I’m sorry, my love. I didn’t know. I would’ve taken you to Italy on the tour of a lifetime, like I promised so many times.
I grunted, but how could I be mad at his ghost? I’d longed to travel to my parents’ homeland for years. It was always the big trip that would happen one day—when Frannie grew older; when we had more money; when work eased enough to take a long vacation. It never happened. I was left with the strains of Frank Sinatra in my kitchen, making homemade pasta and dreaming of the rolling Tuscan hills I ached to see. I wanted my feet on the same ground my mother had walked and to hear the lilt of Italian drifting in the air. One day. Always one day . . .
The thought was so fragile, so delicate; it brushed my mind like gossamer wings. As I covered the seeds with fresh dirt, making sure to turn and dampen the soil, the possibility began to form and take shape.
I paused, gazing down at a small worm frantically trying to dig back into the moist darkness of home. And I was suddenly struck by an innate instinct of what I needed to do.
I would take my family to Italy.
I could go this summer. It’d be Allegra’s last opportunity before college, and a birthday celebration. Frannie hadn’t taken a vacation in years. We’d have time to bond as a family and rediscover one another.
The trowel fell from my grip. Excitement unfurled in my belly, and for the first time in a while, I felt brilliantly alive. I’d probably have a hard time convincing Frannie. She worked nonstop on her deals, chasing the next one with a furious intent that left no room for any other type of pleasure. As for Allegra, maybe she’d be excited to try something new. An adventure. A way to escape.
The thoughts churned in my mind, the details still blurry, but I already knew I’d made my decision. I would make this happen. A summer filled with the possibility of change—which we all desperately needed. The backdrop of a beautiful country and a foreign culture would be enough to push us all together again. Remind them all that roots and blood and family were everything.
Some things can’t be fixed with a different location, my love. Remember that.
Another ripple of pain wove its way through my gut, almost in warning. I pressed a dirty palm against my apron. But time can. And I can give us all that. For now.
You need to go to the doctor.
Can ghosts worry? I smiled at the thought, his presence pulsing around me. I had figured spirits brought cold, from all the movies I’d seen, but Jack was always like warm sunshine wrapping around me.
I will. Right after the trip. I promise.
I didn’t want anything used as an excuse not to go, including my health. I waited to see if he’d yell or scold me, but the air seemed to let loose a breath like a shrinking balloon, and I knew he was gone.
I’d never planned a big trip before, but maybe I’d go to an old-fashioned travel agent instead of surfing sites on the computer and ending up confused. I’d talk to a real person and explain I wanted it to be a surprise. There had to be a way to convince them what an opportunity this would be.
Sunday. At dinner. I’d make sure they both came—I’d been wanting to cook that turkey in the freezer for a while—and I’d break the news. Maybe I could even get some of those pretty brochures. A tour would be perfect. We’d be safe with a guide and get to see multiple cities. Though I would love to stay in Tuscany for a while and soak in the local flavor. Maybe I could combine a tour with a short stay.
Suddenly, I didn’t want to garden anymore. An adrenaline rush skated through my blood, giving me extra energy I hadn’t experienced in a while, even when I was on those super-energy organic vitamins Francesca swore by. I quickly packed up my tools, jumping up from the ground instead of slowly unfolding my old body, enjoying the bounce in my step. I had a new purpose, bigger than the threat of illness or worry about convincing my girls to accompany me overseas.
This could be the most important trip of a lifetime.
I walked inside and began making a list of all the things I needed to accomplish.
