Bella Fortuna

by Rosanna Chiofalo

  “But you knew I was alive and well, Salvatore. And you knew I was living in America. Did you know I was living in the same state as you?”

  “Yes, Matteo had told me that you were in New York. But New York is such a large city and state. And for all I knew, you and Nicola might’ve eventually moved to another state or even gone back to Sicily. So many Italians I met returned to our country.”

  “So you never tried to look for me here?”

  “I thought about it, but then I thought what good would come of it? You were married to a good man, and I did not want to disrupt your life.”

  “What makes you so sure you would have disrupted it?”

  “I don’t mean to sound arrogant. But how would that look to your husband? His wife’s first lover returns from the dead and has come to find her? I know how much you loved me, Sera.”

  Olivia had wanted to tell him since she’d arrived at Raquel’s home to stop calling her “Sera,” but she couldn’t. Every time Salvatore said it, a delicious warmth ran throughout her body—the same sensation she experienced all those years ago when she’d been a young girl in Sicily, falling in love for the first time. She hadn’t felt that way since she’d married Nicola. “So you let me continue thinking you were dead for all these years?”

  “It was for the better. You might not see that now, Sera, but in time, you will.”

  Olivia glanced at her watch. It was three o’clock. Two hours had elapsed like a stroke of a magic wand. She still could not believe she was sitting here across from her first love. If what Salvatore had said was true, that there was a reason why they’d been separated, then the opposite was true as well. There was a reason why fate had decided to reunite them. But at the moment, she could not imagine why. It was just a coincidence. But as soon as she thought that, Olivia, with her strong superstitious beliefs, knew very well it could not merely be a coincidence. In fact, it was after Salvatore disappeared that she had begun feeling so superstitious. She was convinced it was Maria Occhiogrosso, one of the girls in her church choir, who had placed the malocchio on her and Salvatore. Ironically, Maria’s last name, “Occhiogrosso,” means “fat eye,” and her eyes seemed to bulge out of her very wide and large forehead. Olivia called her “Fat Eye” behind her back. She’d also caught Maria staring at Salvatore on several occasions and trying to flirt with him. “Fat Eye” had even told her after Salvatore disappeared that he’d probably found a rich American woman and had forgotten all about Olivia.

  Olivia sighed. She hated to admit it, but Salvatore was right. If he’d found her after her marriage to Nicola, it would’ve been a disruption. And even now, she felt his reappearance in her life creating turmoil. She could never tell her daughters about Salvatore. With that thought, she stood up and carried their empty glasses to Raquel’s dishwasher.

  “I should be going. It’s getting late, and I promised my children I’d be back by dinnertime. We’re quite busy at the shop right now.”

  “Of course.”

  Salvatore stood up and began pacing the room again just the way he had earlier, with his arms behind him, hands interlaced, head hung down. He stopped and looked up.

  “Would it be okay if I walked you back to the subway station?”

  “Thank you, Salvatore, but I will be fine.”

  Salvatore nodded and resumed his pacing of Raquel’s living room. He was encircling the Persian rug. Mr. Magoo was staring at him, but he hadn’t budged from the kitchen where he knew more Palline di Limone awaited him. Olivia took two more cookies and placed them in Mr. Magoo’s bowl. She then picked up her purse from the coffee table where she had rested it and gave Raquel’s apartment one last glance to make sure everything was in its place.

  “Are you ready, Salvatore?”

  “Si. Andiamo.”

  They rode the elevator down in silence. When they stepped outside, the awkward silence continued until Olivia broke it.

  “Well, I’m heading back up toward Lexington to catch the subway. Will you be taking a cab down to Penn Station to catch the Long Island Rail Road?”

  “Yes, I’ll catch a cab on First Avenue. Usually, I like to walk when I’m in Manhattan, no matter how far I’m going, but I’m feeling a bit more tired than usual today. So I’d better just hop into a cab.”

  Olivia smiled. “I’m the same way. I love Manhattan and walking around her streets forever. We used to live here, you know, but down on the Lower East Side. That neighborhood has changed since I lived there. It’s much nicer now, but it still had a certain unique charm, which seems to be disappearing every day.”

