Chapter 32
Giovanni
“Ah, there you are, Tesoro,” Papa says as he sits next to me on my bed. I smile, glad to see him. We only have one day left in Italy, and I haven’t had nearly enough time with him.
Tessa’s been with Mamma in the garden all morning harvesting figs, and a little distance from her has me lost in thought.
I may have been tipsy last night at the party, but I remember everything—including her hesitation before bed.
I’m not sure what happened. Dancing with her in the kitchen, playing with her hair while she sat on my lap, I’m certain it was real for both of us.
Why did she balk?
I try not to analyze it right now and refocus on Papa, who’s holding a wooden box in his hands. It almost looks like…
“Is that Nonno’s sewing kit?”
He nods, switching to Italian. “It’s yours, now. Your mother and I can’t sew.” Papa runs his hand against the grain of the wood. “I simply kept it for the memories.”
I study the heirloom, a vintage rosewood accordion sewing box.
Carefully opening up the box, I see the copper scissors, the capsule-like container for needles, and Nonno’s embroidery hook.
A few stray glass beads roll around on the bottom of the velvet divider.
When I set some of the tools to the side and lift the divider, I find my childhood kit.
I pick up one of the large-eye needles, a few colorful pieces of fabric, and a spool of extra-thick beginner thread.
“Thank you for trusting me with this.”
Papa nods. “He would’ve wanted you to have it.”
“I’ll honor it.” A lump swells in my throat. “I miss him.”
“What a privilege it is to miss someone. For someone to matter so deeply to you, that the thought of living without them seems unbearable.” Papa gives a sad smile. “And yet, we do.”
The feel of my old embroidery hook in my palm takes me back to my first time embroidering. My eyes sting as the memory presses closer. A cup of shiny blue beads flashes in my mind, along with Nonno’s gentle encouragement when I pulled the thread too tight, causing the fabric to pucker.
“Slow your hands, Tesorino. Just like life, embroidery is one thing you cannot rush.”
“I just want to be perfect.”
“Oh, but you already are. You already are perfect, to me.”
I shake my head as muffled grief rests on my heart.
Papa pats my leg. “You are the great joy of my life, Gio, and your mamma is the great love of my life. I have everything I need with the two of you. And I’m so happy you found your love. Tessa is wonderful.”
I swallow hard, the happiness in his eyes almost too much to bear.
Papa clears his throat. “We’ve talked about your nonno a lot throughout the years, you and I. You had such a special relationship with him. But, for a moment, I’d love to talk to you about your nonna.”
I tilt my head. I can tell by his responding hum that a story is sitting on the tip of his tongue. Papa rarely talks about his mamma. She passed away when he was a boy, maybe ten years old. And when Nonno died, he took her stories with him.
That’s the thing about memories. The details can’t survive if their caretaker’s gone, too.
“If I could describe your nonna in one word, it’d be honest. She’d make her opinions known, even if they were unpopular.
Whether it was an awful haircut or a bad recipe, she’d tell you.
She used to say that ‘Jesus wouldn’t have gone through all the trouble of telling us not to lie if He didn’t mean it. I’m just living like Him.’”
We both chuckle.
“Where your nonno was gentle, your nonna was tough. She loved to give your nonno a hard time, and I think he loved it, too.” He pauses. “Tessa reminds me of your nonna in that regard. Tough. I was speaking with her in the garden last night, and—”
I interrupt him. “Did she say anything? About me?”
My tone does not sound like someone asking after his girlfriend of three years, but the promise of knowing Tessa’s state of mind is too tempting to bury every curiosity.
Papa smiles. “She did.”
“And?”
He shakes his head.
“Papa.”
“Tesoro.”
“A hint? I just want to know…” I trail off, not wanting to be too obvious about the complexities of my relationship with her.
Papa squeezes the back of my neck. “As I was saying, Tessa is tough like your nonna, but she’s hesitant when it comes to honesty.”
