All the Way to Heaven

by Becky Doughty

  And then, as though I’d timed it with the universe, somewhere off in the distance, like a prelude to my story, someone started singing. “Volare, oh, oh, cantare, oh, oh, oh, oh….”

  “I wanted to come to Italy, and it turned out that now was a good time.” I paused, knowing that would not satisfy them. To my surprise, neither of them spoke, but waited patiently for me to open up. I sensed them settling in for a story. Isa’s fingers slowed, toying with a single black curl, Madalina’s hand, still in mine, squeezing encouragingly. “I fell in love with the wrong man.”

  They both sighed on cue, making me smile even as my eyes burned with unshed tears. Something about this place had taken a hold of me, opening my eyes to the sheer drama of life here, the vitality of love as a language, one that was spoken in every hand gesture, every meal, every conversation. It made me less ashamed of my heartache, knowing I’d receive succor and not ridicule in the sharing of my experience.

  “Oh, Ani.” Isa’s murmur was a comforting caress when I finished my tragic tale.

  “So. You fly away to Italy with your broken heart.” Madalina’s sympathy was palpable.

  “It is not good to be alone with a broken heart, tesora,” Isa stated. She’d used that endearment with Madalina, too, and even though I didn’t know what it meant, it made me feel part of this small circle on a deeper level.

  “No, Ani. It is not good,” Madalina agreed. “But you have friends in Italy now, and you are no longer alone, yes?”

  I thought of what Paulo had said the other day about my misfortunes, and the friends I had as a result of them. Madalina got a knee under her, leaned forward, and placed a kiss on my forehead.

  “We will help you heal your heart as well as your bones,” Isa declared, patting the top of my right foot. “Tonight, we eat, drink and forget about our troubles, yes?”

  “Sounds good to me.”

  Outside my window, carried to us by the wind we sang of, the crooner belted out another chorus of Volare. “I can’t believe they actually sing that song here.” It seemed so cliché, like I’d brought a bit of Hollywood with me.

  “Ani,” Isa laughed. “Volare belonged to Italy long before Dean Martin carried it away to the American stage.”

  Madalina scooted off the bed and stood, shaking out her skirts. “Enough of the sad thoughts!” She reached for Isa’s hand and pulled her to her feet. “Come, Signora Elegante. We shall sing and dance for Princess Grace!”

  I sang along with them, clapping when I couldn’t recall the words. It was the heart of the song that mattered, though, not the language in which it was sung. And beneath the lovely voices of the women who sashayed together around the room for me, was the beating of my own heart, steady and strong.

  Jacob had not broken it after all.

  When the three of us had relished a little longer in the delight of female friendship, giggling helplessly when Madalina suggested the men were also in the other room dancing and singing Volare together, the soccer game turned up loud so we wouldn’t know, I asked Isa if we should go help with dinner.

  Margarite, the cook and general housekeeper, she assured me, would chase us from the kitchen with her biggest pot if we tried to interfere. “Sunday dinner is her favorite meal to prepare. She plans it all week long. Sometimes, I even catch her writing down last minute adjustments to the meal in church.” She snickered, the fit of giggles not completely dissipated yet. “No, Ani. We wait until she tells Mama the meal is ready, then we go sit down and tell Margarite how incredible the food is. It is tradition.”

  Madalina was across the hall in the bathroom rearranging her curls with deft hands. The doors were open between us so she wouldn’t miss anything we said, and she called out, “I am so happy to be invited to dinner, Isa. Paulo, he is full of frowns and arguments today, but perhaps if we make him full of good food instead, he will smile for us, no?”

  “I think the only thing to make Paulo smile is to send Cosimo back to town,” Isa retorted. Her dark head was bent over my leg as she adjusted my brace for me after slipping a warm sock over my foot. The sun had yet to make its exit, but there was a chill in the air that promised a crisp autumn evening out on the terrace. My bare foot wouldn’t be able to handle the cold.

  “Oh no, Isa. Paulo would smile for Princess Grace, but she only has eyes for your Uncle Cosimo.” Madalina’s voice rang out from across the hall, followed by her laughter.

