Our Italian Summer

by Jennifer Probst

  He nodded. “Buddhism, like the Dalai Lama. Many yoga practitioners follow various yogis who they believe have been enlightened. I think belief in something better is necessary to lead a life worth living.”

  I’d never thought of it like that. I mulled over his words. “Are your parents Christian too?”

  “I’m Roman Catholic, and yes. My parents grew up attending church every Sunday and I was in religious school for years to get my sacraments, like communion and confirmation. There are many denominations, like Protestant, Methodist, but many fall under the umbrella of Christianity. Catholic is a bit different—more strict, and we fall under the guidance of the Vatican. We follow the pope.”

  “I guess visiting St. Peter’s was a big deal for you this week.”

  His blue eyes lit up. “It was a dream come true,” he said simply. “Being in St. Peter’s was like going home.”

  He spoke passionately but without judgment. I enjoyed being able to open up and be myself with him. “Maybe you can convert me,” I joked. “There’s plenty more churches coming up on the tour.”

  “Is it wrong that I’m just as excited for the mozzarella demonstration? I’m obsessed with the pizza here. What they call pizza in Ireland is a tragedy.”

  “New York comes in a close second. You’ll have to visit me one day so you can compare.”

  “Deal.”

  The drive flew by. We chatted nonstop, talking in low voices as a lot of the group slept in their seats, soft snores echoing in the air. Sometimes, our bare thighs would brush when I changed position. The hair on his leg tickled a bit and brought a tiny dip in my belly. I was getting used to his freckles, and the lips I’d once thought too red for his pale skin now looked soft, especially when he smiled. I found myself studying his face more closely, fascinated by the angular lines and his sloping red brows.

  Definitely not Prince Harry. But maybe that was okay.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Sophia

  The moment my feet hit the ground, a powerful fist of emotion plowed through my gut. This time, it wasn’t the ulcer or the growing source of unease inside my body I was worried about. No, this was the realization that I’d finally reached my destination—one I’d dreamed of since I was young.

  The bus took us directly to a well-known travel spot to get the best pictures. I gazed out at the stunning view of my parents’ birth city. Dusty brown buildings merged together and set off the calm bay, where various ships docked. Mount Vesuvius hung in a misty shroud in the distance. Enzo kept us entertained with lively stories of the stunning Sophia Loren, the local Napoli heroine, and tempted us with promises of the best pizza in the world. But I craved walking down the same streets my parents had, and steeping myself in the grit and scents of the city that was known for its Mafia crime, garbage, and rough exterior. This was the Naples my parents had told me about, along with the pleasures of a tight-knit community, hearty food, and architectural beauty sprouting from every corner.

  We headed straight into the thriving heart of the city—Spaccanapoli, a famous street that split Naples into three sections that housed the old and the new. Enzo called the group together. “You will have two hours to explore and have lunch, so keep your eye on the time. We have a long travel day to Capri and we need to keep a tight schedule.” He rattled off a few restaurants and Allegra typed them into her phone. “Those are guaranteed to have the best pizza, but my first choice will always be Sorbillo if there is not a big line. You will also want to hit the bakery and try the babà, zeppole, or sfogliatelle. You can get it to go.” He gave his usual charming grin. “Now, get going and have fun. I am here for any questions. This is the Piazza Gesù Nuovo, where you can find me, and then I will guide us back to the bus. If you get lost, please text and I will get you.”

  “He’s such a sweetie,” I murmured to Frannie, still wishing she’d indulge in a romance or harmless flirtation. “I’m going to give him the biggest tip known to mankind.”

  “You do that, Mom,” Frannie said with a patient smile. Her brown eyes shone with an emotion I hadn’t glimpsed before, but Allegra’s question gave me no time to probe.

  “Hey, Nonni, is this the section where your mom and dad lived?”

  “It is close. My mother lived in Quartieri Spagnoli, which is a working-class neighborhood. My father was from Vomero, which was a bit more for the middle class. They got married here and eventually moved to America, where I was born. There were many Italian families who lived in the neighborhood in Queens with us. We all became close.”

