Milk Glass Moon (24 page)

Papa and Giacomina meet us in the driveway. His embrace reassures me, and Giacomina’s warmth makes us feel as welcome as always.

“Where’s Etta?” I ask.

“She’s at the church. She’ll be home any minute.”

“You should be pleased that she’s getting married in church,” Theodore says to me under his breath.

“Don’t push it,” I whisper back.

Giacomina shows us to our rooms and, when she gets the chance, pulls me into her and Papa’s bedroom. “How are you?” she asks me tenderly.

“I’m here.”

“I know this is hard for you.”

“I wish I was an actress, so I could invent a character to be throughout all of this. I’m going to try really hard to be nice. To be happy. How’s Etta?”

“She’s in love,” Giacomina says simply. Papa calls her from downstairs, and she excuses herself and goes.

Love.
What a tiny word that is used to describe everything and can mean nothing. These Italians. They’re all for it. Love is the point of life itself, love is the great healer, love is the energy behind all things that are beautiful, whether it’s a silver cup of berries or lovers on a bicycle built for two. Dreamers. They’re all dreamers.

“Mom?” Etta stands in the doorway and looks at me.

“I’m sorry, honey. I’m so angry at you,” I tell her quietly. I look at her and, of course, my heart melts. This is my daughter, and I want her to be happy more than I want it for myself. But I cannot hide my disappointment or my fear.

“I know.” She sits on a chair and motions for me to join her. “How was your trip?”

“Not great,” I tell her.

“You think I’m too young.”

“Oh, Etta, it’s more than that. You don’t trust my judgment. You don’t listen and benefit from my experience. Yes, you’re young, but you’re also impulsive. If you’re really in love, and it will last, why are you rushing into this? Can’t you come home and get your degree and then marry Stefano? Why are you doing this?” The questions I have longed to ask her come tumbling out, and not eloquently.

“Because it’s right for me.”

“How? You were accepted to college and you were excited about going. Aren’t you sad about giving up your future?”

“I’m not giving anything up, Ma. I’m adding to my life. I’ll have my studies and my husband at the same time.”

“When did this happen?”

“Ma, I’ve known I would marry Stefano since I was eight years old.”

My memory takes me back to the house on Via Davide, where Etta slept in the trundle next to my bed and told me that someday she would marry Stefano Grassi. At the time I thought it was cute, that she believed she was wise and could project into the future. I sure as hell didn’t think she was serious. As I play through all the key events of her life, like I have done so often over the last few weeks, I realize that there was never a time when Etta lied to herself. She looks at me, waiting for me to say something. I can’t. I hold my arms out for my daughter, and she rushes to me. I begin to cry.

“I’m sorry this is so hard for me,” I tell her.

“It’s okay.”

“No, you deserve to be happy.”

“So do you, Mom.”

“Don’t worry about me. I’m okay.” Who am I kidding? I will never be the same. I’m letting her go and she may come back to me, but she won’t ever be mine again. But that’s my problem, not hers.

“I have so much to show you.” She takes my hand.

“Is there anything I can do?”

“Tons!”

Etta takes me to her room on the first floor, which looks like a bridal showcase. She has made favors for the tables, small gold silk purses filled with pastel almonds, tied with a peacock feather.

“They’re beautiful. How many people are coming?” I ask.

“Just family and a few friends. Maybe thirty of us in all.”

“Do you have your dress?”

Etta nods excitedly and unzips a garment bag. “In Italy, the gown is white, but it’s accented with color.” Etta pulls a pristine, high-waisted, scoop-necked beige silk gown from the bag. It is embroidered with tiny pink and blue rosebuds on the hem, and down the back are satin streamers that match the roses.

“It’s exquisite,” I tell her.

“Do you think so?”

“I love it. It’s exactly what I would have picked for you.”

Etta hugs me so hard, I feel I might snap in two. “Oh, Ma, I’m so happy.”

“Tell me about it. How, when, the whole thing.” I sit down on her bed, and she sits down next to me.

“When I got here, Chiara and I went to Sestri Levante to hang out at the beach. When we got there, we heard that Stefano Grassi was working on a project there, and did I want to see him? He had come by Zia Meoli’s house and asked me out to dinner. So we went.”

