“Good, good, that’s good.” I ran a hand through my hair. “How about things at Blue Doors?”
“You’ll have waitstaff to interview when you get back. Hope you’re ready to hit the ground running, because this rocket is ready to launch.”
“I know. But we’ll learn things during the soft opening, and there’s the tiny reality that we need to finish up all of the inspections. I think the electrician is coming the day after I get back. All that to say…I hope you’re at peace with a soft launch.”
“I will be, I will be—we’re just so close! You’re flying home in…three days?”
“Three days,” I echoed, turning around to search for Neil. After a moment I found him, carrying platters for Annetta. I couldn’t hold back either my smile or my tears.
“Who’s picking you up from the airport?”
“Alex and I have it worked out.”
“Well, if you need anything, you can give me a call.”
“I’ll let you know.”
“Rumor has it that Neil’s with you.”
My eyes returned to him, now playing catch with Francesca’s son Leo. “He is,” I answered simply.
“So what are you doing on the phone with me?”
“Checking in,” I said, “but point taken. See you in a few days?”
“Few days,” Nico repeated. “Hey, Jules?”
“Yeah?”
“You happy?” he asked, sounding every bit the protective older brother.
“Yeah,” I said, a smile stretching across my face as I looked out at the party, at Neil. “I am.”
“I’m glad. Have a safe flight.”
I hung up and walked back to Neil.
He smiled wide when he saw me approach. “Catch?” He tossed the ball to me.
I caught it with one hand and tossed it back.
He tossed it to Leo. “How’s Nico?”
“He’s good. My parents are okay—my mom’s on antinausea meds. Nico’s ready to open the restaurant the day I get back. Pretty much what you’d expect.”
“Feel better?”
I slipped under his arm and hugged him around his middle. “Yup.”
Neil pressed a kiss to my temple. “I’m glad.”
“Blech!” Leo cried at the sight of our embrace. “Che schifo!” He scrunched up his face before turning and running away.
“And here I thought Italians weren’t afraid of a little PDA,” I joked. “Let’s get back to the party—I want to be there when Nonno opens his gifts.”
Hours later, the combination of evening chill and pervasive darkness chased off the last of the guests.
Several of them, however, were only chased as far as the inside of the house, so while the tipsy revelry continued, Neil and I grabbed our jackets and left for a walk.
My right hand clutched his left as we ambled into the night. “If I were really clever,” I said, “I think I would have brought a flashlight.”
“Eh, that’s what phones are for.”
I pulled mine from my pocket and hoisted it in the air. “To phones! What would we do without them?” I stumbled forward three more steps. “I think there was more than fruit in my aunt’s fruit punch.”
“I think that is a fair assessment.”
“It feels good to get outside. I love my Italian family, but I feel like I’ve been listening to my uncles argue for the last three hours.”
“You have been listening to your uncles argue for the last three hours. I’ve heard enough shouted Italian to be fluent.”
“That’s possibly very true,” I said. “I enjoyed hearing you all talking about cars, though. They weren’t expecting that.”
“For an American man to love Italian cars?”
“More like an American knowing Italian cars the way you do. And in their heads they think Americans only like Corvettes and Mustangs.”
Neil snorted. “Not this American.”
“You impressed them.”
“You were pretty impressive yourself. I like hearing you speak Italian.”
“It was a really good party, though, don’t you think?”
“The part where the dogs got into the roast pig—that was good.” Neil lifted his arm, guiding me in a loopy, goofy twirl.
I laughed and played along. “You’re fun. The roast was good. The aunts chasing the dog, chasing the roast—” I shrugged. “They’re a viral YouTube video waiting to happen, bless them all.”
Neil spun me closer, pulling me into his arms. “Come to Memphis, Giulietta. Come see my home, meet my family.”
My heart beat hard in my chest. “You really want me to?”
“Come on,” he said. “If I try to tell them about this beautiful, multilingual woman who cooks, they’ll think I just made you up.” He brushed my hair from my face. “I want to take you for a walk on the Rhodes campus. I want you to meet the people who are important to me.”
For the first time, I looked into his eyes and felt no fear, no anxiety. “I want that too. When I get home, I’ll buy a ticket.”
“I’d like that,” he said, a trace of his southern accent creeping into his voice. “I know finances are tight. Let me help with the tickets.” He squeezed my hands. “And I’m happy to help with a hotel, or if you’d feel comfortable, my friend and his wife would love to have you at their place.”
“Southern hospitality and all that?”
“That’s right.” He held my face. “I love you.”
Rather than answer, I pulled his face to mine and kissed him. He tasted of summer fruits and butter cookies.
“Memphis,” I said, my voice low and husky. “Memphis in about two weeks?”
“How does that work for your restaurant schedule?”
I calculated the dates in my head. “It gives me just enough time to get the restaurant ready and through the soft opening, visit you, and come back for the grand opening.” I shook my head. “I must be crazy.”
“Having second thoughts?”
“Strangely…no.”
Neil whooped and danced an awkwardly charming little jig, then looked up at me with an abashed grin. “That was weird,” he said. “If you told any of my co-workers that just happened, no one would believe you.”