  I reached forward and put a hand on Isa’s. In a hushed voice, I said, “I thought Madalina and Paulo were together.”

  She furrowed her brow like she didn’t understand my meaning.

  “A couple?”

  She shook her head, a quick, birdlike movement that made her hair swish along her jawline. “No.” She glanced past my shoulder at the door, but I could hear Madalina humming quietly to herself in the other room.

  “Oh.” I bit my lip, my perception of things reshuffling. “She calls him amore.”

  “Yes.” She smiled warmly, her voice dropping to just above a whisper, but she didn’t expound. Her reticence frustrated me, especially after the intimacy the three of us had just shared. She patted my knee instead. “How does it feel? Okay?”

  I nodded, wanting to know more, but when I opened my mouth to ask, she shook her head again, a little more forcefully. Something in the motion made me turn to look over my shoulder at what she was seeing. Standing outside the open bathroom door was Paulo, his back to us, watching Madalina.

  The tone of her singing had changed, so I knew she knew he was there. Her voice scooped up the lines a little more, giving the song a bit of vaudeville. “Sing Volare with me, Paulo!” she chirped between lines. She said it in English, loudly enough for us to hear, and we both burst out giggling.

  Poor Paulo. He turned around to see us laughing at his expense, and then Madalina stepped up behind him and placed her hands on his hips, forcing them to sway back and forth as she sang.

  “Dance with me, Paulo! We show Signora Elegante and Princess Grace your moves!”

  And he smiled. He was laughing at himself. And the sight of it made me happy. He turned around and put his hands on Madalina’s waist and the two of them moved together, his voice joining hers, a low foundation supporting her dulcet tones.

  When the song was over, he dipped her backward, and brought her back up again with a flourish. Paulo Durante surely did have moves. He murmured something to her and she chucked him on the chin, playfully, but I caught her hushed, earnest words.

  “Restermo, Paulo. Per favore.” She was asking him to stay. I stilled, waiting for his answer, and was surprised at my relief when he finally nodded, almost imperceptibly from here. In fact, it was Madalina’s dazzling smile that confirmed his response.

  A moment later, Cosimo’s voice rang out from the front room.

  “Time to eat, my friends!” He clapped exuberantly as he made his way down the hall toward my room, the soles of his Italian shoes clipping expensively on the stone tiles. “Is everyone hungry?”

  In fact, I was famished, a good sign I was on the mend.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  Dinner on the terrace was everything I’d imagined and more. When Cosimo wheeled me out under the portcullis, the sun was trailing its last rays of color in its wake as it disappeared beyond the far hills. Wind whispered romantic thoughts in everyone’s ears as it stirred the air around us. The table was, indeed, covered in creamy linen cloths, a row of impossibly tall tapers elegant in fragile glass hurricanes running down the middle of it. Strings of bare bulbs threaded through the framework overhead laced with wisteria, climbing roses, and other vining plants. All around the terrace were lanterns and pillar candles in various containers. Within the hour, the spilled sunset would transform into the glow of flickering light against a velvet night sky.

  My still life had taken its first breath.

  The place settings were crammed in, just as I’d envisioned it, and diners found their seats, bumping elbows and hips as they jostled for position. I sa
t at the end of the row on one side. Cosimo held court beside me at the foot of the table, Franco, with Claudia on his right, sat at the head. I wondered briefly how the hierarchy worked, since Franco had married into the Lazzaro family. It was clear that he, indeed, was the master of the house, but where did that leave Cosimo? People I didn’t recognize had joined us for the meal, contributing to the tight fit around the table, but introductions were made all around, and I did my best to commit names to memory.

  It hadn’t occurred to me until this evening how many of the men’s names ended with ‘o’ and how many of the women’s names ended with ‘a’ in this country. Paulo. Cosimo. Franco. Isa, Claudia, even Madalina, although she was Romanian. Benito, the mill foreman, and his wife, Gilda, and their two small children, Taddeo and Mirella.