“Did it happen just like that?”

“No, it took a while. But Mom, I think Stefano said when he wrote to you, he’s loved me since our last visit. I know I was young, but he was seeing a girl seriously and gave her up because he felt like a phony with her and was hoping someday that he and I would be together.”

“I remember that part in his letter.”

“Mom, when I was little and you told me the story of your mom and Grandpa, it was so romantic, how they fell in love and would sneak around to see each other, right here in Schilpario like Romeo and Juliet.”

I could kick myself for planting these romantic notions in her head, even though they are true. This is all my fault! But I say nothing and motion for her to continue her story.

“Anyway, we began a proper courtship with Grandpa sort of chaperoning, and then Giacomina, and we just spent a lot of time together, and it was almost time for me to leave, and Mom, I couldn’t get on the plane. Stefano wanted me to go home and go to college and come back when I had my degree. But I couldn’t imagine leaving him. I tried. I knew that I had obligations back home, but nothing else mattered, only Stefano. I want to be with him for the rest of my life. And I don’t want to wait. There’s no point in waiting.”

“But you told me you were a mountain girl.”

“Ma, look out the window. There are mountains here too. They just have a different name. These folks are just like the people of Big Stone Gap. They have their own music and their own cooking and their own ways. They don’t like outsiders to come in and change their way of life. They like that they’re remote and that visitors get lost trying to find them. The lady who runs the patisserie is just like Aunt Fleeta, crabby but she’d do anything for you. There’s another woman who works in the dress shop, she’s just like Aunt Iva Lou, a free spirit. They even have a Spec Broadwater here, he’s the forest ranger who checks for floods. It’s not really different. I feel at home here.”

“And I’m glad you do. Because it will be your home for the rest of your life. Stefano is Italian and not likely to leave his country.”

“I’m fine with that.”

“I accept that you’re in love and swept away, and all the good stuff. But take it from an old bag: I’m not worried about your happiness this year or next, I know you’ll be flitting around on the wings of bliss for a long spell. It’s your future that concerns me. I’m worried about when you’re thirty, or forty-one, when you wake up and realize that you’ve given up your youth to a grand romance. This is a time in your life that you can never retrieve. And I’m not trying to change your mind. Look, there’s the dress and the shoes and the
regali.
You’re all set. But I wanted to explain why I couldn’t jump up and down when you called. I was worried sick for you.”

“Mama, you’re always going to worry about me.”

“I know. I’ve done my best, and I tried to instill in you the values that my mother instilled in me. There wasn’t anything complicated or fancy about what my mother taught me. It was to honor myself and be true to what I believed. And when I reacted the way I did, I realized that I was imposing my beliefs upon you. This is your life, not mine.”

Etta embraces me, and for the first time since the day she was born, I feel that she needs me. “I want to promise you something,” I tell my daughter. “By next Saturday, your wedding day, I will be where I need to be for you.”

“I know you will, Ma.”

Theodore and I take a long hike up the mountain, and we try in vain to find the peacocks. Either they moved or I took a wrong turn at the pine tree near the stream. Even so, the views are spectacular, and we reminisce about our days spelunking in Lee County.

“You’re almost yourself again, Ave.”

“You think?”

“I knew when you saw her, you’d come around.”

“Yeah, you’re right.”

“The phone isn’t your thing. Long letters bore you. Besides, you had to stew before you let Etta go. It’s your way.”

I put my arms around Theodore, so grateful for his friendship. Who drops their own vacation plans to suffer through a teenage wedding? Who else stays upbeat and sunny for me when I give in to my dire predictions? There is one constant in my meltdowns, and one person who consistently pulls me from the abyss: the one and only Theodore Tipton.

“So, what do you think of Schilpario?” I ask.

“I want to know where they’re hiding Heidi.”

“It
is
just like
Heidi,
isn’t it?”

“Any minute I think your father is going to send me to the attic with a bowl of hot milk and melted cheese. Remember that?”

“That’s all that poor kid ate, goat’s milk, cheese, and every once in a while a slab of crusty bread.” I can’t believe I remember the story so well.

“The town is amazing. I love the architecture, and the people are so interesting.”

