. “Are you always this bold?”

  “Don’t don the gloves if you can’t get in the ring.”

  I raise my chin. “Is this a fight?”

  “Just a form of speech, Antonia. Courting is serious business.”

  I press back into the swing. “What makes you think we’re courting?”

  He smiles. I turn away before it can have its full effect. I’ve dissected his smile in my dreams, considering the strong, white teeth, not so straight as to look fake, the full mauve lips that communicate a wry humor and ardor at once, and the shadow of beard scarcely chased away by the razor.

  Papa saves me from comment by joining us on the porch. Now we will see Marco’s moxie. He stands and shakes Papa’s hand, and I sense a tension between them, but that is natural with suitors and fathers.

  “I think if you’re going to spend time with my daughter, we should talk.”

  Marco nods. I decide with whom I spend time, and a word from me now would be a knockout punch before the bell rings. But I watch them down the stairs, then strolling the drive to the Studebaker and past. Papa will like Marco’s owning a car. Having things makes a man responsible and respectable in Papa’s mind.

  I don’t need a car because I never want to go far enough that I can’t hear the breeze in the vines, the sparrows in the orchard, the whisper of the pale, thin olive leaves. I know the stars that watch over our land, that turn my window into a diamond-studded swatch of black velvet. The smell of the mist at night, the damp earth in the morning. Marco Michelli’s car means nothing to me.

  It is the dark espresso brown of his eyes, the timbre of his voice.

  It is the very vanita with which h
e approaches me. He is a man who knows what he wants, not a baby who wants me to tell him what he needs. And no matter how I try to resist, that excites me. This is not the old country; it is not the old times, but if Papa feels better having his talks with Marco, that’s all right with me. I can tease later, when Marco is fatted on Papa’s acceptance and not expecting it. I know how to savor the moment.

  ————

  Star’s childlike frame quivered as she described singing in the subway tunnel with Rico playing Chaz’s steel drum. With her iridescent eye shadow and cherry-flavored lip gloss strong enough to scent the whole apartment, she looked twelve trying to be twenty. Though two months younger, Rese always felt like a big sister. No blood connected them, but Star expected the petting, the comfort, the freedom of a younger sibling.

  She gave only what she wanted, everything on her terms. But Rese was glad she was there. Even flighty and erratic, Star was the only constant in her life—except for God. “When all others fail, He will never fail you.” One time the presence had been so real, it consumed her thoughts and made her fight to stay alive. But that was years ago, and she had only recently chosen to believe it. So far it felt like a decision and nothing more.

  “The drum makes these vibrations you can hear forever.” Star made a windy sound with her voice. “And then I sing just like it. No words, just harmonious vibrations echoing in the cement tunnels. It is so synergistic.”

  Harmonious vibrations. Synergistic.

  “And people give us money for it, stopping to listen or just dropping it in as they walk by.” Star imitated the carefree disbursal of wealth. “It’s crazy.”

  “I thought Rico had an agent. Why are you singing in the subway?”

  Star tossed her spirals. “The agent’s dragging his feet without Lance. He wanted the whole package, Rico’s drum, Lance’s lyrics, Chaz and the bazillion instruments he plays.”