  A neighboring couple, the Morettis, had been invited to join us, their teenage daughter sitting beside Isa, whom she clearly idolized. I noticed the girl, Rosalba, checking out Paulo, and once again, with his features relaxed and his smile at the ready, I saw how young he really was.

  In shallow white bowls at each place, a purple radicchio leaf cradled a serving of insalata caprese; three slices of red tomato alternating with three slices of mozzarella, drizzled with olive oil and topped with a sprinkling of chopped basil leaves, minced garlic, salt, and pepper. Antipesto platters of paper-thin slices of prosciutto curling artistically around grilled baby vegetables and sautéed mushroom caps were placed at intervals around the table, while Margarite and a young woman Isa had informed me earlier was their neighbor’s new cook here to help for the night, poured wine all around.

  “Nilda is still learning,” Mrs. Moretti leaned close and murmured to me about the pretty girl filling goblets. “Margarite is kind to teach her.”

  When everyone had settled, Franco stood and raised his glass. A hush fell over the table like someone had muted the volume. I could have sworn half the sentences were left hanging unfinished in the air, but everyone simply stopped talking, giving way to the man of the house. In English, and in only a few words, which seemed his style whatever language, Franco thanked everyone for being there. In Italian, he proposed an even shorter toast to which we all chimed in with cries of “Alla salute!” and “Cin cin!” That was followed by a concise, but heartfelt blessing over the food, then he sat down, and the conversation rose back into high volume as folks began to sample the appetizers before them.

  Margarite beamed as she bustled around the table, whisking empty dishes and dirty forks away from the diners, and receiving well-deserved compliments with humble nods and rosy cheeks.

  Then Cosimo stood with his glass in hand, and the chatter around us fell silent again. “I wish to raise a glass to old friends,” he nodded at Benito and Gilda. “Young friends,” he winked at Rosalba, who flushed prettily and stuck her nose in her glass. “Family friends,” he gave a nod to the matronly Margarite who’d just stepped out of the French doors with a loaded tray, then to Gerardo and Franco. Claudia and Isa, in a motion that could only have come from a mother and daughter who’d spent much time in each other’s company, both reached out and brushed gentle fingers over the forearms of their husbands. “And to new friends.” He smiled at Madalina, and by association, Paulo, then turned and lifted his glass to me, holding my gaze while he said, “May you find a home for your heart in the heart of our home.”

  “Cin cin! Cin cin!” Between the clinking glasses and the long sips of wine, I didn’t think anyone noticed the heated color in my face, and if they did, I hoped they’d attribute it to the flush of good health and better company. I smiled adoringly up at Cosimo, wishing for the life of me there was no such thing as regrets. Wishing I could just enjoy myself and not get hurt. Wishing….

  My gaze drifted over to Paulo, who sat across from me but a few chairs down. His full attention was on Madalina and a story she was spinning to those close by, and the look on his face spoke volumes about the way he felt for her. For some reason I wasn’t quite ready to admit, for a few moments, I’d hoped he hadn’t seen the look I’d just shared with Cosimo… but after watching him drool over Madalina for a few moments, in spite of Isa’s claims that they weren’t a couple, I kind of hoped he had seen it.

  Because it actually was like that already, I decided, glaring at Paulo and Madalina over the lip of my glass. If they weren’t a couple before tonight, then the long drive home would surely get them there, by the look of things. Well, why couldn’t I enjoy the romance of this country, too? I was stuck here for at least another week or more, awaiting my leg to heal, waiting for a new passport, a new credit card, and Cosimo was definitely interested in romancing me. I took a deep breath and made up my mind. I was a big girl. I could do this. And the resulting heartbreak would just make the story better in the long run, right? Besides, I was now experienced in the broken heart department. I knew one could survive it.

  I turned back to drink in a little more of my doctor’s profile and a little more than that of the heady wine in my hand.

  The rest of the meal came in wave after wave of food and refilled glasses. The first course was a creamy, but spicy cannelloni and panceta soup, a perfect counterpart to the slight chill in the air, and served with crusty slices of bread. Small bowls of an olive spread Cosimo called olivada circled the table repeatedly, accompanied by exclamations of delight directed at Margarite, who kept Nilda busy refilling serving dishes and replenishing bread baskets.