“Thank you for coming all this way.”

“First of all, I had no choice. You were suicidal. Second, who gives a flying fig about Lake Tahoe? I can rent
Guys and Dolls
if I get a yen for gambling Reno-style. No, this is big. This is your kid’s wedding, and I belong here. I’m her godfather, for Godsakes. Who else could give a kick-ass toast this high above sea level?”

“No one.”

“Damn right.”

“Giacomina said she’s making risotto tonight.”

“I want those Italian babes slaving over the stove every moment I’m here. I want local dishes out the yin-yang. Before we head down, can you show me the field of cockerbells?”

“Bluebells. No. It’s in the other direction. Way way way over there.”

“I get it now.” Theodore laughs.

“What?”

“How you got entangled with Pete Rutledge up here. It’s like the rest of the world doesn’t exist.”

Theodore and I get back just in time to wash up for dinner. It’s amazing to me, how I can bounce back when I’m on my home turf. Everything about these Alps soothes me: the air, the fragrant nettle, and the water, so clear and icy that it cleanses the deepest part of me. Jack meets us in the hallway on our way to the dining room.

“Stefano’s here.”

“I thought he was coming tomorrow.”

“He wanted to see us tonight.”

“Have you talked to him?”

“For two hours.”

“Good. He’s warmed up,” I tell my husband.

“Back off, Kitten with a Whip. This is your future son-in-law. Leave some flesh on him for the ceremony,” Theodore reminds me.

“Oh, I will.”

This house has never been so quiet. I think even the stones in the wall are frightened that I may tear this place down board by board when confronted with the man who stole my daughter from the University of Virginia, Cracker’s Neck Holler, and the American Academy of Future Architects.

The dining room is set for dinner. Stefano stands near the windows alone. He looks out as though he is watching something, but it is suppertime, and Via Scalina is empty.

“Stefano.”

“Hello, Mrs. MacChesney.” He extends his hand.

I embrace him instead. “Thank you for your letter. You covered every detail. So I’m going to make it short and sweet. I wish you all the happiness in the world.”

“Etta told me you reconciled.”

“We did. Thank God.”

“I’m sorry if we caused you any pain.”

“Oh, you did. But I’m getting over it.”

“I will take good care of Etta.”

“I know you will. And I know she’ll take good care of you. But I want you to promise me something.”

“Of course.”

“I want her to finish college. It’s very important that she have her education.”

“I agree, and so does she.”

“Don’t let that fall by the wayside, or I will have to get on a plane, come over here, and make your life a living hell.”

“Yes ma’am.”

Theodore has thrown himself into the local culture and has arranged to go down to Bergamo with Stefano, Etta, and Jack. Papa insists that I rest before the wedding, and I agree I need it. I would like to look good in the photographs, and when you’re over fifty, that requires an additional four hours of sleep per night. I remind myself that all the great Italian beauties are luminous in their fifties. There is a reason I keep a picture of Sophia Loren in my wallet. She is over ten years older than me but still the most gorgeous dish on the continental menu. My Etta trauma has put me in the smallest size I’ve worn since I was a teenager, and what Mother Nature streaked through my hair has turned a natural chestnut brown at the behest of Lady Clairol. I’m going to look good on Saturday, maybe the best I’ve ever looked. I’m wearing a pewter-gray party dress with a full skirt (my mother’s, of course), and if I’m feeling daring, I’ll wear a gardenia in my upsweep.

I love the mirrors in my father’s house, because they are old and mottled and give off a golden aura that blurs lines and wrinkles. At my age I thank God and the Italian gene pool for my strong nose and jaw, because, as my mother promised, they hold everything up and take off ten years when you really need it.

“Ave, you have company!” Nonna shouts from the kitchen. No one has seen her for days. She’s baking the wedding cake, and evidently, it takes more concentration than cracking World War II spy codes. I skip down the stairs, finally feeling myself again. I bounce into the kitchen and stop short.

“Pete?”

“Ave.”

“Oh my God. What are you doing here?”

“Etta invited me to her wedding.” Pete Rutledge smiles.

“She did?”

“She didn’t tell you?”

“No.”

“Well, it’s all right with you, isn’t it?”