They all effused volubly about how wonderful it was to meet a friend of Luca's and how nice it was for me to join them for their family dinner. I smiled and agreed. They were physical, these women, lunging in and hugging me, wine glasses sloshing but not spilling, kissing my cheeks. I resisted the urge to wipe my face. I hadn't been kissed on the cheek by a woman since I was a little girl, and I hadn't liked it then. I liked it even less as an adult, being kissed by women I'd known for five seconds. I mean, sure, it's a European custom, but when the custom is happening to you and you're not ready for it, it comes as a bit of a shock.
I was saved from further awkwardness by Luca's mother announcing it was time to eat. Dinner was chaotic, loud, fun, filling, and delicious. Everyone passed the dishes around in an endless circle, everyone talked all at the same time, children shouting to each other from across the table, adults doing the same, everyone laughing, wine flowing like water, even the little children sneaking sips under their parents' watchful gazes. I could only eat quietly, take in the insanity, and try to imagine growing up in such huge, close-knit family. When I was growing up, dinner was a largely silent affair. Mother portioned food out for us before we sat down, we drank water or milk, and we didn't talk during dinner unless directly addressed.
This...this was total lunacy. Food was shoveled in as fast as you could eat it, seconds and thirds were taken without asking, dishes passed and set down and passed and refilled, forks and knives clattering in a constant undercurrent beneath the incessant chatter of conversations, all in rapid-fire Italian.
Even Luca seemed to forget my presence for the most part, holding a nearly shouted conversation with a middle-aged man across the table, one of his brothers or brothers-in-law, I assumed. Domenica was at one end of the table, and her husband was at the other, a dignified older man with thick, mostly gray hair, wrinkled, leathery skin and kind, deep-set gray eyes.
Questions were tossed at me every now and then. How did I like Italy, what did I think of Rome, did I see the Colesseum, and isn't Firenze the most beautiful city I'd ever seen, and how long was I here, and what did I do when I wasn't on holiday? I tried to answer them, smiled, and kept eating. The meal lasted for over an hour, people eating, eating, eating, taking a break to swill wine and let the food settle and talk, talk, talk, and then eating more, until all the food, which I'd thought could feed an army, was gone.
There wasn't any one moment or signal, but everyone stood up and worked together to clear their plates and glasses and the dishes. I found myself at the sink with Marta, a sister-in-law, washing plates while she rinsed, and the other sisters dried and put them away. They spoke English to me, wondering how I'd met Luca. I tried to avoid the questions, but they were insistent, so I told them about my bag being stolen and Luca getting it back. They seemed to find this funny and cute and romantic and totally in character for Luca.
"He must really like you," Elisabetta said.
Elisabetta was younger than me by maybe three years, with black hair braided over her shoulder to hang between her ample breasts. She was built like me, with wide hips, large breasts, a little taller than average, a little heavy, but she wore her curves with a delicate grace and elegance that I envied.
"Why do you say that?" I asked.
She grinned at me. "Well, you are here, are you not? Luca does not often bring people to Sunday dinner. I don't know if he ever has."
I frowned. "He said you guys brought people over all the time."
Elisabetta and Lucia exchanged a look I couldn't quite decipher.
"No, that is not quite true," Lucia said. "I am not so sure why he would say that. Perhaps you heard him wrong? When we were younger and not married, perhaps it was true, when we had a boyfriend to introduce to the family. If he couldn't find a comfortable place with Elisabetta and the boys, then he wouldn't get another date with us. Family is the best test of finding a fitting mate."
Lucia was taller than the rest of us, thin and willowy, her hair a little thinner and finer, her fingers long and restless, much like Luca's.
Elisabetta nodded, and so did Marta.
"I did the same with Lorenzo," Marta said. "If he couldn't be friends with my brothers, I knew he couldn't be my husband." Marta's English was the most fluent, accented with a hint of British pronunciation, as if she'd spent time in England.
I was silent through these exchanges, the women trading stories of their husbands learning to get along with their families. My heart was thudding.