CHAPTER FOUR
Allegra
Nonni’s house always gave me a cozy, safe feeling I thought was missing in my own. Mom loved the color white, so at home everything was neutral and looked like fresh snow—pristine and clean and untouched. Even though my room had a pretty pink chandelier, fancy furniture, and a queen-size bed with black raspberry satin sheets, it felt like too much space. Nonni’s house was like being wrapped up in a tight hug. She preferred colors like brown, gold, and deep red, always citing white as showing the dirt too easily. There were thick carpets and lived-in furniture that cushioned my butt when I sat. The kitchen was always filled with amazing smells like tangy garlic, fresh tomatoes, sweet basil, and citrusy lemon. The oak table was round so everyone felt close. The best part was the clutter. It was clean—I could tell from the lemon furniture polish scent, and there were never any crumbs on the counters or dust—but there was interesting stuff. Endless pictures crammed into every inch of space on the tables, paintings of beautiful Italian landscapes on the walls, books and magazines with thick, glossy pages stacked up. Yards of colorful yarn with crochet needles and half-knit projects of afghans and pillows littered the living room. Knickknacks of shot glasses, heavy glass ashtrays, scented candles, mini statues of the Virgin Mary and St. Francis, and mementos from my mom’s childhood, from twisted pottery to macaroni art for Girl Scouts, filled the shelves.
I always loved picking through them and hearing my grandmother’s stories about each item. It was a nice reminder that once Mom was a child, too, and not always perfect.
I watched Nonni get up to retrieve more lemonade before I could get it myself—she was always able to anticipate every need of mine before me—and took in her wince of pain. She rubbed her stomach and plucked the pitcher of freshly squeezed juice, laying it on the table.
“Nonni, are you okay? Did you hurt yourself?”
She looked startled, then smiled and shook her head. “No, just a bit of indigestion. I made a pot of that escargot and bean soup I used to love, but beans don’t agree with me anymore.” She made a face. “Gives me gas.”
I laughed. “Can’t be as bad as sitting next to Curt in English class. He farts so bad the teacher needs to open the windows. Even in winter.”
She laughed, too, and poured me a cup. “How are your classes going? Are you ready for finals?”
I shoveled in a forkful of salad, making sure I snagged a green olive. The tangy oil and vinegar with just the right amount of salt and seasoning was my favorite. “I think so. Just not sure about the Regents in Italian. I suck at foreign languages.”
She clucked her tongue but her brown eyes were warm. “Silly girl. You were born to speak the language of our ancestors, but you are learning the proper way. I spoke some of the rough dialect of Naples from my mother. It’s not the same.”
“Yeah, but they make me do all these conjugations and stupid stuff. I’m never going to write a book in Italian. I just want to speak it so one day I can go to Italy.”
She cocked her head and studied me like I’d said something interesting. “Would you like that? To take a trip to Italy?”
I ate more salad and nodded. “Sure. Maybe on my honeymoon or something. How come you never went?”
Her face softened into a wistful expression. For a moment, it made me sad, wondering what types of regrets my grandmother might have. But she always told me she loved her life, even though she missed Pop Pop. Funny, I watched my mother run around trying to rule the world and wondered if she was even happy. With Nonni, she lived more simply and seemed more satisfied. I hated the way my mom rolled her eyes at the stuff Nonni said, like she was making fun of my grandmother because she didn’t run a big business. Like that should equal a person’s worth.
“Time goes fast,” she said with a sigh. “I always wanted to go with Pop Pop and your mom, but I blinked and she was grown up and not interested in traveli
ng with us anymore. We always felt like there’d be time next year.”
“I’m sorry,” I said, reaching out to squeeze her hand. It looked delicate and frail, but she squeezed back hard.
“Don’t worry about me—I’ve had my time. Your final track race is Friday, right?”
I nodded. “Coach said we can bring stuff for a party afterward.”
“I’ll make chocolate chip cookies for the team,” she said firmly. “You did so well, Allegra. You broke your own record from fall! Would you want to run on a scholarship?”
Pride shot through me. I hated tennis, but running gave me a sense of freedom, plus I could do it mostly alone. But the idea of owing a college all my extra time to run on a team, and dealing with my mother’s pressure, wasn’t a great incentive. Once again, the confusion of what was going to happen next year rushed through me. “I like running, but I don’t think enough to go after a scholarship.”