  “They were madly in love,” Allegra said, with a spark in her eyes.

  “Yes, they were,” I said, patting her shoulder. I loved how my granddaughter was just as fascinated by the story of their love affair as I’d been. My father was extremely handsome, with piercing dark eyes, a trim mustache, and a slim figure. He towered like a giant at six-four, different from the average height of most Italian men. He met my mother in a café and told me about her yellow dress and how it twirled around her legs when she moved, and her dark hair that fell to her waist like a curtain of silk. After they married, they decided to move for something better. It was hard to make a good living in Naples, and they dreamed of America. Every anniversary, my mother would don the yellow dress, my father a suit, and they’d put on music and dance in the small kitchen together to mark the day they fell in love.

  I stopped walking, allowing the grief to pass through me. God, I missed them so much. It had been cruel to lose both of them so young. Fran turned toward me, not realizing I was thinking of an entirely different story. “So, it was like that when you met Daddy, right? You always said you knew very young you were going to marry him.”

  The past reared up in all its ugly beauty. I’d learned early on that there was no way to remove one piece from your life. Like a puzzle, the missing piece only caused a gaping hole and ended up incomplete. No, you had to take each piece and accept it in order to look at your journey with a clear vision of the whole. I’d made peace with my decisions a long time ago. I wasn’t about to question them now.

  But maybe it was time Frannie knew the girl I used to be. Before I became a mother and a wife.

  “Yes, your father and I both knew we were meant to be married. But our story was different.” I forced a thin smile. “You see, my parents died when I was only fifteen years old. They both got very sick with influenza. We called it the Asian flu at the time. It was sweeping fast across the US, and many people in our neighborhood fell ill. My parents died a week apart from each other.”

  Frannie stared at me with wide eyes. Shock flickered across her face. “Mom, I didn’t know that. I knew your parents died, but I thought you were in your midtwenties and already married to Dad.”

  I shook my head. “It was a terrible time. Of course, I had no other family to go to, and my next-door neighbor was kind enough to take me in. Mrs. Ferrari welcomed me into her home with open arms. I’d already become friends with her son, and when I turned eighteen years old, we began to officially date.”

  “Daddy,” Frannie breathed. “I thought you were friends from school.”

  “We were. I just never shared the details from before that. The rest is history. We got married, moved to Westchester when he opened up his housing business, and settled down.”

  The words felt sticky on my tongue, but they were technically the truth. How could I explain to my daughter what it was like to feel trapped? To experience pressure from the woman who’d saved me to marry her son and give him babies? The ripping failure when I was only able to conceive Frannie, so I put my very heart and soul into raising her, making sure I was the perfect mother, only to fail again . . . and again.

  The voice drifted to my ears, faint but clear. You never failed. Not me, or Frannie, or my mother. You were meant to be my wife, and I should have thanked you every day for agreeing. Instead, I took you for granted.

  My thoug
hts felt like pure betrayal, especially when his words thundered so clearly in my head.

  Our roles had always been clear. You took care of the business, and I took care of the household. I loved you too—don’t you ever doubt it.

  But you never got to choose, did you?

  “Nonni, are you okay?”

  Allegra’s voice jerked me back from my imaginary conversation with my dead husband. “Of course. Goodness, let’s get going. We don’t have much time to explore,” I said, picking up my pace.

  They allowed me to lead and asked no further questions. I was glad. There was too much rawness inside and I wanted to let it sit for a while.

  We weaved in and out of the narrow cobblestone streets and fought for space in between the scooters shooting madly back and forth amid crowds of people. Tourists seemed to mingle with the residents, and I savored the everyday routine that took place before my eyes: shopping at the local markets and filling baskets with fruit, bread, and salty meats to cook for dinner; children playing ball, laughing and zigzagging in a game of tag, while rows of laundry dried on ropes that were strung up and down the streets like Christmas lights, flapping in the wind. It was alive—the Naples my mother had always described to me—and I savored every footstep and felt my mother’s presence sinking into my soul.