"So you think he's testing me?" I asked.
Elisabetta laughed. "I think he likes you. That is what I think. Testing? I do not know if this is true. But you are here, and you are a sweet girl whom I like. So you should not worry about it, hmm?"
Lucia seemed to sense my worry. "Don't think of it. If you have worries, tell Luca. He will tell you the truth." She smiled at me as she wiped her hands dry on a rag.
When the clean-up was done, we found the men and the children all gathered in the courtyard. The children were kicking a soccer ball around, and the men, glasses of wine and liquor in their hands, would occasionally deflect a rogue kick. Luca was the most active, darting between children to steal the ball, passing it, laughing and playing as if he was a child himself. I stood near the entryway of the courtyard, watching him play with the kids.
He will make a good father. The thought passed through my head like a bolt of lightning. It was true, and obvious. He was clearly comfortable with the kids, as easy with the teenagers as the youngest toddlers. Even as I thought this, he scooped up a little girl, not even two, probably, toddling around and shrieking, trying to keep up with the big kids and getting frustrated when her little legs would trip her up. Luca lodged the girl on his shoulders and leaped around the courtyard, kicking the ball, laughing when the girl tugged on his hair to get him to go a different direction.
He really would make a good father. The thought in itself was simple and innocuous enough. The part that troubled me was that the thought also came with a vision of him romping around a similar courtyard with a little girl that happened to have vivid cerulean eyes like mine, above an aquiline nose and straight, jet-black hair. That bothered me. Why did I see that? I didn't want kids. I saw what Leah went through with Lucy and Raymond, the hellish experience of birth, all the blood and screaming...I mean, yeah, Leah says it was worth it and you sort of forget it all once you hold the baby in your arms, but I'm not sure I believe her. The way she was screaming when Ray came out, that's not something you forget, no matter how cute the kid is. And I also remember how haggard Leah looked for months after the birth, the dark circles under her eyes, the way she moved as if she'd gone beyond exhaustion into something else.
So...why am I thinking of kids? With a man I just met? It's complete lunacy. Idiocy. Madness. I've gone crazy.
I looked up at that moment to see Luca's piercing brown eyes locked on mine, his little niece in his arms, giggling wildly as he tickled her, blew raspberries into her belly.
"He is so good with the children, no?" Lucia said, appearing next to me. She handed me a little glass of something clear and potent, like vodka. "It is grappa, from the vineyard for whom Luca is employed."
"He is good with the kids, yes."
"He has had plenty of practice. There are eleven of them, the nieces and nephews for him. He is the only one not married yet. Mama wants him to give her the next grandchild, but he says he is not ready." She took a swallow of grappa, wincing at the bite. "He might have been, if Lia had not hurt him so badly."
"He mentioned her, but we didn't really talk about it," I said. I wasn't sure I wanted to have this conversation with Lucia. Such discussions usually result in things being said that someone doesn't want aired.
"Well, there is not much to tell," Lucia said. "He was so young when they married, only twenty-two, I think. She was older than he, by a matter of some five years. She was very sweet, very kind, or so it seemed. Everyone liked her, except me. I was not so sure why not, but something about her
made me...not so trusting."
I choked on my grappa. "They were married?" I tried not sound as peeved as I was.
"Oh, yes, for a few years, too. Happy, they seemed. Then, she left. No reason given to him, no letter or note or a phone call or nothing. Only an empty apartment." Lucia watched her brother, the memory of his pain and her love for him communicated in the glint of her eyes. "He was broken in his heart. He loved her very much, you see, and when Lia left, of course she took Luisa with her."
A stone of dread hit my stomach. "Luisa?"
"Such a delightful child, Luisa was. Hair like the wings of ravens, and so very bright."
"There—there was a...a child?" I could barely whisper.
Lucia look at me with concern. "Merda. He has not told you this, has he?" She put a hand on my arm; I jerked it away and stumbled along the wall toward the door leading to the street. "Delilah, wait, you do not understand. It is not like you think."