“It’s Tuscany,” I said, tilting my head back to take in the stars. “Anything can happen.”
That night, Neil slept on a cot in a room with Francesca’s boys. I slept in the attic loft, sharing the space with the family dog.
Despite the late night, the echo of voices began early the next morning. I persevered through the gauntlet that was the bathroom—showering with the last of the hot water while Letizia and Francesca applied their makeup and discussed their intimate relations with the husbands.
Neil went out on a drive with some configuration of the men; Nonno and I enjoyed a quiet breakfast over coffee in the sunroom.
I spent the afternoon brushing up on my pasta-rolling technique with Annetta, smiling when Neil tried his hand at it.
The next forty-eight hours sped by, and before I knew it we were saying emotional good-byes and waving out the car window as we drove away, folded into the back of Letizia’s Alfa.
We flew out of Rome together, Neil and I. Since he’d booked his trip with an open-ended ticket, he’d been able to book one of the last seats on my flight.
With a little maneuvering, I convinced the gentleman next to me that his seat was not as good as the one Neil occupied, especially since a family with a two-year-old happened to be seated two rows ahead.
We crossed the Atlantic together, hands clasped, fighting sleep—neither one of us wanted to miss a moment of our time together.
Too soon, we landed at JFK.
He would fly to Atlanta, and then on to Memphis.
My flight would take me straight to PDX.
Neither of us said much—after all, we’d hardly slept over the past twenty-four hours. I had no idea what time it was, but breakfast sounded good, so we tracked down a place that served piping hot breakfast sandwiches, and another wit
h a selection of not-too-stale breakfast pastries.
If I’d thought about it, the food offerings would have been a letdown after eating my way through France and Italy.
However, the point of airline food is to create a new baseline, making it possible to consume with a certain satisfaction anything we found at ground level. And if that meant stale croissants, then stale croissants we would eat without question.
Afterward Neil walked me to my gate.
We sat together in the uncomfortable seats, holding hands even as the first two zones were called to board.
“I’m not going to say good-bye,” Neil said at last. “I’ll see you soon.”
“See you soon,” I echoed.
A moment later, the flight attendant called out my zone number for boarding. We stood together.
“This is kind of old-fashioned,” I said, wrapping my arms around his torso for a final embrace. “Getting to say good-bye at an airport terminal.”
“You’re right,” said Neil. “It’s very romantic in here. That smell of stale food…”
I snickered, and then pulled back to look into his eyes. “Until Memphis?”
“You got it.”
A too-short kiss full of promises, and I found myself walking away, turning for a final wave before walking down the jet bridge.
A crust eaten in peace is better than a banquet partaken in anxiety.
—AESOP
My plane touched down in PDX at 3:14 p.m. I’d spent the flight in comfortable silence, seated next to a man wearing a North Face jacket and lace-up Keens on his feet.
To offset the spate of tears that had hovered behind my eyes since I’d last laid eyes on Neil, I pictured instead my cousin Letizia’s hypothetical reaction to those Keens.
That thought alone buoyed me enough to get me through the flight without falling apart. All I wanted was to drive home with my brother Alex—likely while listening to U2—and fall asleep on my own bed.
I checked my messages just after the flight landed. One alarm message from my phone, reminding me to find a power source soon. Four texts from Neil, all of them saying that he was home, that he missed me.
Everyone else grabbed their belongings and prepared to launch themselves into the aisle, but I sat and clutched my phone.
I missed him so much my heart ached in my chest. I squeezed my eyes shut and thought about home, about sleep. For a brief second I indulged myself in a fantasy where Neil had actually flown to Portland rather than home, and that he was waiting at my apartment. He’d be there, and I could curl up on the couch with him, rest my head against his chest, and fall asleep.
When had I become that girl—the girl who fell apart when she wasn’t with her boyfriend? In the short amount of time that we’d had together, I’d seen Neil first thing in the morning and last thing at night, day in, day out. And look what had happened.
I was a junkie with a dying cell phone battery.
As I finally disembarked, I reminded myself of how much I loved my little apartment over the restaurant, how much I’d missed Clementine, missed my dog, Gigi.
Heck. I had a whole closet full of clean clothes waiting for me. And new spices in my suitcase waiting to be introduced to the rest of my spice cupboard.
Alex had told me he’d park in short-term parking and meet me at the baggage claim. Once I made it to the carousels, I scanned the crowd for the top of my brother’s blond head.
The head that appeared, though, was the one belonging to my oldest sister, Sophie.
I loved my sister, but I knew in my gut that my hopes and dreams for a quiet reentry into my normal life were, well, a thing of the past.
“Hi,” I said once we were close enough to hold a conversation in a normal speaking voice. “Glad to see you.” I hiked my computer bag higher on my shoulder. “I was expecting Alex.”
“There was a catering emergency, so he called me. Dad’s at the restaurant, trying to train the chef who’s taking over from Nico. The guy came from a James Beard Award–winning restaurant, but you know Dad.”
“I do.”
“And Mom’s still tired from her last treatment.”
I winced. “How’s that going?”
“It’s chemo. What do you expect?”
Okay, then. I yawned, making a show of it. “Sorry,” I said, belatedly covering my mouth. “Jet lag.”