  “I’d like to hear more about your life back then, Sera. Would it be okay if I called you again?”

  “I don’t know, Salvatore. This has all been a big shock for me. I’m still taking it all in. I just don’t know.”

  “I understand. No worries. I hope you don’t mind if Francesca still keeps her appointment at the bridal shop. She really has her heart set on getting a dress at your store. But if you’d rather not, I can find a way to explain to her.”

  “No, no, that won’t be necessary. It would be my pleasure to help her.”

  “Grazie. I won’t accompany her.”

  “That’s all right, Salvatore. I could tell she wanted your approval when you first came to the shop. You have to be there. You’re her only family. Just because I don’t think it’s a good idea for us to meet again alone doesn’t mean that I can’t see you with your niece at the shop. It’s business, after all.”

  “Well, if you’re sure about that, then va bene. I don’t want to make you feel any more uncomfortable than I already have. Thank you, Sera.”

  “There’s just one favor I have to ask of you, Salvatore.”

  “Of course. Anything.”

  “Please don’t call me ‘Sera’ when you come to the shop. If my daughters hear, they’ll be wondering what’s going on.”

  “As you wish, Mrs. DeLuca.”

  Salvatore smiled. He picked up her hand and placed a kiss on it. A cab stopped in front of Raquel’s building to let out a passenger. Salvatore ran up to the cab and asked the driver to wait. He waved to Olivia and called out “Arrivederci! I’ll see you on Saturday, Mrs. DeLuca.”

  Hearing herself referred to as “Mrs. DeLuca” made Olivia feel matronly and all of the fifty years she now was. Before the cab pulled away, Salvatore lowered the window and waved again to Olivia. She waved back. Their eyes locked, and they continued staring at each other until the cab went down the street and was out of sight.

  Pulling out her cell phone, Olivia dialed Raquel’s number.

  “You can come home. I’m on my way to the subway.”

  “No, you’re not. You’re having dinner with me and telling me what’s going on. You didn’t think I’d let you get away so easily, Olivia, did you?”

  “I’m drained, Raquel. I promise I will tell you everything, but not tonight. I need some time to myself.”

  Raquel heaved a long sigh over the phone.

  “Okay. But I am dying of suspense here. I’m coming to Astoria tomorrow, and we’ll go have coffee somewhere quiet. And you’re going to tell me who this man is and what all this mystery is about.”

  “That’s fine. Just please don’t breathe a word of it in front of Connie and Rita.”

  Olivia shut her cell phone. She took her silk scarf out of her purse and knotted it under her chin. Then, she put on her large black sunglasses. In this hot weather, she really didn’t need the scarf, but she couldn’t be too careful in making sure no one recognized her. The chances of running into her nosy neighbors from Astoria here in Manhattan were slim, but she’d rather be safe than sorry. As Olivia took her time making her way back up to Lexington Avenue, she thought of how she was actually looking forward to confiding in Raquel about Salvatore. She was still feeling the weight of his suddenly dropping into her life and everything he’d told her. And though Olivia was not going to admit this to Raquel, she was terrified. For her gut was telling her that things were far
from over between herself and Salvatore.

  20

  The Real Valentina

  St. Mark’s Square is full of people as usual, but the fact that it’s Friday only adds to the crowds. Italians from neighboring regions of Italy often spend their weekends in Venice. I am standing in front of St. Mark’s Basilica, right by the front entrance, waiting for Stefano. I’ve chosen to wear a strapless white dress made of cotton and a touch of spandex, which is enough to accentuate all of my curves. Since it’s quite warm, I opt not to throw on the melon-colored cardigan that matches my melon-colored strappy sandals. Holding my sweater is making my palms sweaty, so I drape it over my purse. There isn’t a bigger turnoff on a first date than clammy hands. But this isn’t a date, as I have to keep reminding myself. Yet repeating over and over “This is not a date” is useless. For tonight feels just like the other times when I’ve gotten ready for one.