I wasn't listening. I set my glass of grappa on the arm of a chair and made my way to the door.
Had a child? And he hadn't told me? He had been married? God, I was an idiot.
"Delilah, wait, please," Luca was behind me, catching at my sleeve. "Lucia was mistaken to tell you what she did. You don't understand."
I shook my head and pushed the gate open. I was nearly flattened by a woman on a Vespa darting past me, and then a truck full of produce and fruit. I couldn't hear, couldn't see, only thought of getting away.
I heard Luca behind me, calling me. Eventually his voice fell away, but I felt his presence behind me. I didn’t heed where I was going. Night had fallen by now, the city bathed in shadows and an orange glow from street lights and cafe noise. I came to a bridge, stopped, leaned over to watch the water flow beneath me. Luca stopped beside me, silent, waiting.
When I didn't speak, he moved closer to me. "Delilah, please listen. Yes, I was married. She left me, one year ago today, as a matter of fact. But I do not have a child. I promise you this."
I looked at him for the first time since leaving the house. "But Lucia said—"
"My sister means well, but she is sometimes rash with the things she says. Luisa was Lia's daughter, not mine. I—I cared for her, very much, but she was not my child. I thought...I thought she was, considered her to be, but when Lia left me, I realized she was not my daughter, and never would be again." He picked with a fingernail at the mortar between the stones of the ancient bridge. "I am sorry I did not tell you sooner, but truly, I did not think you would appreciate being burdened with my past dramas, when you have your own which you are seeking to heal from."
I felt the stone lift from my chest. "So you don't have a kid out there somewhere?"
"No!" Luca spoke vehemently. "If I had a child, I would be there, every day, every moment. I would not let the child be taken away from me. I would stop at nothing to be the father for that child. But Luisa, she was not mine. I had no rights to her, and if Lia did not want me, did not want our family any longer, I could not fight it. In truth, for all that it seemed to everyone we were so in love, so perfect together, it was not so. In private, Lia was a different person."
Luca seemed lost in his story now, and I didn't interrupt.
"She was so polite and friendly with my family, so seeming to be a model person, model member of this family." Luca shook his head, eyes downcast and glittering with old hurt. "In our home together, it was a much altered Lia I lived with. Unkind. Given to hard words, sharp words. Insults. Nothing I do could be enough to make her pleased. Dio, so angry. I never knew why. She keeped her past a secret from me, but I was wise enough to see the scars of a life of pain, from before I met her. She told me one time, that she had slept with someone else. I have not told anyone this, not even my sisters. I forgave her, and tried to forget, but...it is not so easy. I tried to move on, but then, one day, I came back from a trip to sell vino in Marseilles and Venice and Corsica, and she was gone. Just made vanished. Nothing to say to me why. Clothes gone, my car, gone. All of the money we save together, gone."
I didn't know what to say.
"Luca, I—I'm sorry." I put my hand on his back, rubbed in circles. "I'm sorry. I should have given you a chance to explain."
"I have explained, and now you know." Luca turned to put his back to the railing of the bridge, pulled me into him. "So, can we go back home now? The others are worried for you. Lucia feels poorly about it."
I let him lead me back to his parents' house. There were explanations of misunderstanding all around, and I spent a long time reassuring Lucia that everything had worked out just fine.
My grappa was put back in my hand, and I lounged on a bench with Luca as his family swirled around us, children laughing and chasing each other, kicking the soccer ball, the adults mingling. At some point, Elisabetta and Lucia produced instruments, a mandolin for Lucia and a violin for Elisabetta. They tuned, discussed for a moment, then struck up a lively jig. Everyone joined in, turning the courtyard into an even more chaotic scene, people now dancing in circles, swinging and spinning in circles, everyone making up their own dance steps.
I felt my feet tapping, my body wanting to move. Aside from writing, I've always loved dancing. It was an activity that I seldom got to do, however, as small towns aren't exactly known for their night life. In college, however, I took classes nearly every day, mostly classical ballroom stuff, tangos and waltzes and samba and such. The more interpretive styles like jazz and contemporary didn't appeal to me as much. I liked the stylized steps, the ordered beauty.