“You must be exhausted. I hate transcontinental flights. Want some help with your suitcase?”
“Sure.” I swung the suitcase around my side and toward my sister.
She grasped the handle and began to pull. “What on earth do you have in here, Juliette?”
“Oh, you know. International contraband of various kinds.”
“Don’t say that!” Sophie hissed, looking from side to side to see if anyone had heard us.
I looked around myself, seeing one TSA agent who seemed to be very interested in the ceiling tiles. “Relax, Soph. It’s just wine and olive oil. And honey. And chocolate. I left the unpasteurized cheeses behind.”
“And your clothes?”
“Eh, I left them behind too.”
“What?”
We finally made it out the doors, and I breathed in a lung full of Portland air. Or, more accurately, the exhaust of a thousand Priuses. “If I didn’t know Chloé was a great kid, I’d think that motherhood made you high strung. The clothes are in there too, I promise.”
“Sorry. It’s just…there’s a lot going on lately.”
“Where’d you park?”
“That way,” Sophie answered, pointing vaguely enough that I had no choice but to follow her questionable lead.
After a hike to the short-term parking, we loaded my luggage into Sophie’s BMW X5. “Do you want water? There are bottles in the back.”
“Yes, please,” I said, selecting a bottle of near-body temperature water. “I get so dried out on planes. So…what all’s going on?” I asked, knowing I could be dipping my toe into a dangerous conversational pond.
She sighed. “Nelson.”
If I’d actually been able to take a drink of the water, her answer would have preceded a spit-take. “Nelson? Why? How?”
Sophie buckled her seat belt, her face stoic. “He’s having a midlife crisis.”
I frowned. “He’s an accountant.”
“Accountants have midlife crises too, you know.”
“You don’t—you don’t think he’s having an affair, do you?”
“Affair? Who said anything about an affair? Why would you say that?”
Deep breaths. “I’m sorry. You said midlife crisis. It was just a question. You can say no.”
“Well, he’s not having an affair.”
“Fine. So…ill-conceived moustache? Sports car?”
“He’s on a diet. He’s not eating carbs.”
Oh. “How do you feel about that?”
Sophie remained silent for two miles. “I’m already allergic to dairy—eliminating pasta is just mean-spirited.”
“That would be a change.”
More silence as Sophie changed lanes.
“What does he want to do?”
Sophie shook her head, laughing incredulously. “He’s…he’s taking up bicycle polo.”
“Wait—what is this?”
“It’s polo, played in a field. With bicycles, rather than horses.”
“And this is Nelson? CPA Nelson? Folds-his-own-trouser-socks Nelson?”
“Nelson, my Nelson, coming home with scrapes and bruises because he’s falling off his bike and who knows what else.”
“Well…huh. It’s like the Portland version of Fight Club, I suppose.” I shook my head. “I left my brain somewhere over the Atlantic, so that’s all I’ve got so far. I suppose it’s good that he’s exercising?”
“Why can’t he just run around like everybody else? Of all people!” Sophie burst out, and then reined herself in. “If you marry Neil—that’s his name, right, Neil?”
“It is his name,” I answered cautiously.
>
“Right. Well, if you marry him, think of having him sign a prenup promising not to give up linguini. He might be—what is he?”
“A research immunologist. Say—do you have a phone charger in here?”
“Just an iPhone charger. You’ve got an Android, right?”
“And proud of it. Oh well. It was worth a shot. But yes, Neil’s in medical research, and to hear him talk about it, he eats macaroni like it’s going out of style.”
Sophie snorted. “Give it ten years and he’ll give it all up and start picking out Paleo recipes from magazines. And…he’s gone a lot more, because of the matches. Reminds me of when I was growing up and I only saw Mom and Dad if one of them was coming or going.”
Even through my jet-lagged haze, I could tell that not only was Sophie genuinely wigged out, but that she didn’t mean much of what she was saying. Rather than deal with the crazy head-on, I patted her hand. “I’m sorry. This must be stressful for you.” I looked out onto the road. “Was it that bad for you? Growing up like we did?”
“The restaurant came first,” she said in a small voice. “If I wanted to see my parents, that’s where I had to be. Some kids are fine with it—some love it. I’ve read the memoirs. But…I don’t know. It was different by the time you came around.”
“I know.”
And I wasn’t just saying that. I knew from stories over the years from my older siblings that while Mom and Dad loved each other, and loved each child with a fierce devotion, the restaurant simply took most of their time.
Sure, we all grew up to be independent self-starters, but I knew that Sophie in particular felt the loss keenly.
In that moment, her life made more sense to me. While I couldn’t fathom most of her thought processes, her desire for a sense of bourgeois normalcy countered the often chaotic childhood she’d known.
I mulled over those thoughts as we continued down the freeway, right past the Burnside exit to my apartment.
“Whoops,” I said. “Don’t worry—you can take the next exit at 6th. There’s a bit of backtracking, but it’s not bad.”
“It’s fine,” Sophie said, waving a casual hand in the air. “We have to pick Chloé up from dance.”
“Oh. Where’s her dance class?”
Reservations for Two Page 7