As if she sensed my frustration, she waved a hand in the air. “Then don’t. You’re a smart girl, and you’ll figure it out. Don’t pressure yourself by thinking you need to know everything before you turn eighteen.”
“Mom does,” I muttered. “You know she keeps a running spreadsheet of my grades so she always knows my current GPA? I wish she’d chill out.”
Sympathy glowed in her eyes. “Your mother’s worried about you. You’re at a difficult age, and she doesn’t want you to make any mistakes. I’m sure she’s doing the best she can.”
I thought of my decision to join my new friends this summer and how Mom would lose it. Somehow, I had to convince her I just wanted to have an experience on my own. God knows, she’d probably be MIA the entire time anyway, leaving me bored and stranded for two months. “If she was worried, she’d be home more. Or at my track meets if she’s so hot on me getting a scholarship. All she cares about is her job.”
I hated the worry etched in my grandmother’s frown, but I was tired of pretending. When I was with my mom, there was nothing left to say other than all the surface subjects a stranger would ask about. The worst part? I’d spent too much time mad at her, or sad, trying desperately to gain her attention. Now I kept telling myself I didn’t care and it was her loss. Soon I’d be in college and living my own life. I needed to concentrate on the future.
“She’s so much like your grandfather,” Nonni finally said. “I remember he used to believe working nonstop meant he was taking care of the family. That’s how he knew how to show love. It took a while for him to realize we wanted his attention and time more than nice things.”
I wish I’d known Pop Pop, but he died before I was born. I liked the way my grandmother spoke about him, with love still in her eyes and her voice soft. I dreamed of loving another person that deeply, for so long. I noticed Nonni rubbing her belly again, so I switched the subject. I hated upsetting her. “It’s okay, I’m just stressed and have a lot on my mind.”
Her face softened. She was beautiful, with her thick gray hair and almond-shaped brown eyes. It was cool she still loved wearing makeup and pink lipstick and a hint of perfume that always smelled like lilacs and not that yucky old-lady smell like mothballs. “I know, sweet girl. But I have a surprise I wanted to talk to you and Mom about on Sunday. Maybe it will help.”
“What kind of surprise?”
“I want to tell you together,” she said, folding her hands on the table. “I’m sure your mom’s big presentation will be over soon, and we’ll spend the afternoon together. Maybe even go see a movie.”
“Horror?”
She sighed, pretending to think about it. “No nudity. But some blood is okay.”
I laughed, wondering what the surprise was. “Okay, I can wait. But Mom will never come. She had to walk out on Toy Story 4 for a client, so I don’t invite her anymore. Want to play pinochle?”
Nonni pursed her lips as if she wanted to defend Mom but then fell silent.
Good. Maybe she’d finally run out of excuses.
Cards were revered with Nonni, and I’d learned young how to play lots of games, from poker and war to bridge, but pinochle was my favorite. I wished I could tell her my plans for the summer, but I suspected it would be better if I let them both know later on, after I nailed my Regents and proved I was responsible. Maybe then Nonni would back me up if I could help her understand.
She nodded. “Yes, I’ll get the ice cream.”
“I thought you had indigestion.”
She gave a big smile. “And what do I say is a cure for that?”
I laughed, shaking my head. “Finocchio and ice cream.”
“Let’s go straight to the ice cream. I have bananas to make sundaes.” I helped her clean the table, and she spread out all the toppings so we could make our own. I grabbed sprinkles and crushed Oreos, and she heated up the caramel and fudge, and we stuffed them in the tall parfait glasses she kept just for sundaes. Michael Bublé crooned from Alexa’s speakers—I’d finally taught her how to use it—and we ate and played cards and chatted as it got dark. I savored the peaceful feeling being around my grandmother always brought, and for a little while, I was able to forget about everything else.