  I glance down at my cleavage and pull the top of my dress up even though this dress doesn’t have a tendency to slide down like the strapless top I’d been wearing at lunch the other day. Unlike last time, my breasts are adequately covered now. Why can’t I just relax and accept that it’s okay to let some skin show? My hair is swept up in a loose chignon. Tendrils of hair frame my face. My eyes look sultry, shadowed in deep shades of plum and outlined with smoky eyeliner. Elongated silver hoops dangle from my earlobes.

  My heart thumps erratically as I spot Stefano making his way toward St. Mark’s Basilica. He seems to be engrossed in the conversation he’s having on his cell phone and is gesturing animatedly with his free hand. Tonight, he wears the palest gray linen pants with a snug white V-neck shirt that shows off his perfect tan. V-neck shirts are his specialty, and I can see why. The shirts seem to be made for him with his bronze complexion and well-defined shoulders, pecs, and biceps. Just like the V-neck he’d worn yesterday, this tee has a silky texture to it, tempting me to glide my hand over the smooth fabric and feel the outline of his toned muscles. Stop it! I mentally chide myself. What’s the matter with me? Or rather what is it about this man that evokes so many sexual fantasies? Last night, I’d even dreamed he was making love to me.

  Stefano closes his phone and turns his attention to the front of the Basilica. His walk slows down a bit as he sees me. His eyes travel the full length of my body and rest at my feet. Please, God, don’t make him have a foot fetish!

  There I go again, acting as if I’m considering him boyfriend material. I take a deep breath and mentally prep myself for what this is: just an innocent outing with a guide who is used to being friendly with tourists. It’s not a date with a sinfully delicious species of Italian male who makes every nerve in my body sing to the heavens and ache to be touched. Oh no! What is he doing now? His eyes are traveling slowly, and I mean slowly, back up the length of my body until they rest dead center on my eyes.

  Instead of looking away, I stare right back into his eyes. Narrowing my own gaze as Stefano is so good at doing, I slowly run my tongue over my lower lip, and then I give him a hint of a smile. Am I out of my mind? Yes, but I can’t stop myself.

  I wave and begin walking toward him, strutting my hips as sensually as I can. Nothing is going to happen with him later. I’m sure of that. I’m just having a little fun. After all, I am in Venice—city of romance. Why shouldn’t I flirt a little? Because you’re playing with fire. I ignore the warning voices in my head.

  “Buona sera, Stefano.” I kiss him on both cheeks, surprising Stefano with my boldness. The surprise only lasts momentarily. His lips widen into a deep grin, and his eyes are radiant.

  “Ciao, Valentina. You look stunning. I almost did not recognize you with your hair up. It suits you very well. You should wear it like that more often.”

  “Grazie.”

  Stefano is staring at my hair as if gold is piled on top of it, and he’s only just discovered this newfound wealth. His gaze then rests on my neck. Is he a vampire, and I don’t know it? Hell, if vampires look this hot, they can turn me any time.

  Ughhhh!!! There I go again. Stop thinking of this man as anything other than a friend. You are not attracted to him. He’s too old for you. He is just a friend. He is just a friend. I can will my mind to believe anything. He is just a friend. This is not a date. I repeat, not a date. Then why do I feel like a giddy schoolgirl who is on her first date?

  “Is something the matter, Valentina? You look upset.”

  “Oh no, I’m just thinking about some things that I need to do tomorrow before I can relax and see more of the city.”

  “Meno male. I was beginning to get worried you were getting sick again.” He flashes a sly smile at me. Damn him! He’s noticed the effect his presence has on me and doesn’t believe for a second that I’d truly not felt well the other times I’d run into him.

  Determined not to show him that he can fluster me anymore, I casually say, “I’m looking forward to our gondola ride.”

  Again, the look of surprise registers on Stefano’s face.

  “I’m happy to hear that. I am looking forward to it, too. I had a long day, so it will be nice to just relax and be in the company of such a beautiful woman.”

  I lock my arm in his—a common custom of Italians who are strolling about for their passeggiattas along the piazzas—and lead him away from the Basilica toward the dockside. I pretend to be looking straight ahead at the Grand Canal, but out of my peripheral vision, I can see Stefano is staring at me. He looks amused. I shouldn’t be doing this. I’m teasing the man. But I can’t stop myself. Some other person has taken hold of my body and is propelling my actions forward.