  We stopped at Sorbillo—one of the most famous pizzerias—and ate the most spectacular thin-crust pizza I’ve ever experienced. With buffalo mozzarella and only the most special of tomatoes and a light, crisp crust—the flavor and textures exploded in my mouth. Allegra groaned, and we got into a lively discussion of the specific ways the Neapolitans made pizza that could not be matched anywhere else in the world. She swore she’d come back and study the art before returning to dazzle Americans.

  This time, Frannie didn’t make any mocking comments about her being a chef one day. I was grateful—Allegra didn’t need any further excuses to reject her mother’s peace offerings.

  “I’ll be back. I have to go to the toilet,” Allegra said, wiping her mouth and disappearing.

  I sipped my water, still reeling from the culinary experience. Frannie propped her elbows up on the table and leaned forward. “Mom, I didn’t realize you and Daddy kind of grew up together. It must’ve been hard to live with strangers at only fifteen.”

  I sighed. “Yes, it was, but I was grateful I had a place to go. Daddy’s parents were wonderful to me.”

  She seemed to struggle with her next question. “Did you—did you ever question your relationship with Dad? Since you were so young? It seems like being in the same household would be hard.”

  And there was the heart of the problem. Did I tell her the truth or keep the lie to soothe my child? Did I give her a real piece of myself or allow her to believe the tale I’d spun to make things nice?

  Right now, in Naples, I wanted to tell the truth.

  “It was hard. As the years went by, his mother pushed us into a relationship that was more than friends. She had dreams of us getting married and having children and all of us living close by. Daddy and I fell into dating because it felt like the next natural step. We never dated anyone else and got married at twenty. Back then, women had few choices. We were meant to be mothers and homemakers, and our husbands were the ones to make the money and provide for the family.”

  Worry skated over her features, but this time, I didn’t jump to soothe it. “I know you mentioned you wanted more children. How many miscarriages did you have, Mom?”

  Too many. The grief and cut of loss were still brutal. “Four. You were my miracle child.”

  “I’m sorry,” she said softly. Her eyes filled with an empathetic pain I’d never glimpsed before—not with me. “It must’ve been hard being so lonely with Dad working all the time. I never really thought of it that way. You never wanted to expand into a career? Go back to school? Do something else after I got older?”

  My laugh was genuine. “Oh, honey, your father wouldn’t have wanted that. He liked a hot meal on the table, a clean house, and knowing the bills were taken care of. His work schedule was too demanding for me to flit off and try to find a job that wouldn’t even pay a quarter of his salary. We’d lived too many years with our roles to make a change. And what could I have done? I had no skills. I was afraid of technology. I couldn’t even type! No, I made my peace with my choices a long time ago. I had my books and my garden and you. I had friends, and my church and charities. I had enough.”

  As I said the words, I realized it was the truth. Yes, I’d craved a houseful of children to spoil and pamper, but it wasn’t meant to be. I found a way through the years to accept the losses, tucking the crippling wounds down deep in my soul and locking them away. I prayed for my lost babies every day. It may not have been the life I’d planned for, but it was a good one, and God had blessed me in many ways. And though Jack had died much too soon, I’d had Frannie, then Allegra to love.

  It was enough.

  Allegra came back to the table. We rose, and Frannie shocked me by stepping forward and giving me a big hug. After a second of hesitation, I hugged her back, savoring my child’s sweetness and strength and a love that knew no boundaries in this life or beyond.

  “I’m so happy we got to see Naples,” she murmured in my ear.

  “Me too.”

  And for the first time, I felt seen by my daughter. Woman to woman, standing by our choices and owning our journeys, both the good and the bad. My insides relaxed and my breath came lighter into my lungs. Knowing she understood me soothed the previous raw pain and I hugged her extra tight.