Luca looked at me sidelong. "Do you dance?"
I shrugged, smiling shyly. "A little."
He stood up, held out his hand, and I took it, let him pull me to an open area. He started off easy, a basic waltz hold, and trotted around with me, no steps, no structure. The sisters shifted their song, playing a tune I'd danced to frequently during ballroom classes, and automatically adjusted my hold on Luca, my feet starting the steps on their own. Luca's face showed his surprise, but he went with it, his spine going rigid, his hold formal and elegant, his feet light and quick.
Good gravy, the man could dance. My instructors had always told me I could have had a future in ballroom dancing, if I'd been willing to put the work in and slim down a bit. Good thing I liked writing more, since slimming down never seemed to work. A bit of a digression, there. My point is, I can tell the difference between someone who simply likes to dance, and someone who has had training, who takes it seriously.
Luca was a dancer. His poise was impeccable, his mastery of footwork breathtaking. He led me flawlessly, moving me around the courtyard, our eyes locked, the world blocked out but for the music flowing between us and in our veins. We came to a part of the dance where there would normally be a lift, if this was a choreographed number. I felt Luca's hold adjusting, watched his eyes scan the floor around us, calculating, assessing.
"Ready?" he breathed.
I nodded. Three steps, a half-turn, and then his hands moved to my waist, lifting me as I hopped. I'm not the most agile girl in the world, but I'm lighter on my feet than most people would assume, and Luca, well, he was powerful enough to lift me and make it look effortless.
We pulled off the lift like we'd practiced it for days. I felt the rush of excitement and adrenaline that follows pulling off something difficult, and then we were off again, spinning around the courtyard, his hand hot and powerful on my waist, his eyes piercing mine, desire raging from him in palpable waves, igniting my own need and lust. Dancing had suddenly never been so sensual, our bodies moving in perfect harmony, fitting just right.
The song eventually ended, and Luca and I glided to a stop, hand in hand, breathing hard and sweating, unable to break eye contact. His family was cheering, clapping, the kids going wild. I realized they'd all stopped to watch, and felt my cheeks flame. I'd never danced for an audience. I took lessons, got my fix out then, and never had any desire to get on a stage and perform, or compete, even though my instructors fairly begged me to on a regula
r basis.
"You are a truly marvelous dancer, Delilah," Luca said.
"You, too. I had no idea you were a dancer."
"Nor did I." Luca led me by the hand out of the courtyard and away from the prying eyes of his family. "We should dance together more often. I have not danced with someone so skilled in many years."
"Me, either," I said. "Not since college. I can’t believe we did that lift!"
Luca laughed. "I know! I thought it was worth a try, when I realized you knew the steps so fluently. You are very graceful."
We were standing near a flight of stairs, and Luca glanced from my flushed face to the stairs, and then the courtyard. His family was dancing again, Elisabetta and Lucia playing another improvised jig.
Luca licked his lips, and then pulled me up the stairs.
"Where are we going?" I asked. I hoped he had in mind what I thought he did.
"Somewhere private. Or, mostly private." Luca turned a corner, pulling me down a narrow, wood-paneled hallway to a door at the end.
The room behind the door was small but comfortable, a guest bedroom obviously seldom used. There were two windows, one looking out over the city, and the other over the courtyard. The music was clearly audible, the laughter of children mingling with the chatter of adults, the slap of feet against cobblestones and the splashing fountain.
Somehow, my suitcase was in the corner of the room. I wasn't sure when Luca had brought it in from the car, but there it was.
Luca closed the door and hooked a chain over the door, then turned to me, desire fiery in his eyes. I lunged for him, locking my lips around his, my hands pulling at his shirt, tugging it off, and then unbuttoning his jeans. A flurry of busy hands had both of us naked in seconds, and then Luca's warm hands were skimming over my body, mine over his.
Delilah's Diary #2: La Vita Sexy Page 4