  Cosimo nudged me with his knee under the table. His smile was warm as he pushed my glass of carbonated water toward me, the tiny bubbles shooting to the surface, dislodged by the movement. “Remember to drink this, too, bellisima.” I nodded agreeably and took a sip.

  Margarite served the next course, a blackened pork sausage smothered in some kind of chopped leaf that tasted like broccoli, while Nilda handed Franco a platter of stuffed artichokes, quartered for ease of serving, to be passed around the table. Each course came with ramekins of glistening olives that kept appearing among the serving dishes. I couldn’t get enough of them.

  I sat in awe of the food that kept coming. I had to force myself to slow down and really savor the delightful presentation, textures, and flavors before me. This meal wasn’t about eating one’s fill—there was no fear of that not happening—but about satiating all the senses.

  By the time dessert was served, I thought I’d burst before I could eat another bite of anything. But the moment I laid eyes on what Margarite called her famous hazelnut cream cake, I knew I’d have to find room for at least one forkful.

  I ate a huge piece. By myself. And a chocolate dipped almond biscotti with my tiny cup of espresso. The second one.

  When Franco stood up again almost two hours after we’d all commenced, I was experiencing an intense sugar and caffeine high through a haze created by rich food and fine wine.

  “My family and friends.” Franco spoke in Italian, and Cosimo leaned over and translated, his mouth so close to my ear I could feel his breath fanning the curls at my neck. I shivered pleasurably. “Thank you for sharing our table. We are grateful for each one of you here. Margarite, you have outdone yourself, and Nilda, thank you for your contribution to this fantastic meal. Claudia, my sweet Claudia,” he turned and lifted his wife’s hand to his lips. “As you do every night, you outshine the brightest star in the heavens. I am a man richly blessed by each of you here this night. Thank you.”

  A warm hand covered mine where it rested on the table beside my glass, and I looked down to see Cosimo’s long fingers curling around my own in a languid caress. I had an odd sensation of being disembodied, but his touch anchored me, and I held on to him.

  Franco paused for effect, and the group stilled in anticipation, but grew surprisingly serious, I noticed. He bowed his head briefly and raised his glass. “We have food on our table and a place to rest our heads at the end of the day. We celebrate God’s provision.”

  Subdued murmurs of agreement rippled around the table and folks sipped their drinks quietly, as though they wer
e waiting for the real toast, the real announcement to come. Cosimo especially, I noticed, sat very still, watching Franco, his eyes shadowed, reminding me of the way he’d looked in my room last night. His fingers around mine tightened considerably, and when I tried to pull away, he relaxed his grip, but didn’t let go.

  Franco only raised his glass high. “Whatever the future holds, we will remain!” His voice, as full and throaty as one would assume would come from a bear-shaped man, rolled around the table like an oak barrel, and the thought drifted through my mind that if I reached out the next time his words lumbered my way, I’d feel them passing between my fingers. I didn’t try it, but only because Cosimo’s thumb was doing mind-numbing things to my palm.

  Echoes of “We will remain!” rose in the air above the table, in both Italian and in English. The sudden burst of noise roused little Taddeo from where he slept on his father’s lap across from me, and he let out a cry of outrage. Within moments, though, he recalled where he was, his mouth curving up in a small smile of embarrassment. He settled back against Benito’s chest, his lids drifting closed again to a chorus of adoring oohs and ahs.

  I wondered what wasn’t being said and the questions must have been evident on my face when I turned to look at Cosimo.

  “I will tell you more later. Tonight.” Those words, murmured so close to my cheek, were like precursors to kisses, and made my toes curl. On both feet.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  My gaze drifted slowly over those gathered around this table, then came to rest on Paulo. Lids narrowed in speculation, he stared boldly at me, and I flinched in slow motion, my free hand coming up to tuck a wayward curl behind my ear. I tipped my head in order to bring him into clearer focus. He tipped his head, too, mirroring me. I blinked, my eyes opening back up a little slower than I’d expected them to.