  When we finally broke apart, Allegra was beaming. Then we all linked hands and used our last twenty minutes to hit Scaturchio pastry shop and buy a bunch of stuff for the trip to Capri—babà, a mushroom-shaped dough soaked in limoncello flavoring; zeppole filled with delicious custard and dusted with powdered sugar; sfogliatelle, a gorgeous almond pastry with flaky crust and filled with creamy ricotta cheese; and ministeriale, a dark chocolate medallion with a cream of ricotta, fruit, and hazelnut filling, and a dash of liqueur.

  When we got back on the bus, I stared out the window as we pulled away from Naples and headed to Capri. I said a silent prayer to my parents and to Jack, grateful I was able to visit before I died and make peace with emotions I hadn’t been able to face at home.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Francesca

  The mechanics of reaching Capri were exhausting.

  By the time my feet hit the top of the hill and entered the cool air of the hotel, I almost wept in relief. My clothes were wrinkled, I smelled, my muscles ached, and I had more blisters on my heels. It was like I was trapped in the movie Planes, Trains and Automobiles. After Naples, we’d taken a bus, then a boat, then a funicular up to the top of the mountain.

  I’d hoped it was over, but Enzo had declared we needed to walk up one of the biggest, curviest hills I’ve seen. The group had all turned silent and a bit grumpy, even with the spectacular views and blinding colors of the famous island.

  I just wanted my damn room with a big bed and a soft pillow.

  I think I let out a whimper when Enzo handed me my key card. He flashed a grin, still looking rested and fresh, in his pressed pants, white cotton shirt, and straw hat tipped over his brow. How did the man do it? Did he ever get cranky? “The hard part is over, signora,” he said with a twinkle in his eyes. “We’re hosting a casual cocktail hour at seven tonight, but you have the entire evening to recover.”

  I felt ridiculous for complaining. I’d kept a close eye on my mother, who’d needed to rest a few times on the hike up the hill, but she’d made it. “Sorry, it’s just been a long day. Why don’t you look exhausted?”

  “Because you all rely on me and a tired guide is not fun.”

  I couldn’t help teasing him. “Are you fun all the time?”

  “My sisters say I am not. When I return home, I shall sleep for a week
and allow myself to say no to all favors and requests. But for now, your wish is my command.”

  “Like the genie in a lamp. Can you get me a clone to answer all my work demands?”

  He quirked a brow. “Have you not explained to your partners you are on call for only emergencies?”

  Guilt rose. I should have. Kate had insisted, yet I felt too many things would get screwed up without me involved. Was it the reality? Or only my ego? “I don’t trust anyone else,” I admitted. “I like to be in control.”

  He nodded in understanding. “So do I. But I have learned through the years on this job, people will always surprise me. I can plan and pretend I’m in charge, but many times, I need to surrender.”

  “Go with the flow?”

  He frowned. “Sorry, I don’t know that expression.”

  “Allow things to happen without fighting it.”

  “Ah, yes. Perhaps you can take a chance and try to pull back? Just for a few days and see what happens?”

  “Maybe. But I have a feeling I’ll still require a backup plan.”

  His grin was all male mischief. “Is it just work, or do you require a backup plan with your relationships too?”

  I let out a snort. “More like an escape plan.”

  He laughed. “Clever girl. We are much alike.”

  “Afraid of marriage? Commitment? Or even worse?”

  “What’s worse?” he asked with interest. His cologne drifted around me and I wished I could bury my nose in his neck and sniff. Pheromones, maybe? Something about him just pulled me in.

  “When you’re not even scared of getting intimate. You just don’t want to be bothered.”

  We both seemed startled by my confession. Why had that type of truth spilled out in the middle of a hotel lobby? I meant to shrug it off and say something funny, but his dark eyes turned serious and he took a step toward me, so we were inches away. My heart slammed against my chest. “Yes, bella signora. That is much worse. I find myself wondering too many times if there is a woman out there who could compete with my job—or even want to. I haven’t found her yet. But it would be nice, just once, to have a choice.” He paused. “Don’t you agree?”