  Stefano stops walking. “Why don’t we have an aperitif before taking the gondola?”

  Of course, the Italian in him has to be in charge. I won’t have it.

  “Better yet, why don’t we purchase a bottle of wine and drink it on the gondola? You were right. I can’t believe I’ve been in Venice for five days and have not taken a gondola yet! I just can’t wait any longer.”

  He knows I’ve got him with my last sentence. Touché! I mentally pat my back.

  Not waiting for Stefano’s answer, I lead him toward the nearest shop that I know sells wine. It’s common for people to take bottles of wine or Prosecco on their gondola rides.

  “Okay. As you wish.”

  I let Stefano choose the wine. I’m not going to completely emasculate him. He buys two bottles of Prosecco.

  We make our way to the dockside, where plenty of gondolas waft gently on the quiet waters. Stefano begins haggling with several gondolieri, who know him of course, to get the best rate. After paying, Stefano helps me board the gondola. He sits opposite me and wastes no time in opening the bottle of Prosecco with a miniature corkscrew that is attached to his key ring.

  I laugh. “I see you’re ready.”

  “I have to be. My walking tours at night sometimes include a gondola ride, and the tourists like to have a bottle of wine or Prosecco, but most of them forget they’ll need a corkscrew opener.”

  Expertly, he pops the corkscrew and takes paper cups out of the bag that holds the Prosecco.

  “I’m sorry I don’t have real glasses. It’s a sin to drink wine out of paper.”

  “Tsk . . . tsk . . . you’re not as prepared as I thought. That’s one point against you.”

  Stefano smiles. “So we’re counting points now, are we? What happens when I get too many points? Or should I ask, what doesn’t happen if I get too many points?”

  Stefano’s devilish smile returns as he pours the Prosecco into my cup.

  “It’s a surprise.”

  “Ahhh! A surprise. I like surprises.”

  Taking the lead once more, I toast Stefano.

  “Salute! To your health and business. May you give tours forever.”

  He laughs. “I’m not sure that’s such a great toast. I don’t want to give tours forever. But thank you for toasting to my health. Salute!”

  We tap our cups. I watch him. He seems to know that I have now turned the
tables and am blatantly staring at him. I can tell he doesn’t like to be scrutinized, but he doesn’t say anything. He merely acts as if he hasn’t noticed that I’m checking him out.

  “So what would you like to do forever?”

  “Scusa? What do you mean?”

  “You said you don’t want to give tours forever. So what would you like to do forever instead?”

  “Ahhh.” Stefano gestures with his hands as if to show me they’re empty, and he’s at a loss. “I don’t know.” He looks out once more across the canal.

  After a few minutes have elapsed, he replies, “I always thought that maybe someday I would go back to school and get my doctorate in art history so that I could teach at university.”

  “That would be wonderful, Stefano! You should do it. You already are so knowledgeable on the subject, and I can tell you have a real passion for it.”

  “You think so?”

  The usual confidence he exudes is absent. It’s refreshing to see him vulnerable.

  “Yes, absolutely. I can totally picture you teaching in college. You’re a very social person. The students would like you immediately, and you have a way of making your lectures interesting. You don’t just recite your tours like a robot. You engage your students and have them participate. Yes, I think being a college professor is your true calling.”

  “Perhaps.”

  A shadow casts over Stefano’s features as he looks out over the Grand Canal.

  “Why are you doubtful?”

  “For one thing, I’m much older now. By the time I am finished with school, I’ll be in my fifties. I would not be able to work as much while I’m in school. Essentially, I’ll be starting over again. It will be difficult.”

  “Anything worth having in life is difficult.”

  “Vero.” Stefano sighs deeply. “I guess I have to decide how much I want it.”

  “You’ll figure it out. I’m sure of it.” I pour more Prosecco into each of our cups and raise mine in toast to him again. “To your future. Whatever you decide, may you prosper and be happy. Salute!”