CHAPTER FIVE
Francesca
“What’s new in your schedule this week?” I asked, trying to break the awkward silence in the car. I was inundated with work, needed to go shopping to get Allegra new running sneakers, and craved a hot bubble bath rather than a quick shower, but I swore I wouldn’t break my promise for this Sunday dinner. Besides, I was looking forward to spending time with Allegra, but so far, all my questions had been met with one-word answers.
“Not much.”
I let out an annoyed breath. “Maybe you can give me a bit more than that?” I suggested, trying to keep my voice calm. “Is there something bothering you? You’ve been quiet.”
She turned from the window and shot me a look. “No. Everything’s fine. I’m just tired.”
“You slept till eleven,” I pointed out.
Her chin jerked and I knew I’d irritated her again. Breathing seemed to irritate her lately. “I stayed up late finishing my essay.”
“That’s great, honey, good for you.” I knew her honors class was difficult and she struggled for those As. “Hey, I was talking to Connie and she said they have an opening at her husband’s law firm for the summer. It’s part-time, but it would look fantastic on your applications. I told her to hold it until I spoke with you.”
“No, thanks. I’ll pass.”
I pressed my lips together and kept my tone bright. “Maybe you can think about it. You’ll still have plenty of time to yourself, and they offer decent pay. I know you mentioned law before, so this may be a good way to see if you like it. I found I loved advertising during my own internship.”
“Yep, you told me a million times,” she muttered under her breath.
I hated the disappointment that cut through me. Rationally, I knew this was a difficult age, but my patience was beginning to wear thin. “Okay, you can lose the attitude. I’m only trying to help. Summer is a month away and all the good jobs and opportunities will be gone.”
“I don’t want to be a lawyer, okay? I actually wanted to talk to you about something. A different plan for the summer.”
I perked up, relieved that at least she’d been thinking about it. I couldn’t have her hanging around with endless free time while I worked nonstop. I definitely planned on taking a few long weekends with her, maybe at the Jersey Shore, but she needed to have some responsibility at this point. “What is it?”
She hesitated and shook her head when I pulled into my mother’s driveway. “I’ll tell you tonight after dinner.”
“Oh, I’m intrigued.”
She jumped out of the car without another word, and I clamped down on another sigh. When I walked inside, Allegra had already settled into the kitchen, chattering with my mother with an enthusiasm I nev
er got to see. I felt bad about the sharp zing of resentment but buried it quickly. Of course she wouldn’t have any issues with her grandmother. Mom had watched her regularly since she was young and loved being involved in every detail of her life. She also spoiled her rotten, I reminded myself.
“Hi, Mom,” I greeted her, kissing her on the cheek. She wore a bright-red floral apron and matching lipstick and smelled of sugar and lemons. Her hug was extra-tight and the flare of guilt hit again. I had to be better. Yes, I got frustrated with the constant judgments, but I was sure she was lonely without Dad. After I scored this account, I was slowing down. “Smells good.”
“Nonni, can I do the mashed potatoes?”
“Of course—they’re already peeled. The fresh chives are in the herb drawer.” She wiped her hands on a faded towel and smiled. I noticed the lines around her eyes had deepened, and she looked more tired than usual. “How are you today? Here, take some bread. Do you want some wine?”
My mother fussed about, putting out thick slices of Italian bread and pouring a glass of Bolla. I was used to it and let her do it without protest. First, it was nice feeling taken care of, and she’d told me numerous times she enjoyed feeding me, bringing back all the years of Sunday dinners spent at the table with my father, playing cards and Scrabble while the football or baseball game blared on the television. She’d been disappointed in my complete rejection of cooking—no matter how many times she tried to teach me, I hated it. At least Allegra seemed to bloom under her instruction. I sipped my wine and watched my daughter doctor the potatoes with an expert ease, moving around the kitchen with my mother like a trained dancer. Funny, she never wanted to cook at home or experiment with meals. It seemed the act of cooking gave her a sense of excitement only here.
“How’s the new account going?” my mother asked, peeking at the turkey and basting it a few more times while she watched the juices drip down the crispy skin.
Our Italian Summer Page 4
