Chapter 3 #4
The band fired up a country beat, and for a second, Lora thought she had bumped her head and ended up somewhere in Nashville on open mic night.
Was that—? No. It couldn’t be. Sure enough, the band rolled into John Denver’s “Take Me Home, Country Roads” and though she had only been to a Yankees game once, the crowd there at the yacht club began to sing along with the same enthusiasm she’d heard people sing “New York, New York” at the stadium in the Bronx.
People were belting out the song, winding their arms around each other and swaying back and forth like they were misty-eyed for the Shenandoah River itself. She stared at the crowd, disbelieving.
“Are you serious? How is it possible that people here know this song?” she asked, raising her voice to be heard over the singing.
“Is it weird?” he shouted back.
“I mean, what do Italians know about country roads?”
“We have country roads here.” He pointed up at the hills surrounding the town. “People love this song.”
“But it’s about a place they’ve never been.” She shook her head. “I don’t get it.”
“Because it creates a feeling that everyone understands. It’s about home and what it feels like to miss it. That kind of nostalgia is universal.”
“Not for me,” she said, scrunching her face as the voices died down.
“Where are you from originally?”
“Vero Beach, Florida?”
Andrea shook his head, clearly not recognizing the name at all. She wasn’t shocked.
“Yeah, it’s not exactly a hot spot. My mom was from there.” His forehead wrinkled. She knew what was coming next.
“Can I ask how it’s possible that your mother—” He broke off as the band moved on to another, quieter Italian track.
“Pamela Brooks.”
“Right, Pamela. How Pamela Brooks from Vero Beach has a daughter with Ivo Giordano from Baia Santa, Italy?” The way he said it, Eee-tal-ee, sent up a bloom of heat in her chest.
“It is a long story,” Lora said, scooping up the unwanted parts of the fish and delicately laying them in the side dish.
He probably wouldn’t feel like hearing the story of the daughter of two generations of orange-grove workers who took off to Los Angeles the second she scraped together enough money and couldn’t stand to even look at an orange until almost the day she died.
“But I feel like I am monopolizing your time.” She glanced around, worried that people would start to notice all of the attention the mayor was spending with the overdressed American.
She heard Vilmari’s laugh sail up over the crowd again and saw her with her hand sliding around Nico’s waist, him grinning down at her.
“I’m here with you. If I have to go do something official, I’ll say it. Fair?” His deep brown eyes locked onto hers. Good god, this was getting difficult.
“OK. I’ll tell it quickly.”
“Sindaco! Sindaco! Venga a ballare con la tua amica!” Another town elder approached Andrea, practically pulling on his arm. Something was obviously urgent.
“No, no, grazie. Siamo qui a mangiare,” he said, gesturing toward the table. The man continued a stream of sentences, gesturing alternately toward her and the band.
“It’s no problem if you have to go,” she said.
“Well, that’s just it,” he said. “They want you to come with me.” He pointed toward the makeshift dance floor where several of the couples were attempting to wave him down.
“I’m sorry?”
“Dance. They want us to dance.”
“Oh, I couldn’t—”
“I know you want to say no because everyone is watching. And I know you don’t know me enough to trust me at all, but I promise that since you’re only here for a short time, any gossip will quickly dissipate.
So, given your brief visit and the unlikelihood of anything we do right now actually being worth talking about, would you dance with me, Lora?
” He swung his legs over the bench and stood, extending his hand.
“I guess I can’t say no to that.” She nodded and took it, feeling charmed and bamboozled and Spritz-warmed at the same time.
The band started playing a cover of Taylor Swift’s “Lover,” and Andrea drew her to him.
His hand on her waist was already making her sweat, but she tried to focus on not crushing his toes as he began to move her around slowly.
“Thank you,” he said.
“For what?”
“For helping me please a few constituents. They’ve been trying to get me to dance at one of these things for four years.
They may name a park after you.” He smelled like something—what was it?
She couldn’t pick out a verbena from a veranda, but she knew a good smell that was not at all like the body wash at the gym, something purchased at a cupcake bakery, or the inside of an old church.
It was clean and spicy and bracing, like doing a shot of whiskey outside in winter.
“I hope they do it quickly. I’m not planning on being here very long.” She looked at Vilmari, who was flashing a thumbs-up from the crook of Nico’s arm, though it was unclear if she meant it for her or for herself. “I’m sorry, I forgot what we were talking about.”
“Pamela. Ivo,” encouraged Andrea.
“Right. My mother was an actress. She moved to Los Angeles in the late ’80s, and she was eventually cast in a film that was meant to revive the spaghetti western genre.
So, of course they decided to shoot here in Italy.
Ivo was the horse trainer and did most of the stunts for the lead actor.
They were on set a lot together. I guess they had a moment. ”
“You’re a bit more than a moment, I think.”
“Well, yes. You could say that.” She looked down, hoping he wouldn’t notice the blush rising to her cheeks in the dimming light.
“She didn’t find out that she was pregnant until she got back to the US.
So, there went her Hollywood career. She moved back to her hometown in Florida to have me because my grandmother was still alive then and she figured she could use the help.
Somewhere in there, she and Ivo decided they would try to have some kind of relationship, so that’s why his name ended up on the birth certificate. ”
“But were they together?”