“What are you saying?”
“She’s standing on the edge of something. Afraid that if she falls, no one will catch her.” He smiles. “Show her you will. Have courage.”
I sigh. “Courage is intimidating.”
“Sometimes courage is simply speaking first. Let it be you.”
As he gets up and heads for the door, I have one last question. “Did you ever feel like there was too much of a past to overcome with Mamma?”
“Threads will always fray. It’s about how you mend them.” Papa hums. “Mamma and I are off to church, then lunch. I love you.”
“I love you, too, Papa.”
The relationship I have with him is so strong, so deep, that it’s hard to remember that paternal love isn’t universal. When Tessa admitted that she rarely sees her father because of the distance between them, my heart pulled. I’ve never experienced anything other than loyalty and love from Papa.
Mend them. Just like Papa, I’m a fixer at heart. I know what it’s like to have distance between me and my loved ones—there’s an entire ocean between my family and me. I make a silent resolution to help Tessa rebuild her relationship with her dad. I want that for her.
And our relationship needs to patch up its final holes, too. Papa’s words simplify things for me. I wonder where to start, before glancing down at the wooden box in my hands.
After Tessa revealed that she struggled with sewing, I thought about it for maybe an hour after. No matter our differences, I wanted so badly to offer my help, but I knew we weren’t in a place where she would take it.
I need to give her this kit. I want to show her that I listen to her needs, that I support her goals.
Maybe she’ll take it the wrong way. Maybe I shouldn’t give it to her.
I shake my head. No. Tessa knows me better now. I’ve shown her who I am. She knows. I’m not an overthinker, and I won’t become one.
The sewing kit feels heavy in my hands as I sit on my bed and practice what I want to say to Tessa.
Part of me wants to tell her the true depth of my feelings.
Put it all out there and let her decide how she feels about it.
The other part of me wants to be careful with her and give her time to get used to the idea of us as something more than temporary.
I’m deep in thought when I hear the door creak open, and my stomach tightens in anticipation.
Tessa walks in, hair still damp from a shower, wearing a knee-length silk nightgown. She looks down, seeming flustered. “Sorry about this, I left my clothes in the dresser. Wasn’t thinking when I got in from the garden. Probably the, um, heat.”
I clear my throat, trying not to notice how the delicate spaghetti strap of her nightgown keeps sliding down her right shoulder. “No problem. Do you want me to leave so you can change?”
Tessa gives a small shake of her head. “I need to put on lotion first, so I’m gonna grab what I need and then head back to the bathroom in a minute.”
Nodding, I feel myself rapidly losing the nerve to give her the kit. If she leaves now, I doubt I’ll ever bring it up. As she bends down to grab what she needs out of her suitcase, I decide to go for it.
“I want to give you this.”
Not even remotely near what I practiced.
She slowly rises from the floor and trains her gaze on my hands.
“It’s mine, from when I was a boy. It’s a beginner kit—not that you’re a beginner, but I’d love for it to get some use. And I want you to have it. If you want.”
Standing up, I hold it out to her, and she gently takes it from me.
Curiosity tints her expression. “You’re giving me your old sewing kit?”
“Yes.”
“Even though I rejected your help at first.”
“Yes.”
“Why?” Her eyes grow wide.
“I saw you had a need, and I wanted to fill it.”
Tessa pauses, looking thoughtful. A flicker of vulnerability flashes in her eyes, and she takes a deep breath, setting the sewing kit on the dresser. “Who is Cara, Gio?”
My eyebrows knit together at the sudden change in topic. “What are you talking about?”
She blushes, almost looking sheepish. “You call me Cara when you’re tipsy or sleepy. Who is she to you?”
“I do what?” The ground seems to tilt beneath me as I grapple with the reality of what she’s saying.
Tessa shifts uncomfortably on her feet. “Yeah. You’ve done it a few times.
You did it again last night.” Folding her arms awkwardly, she averts her eyes.
“It’s not a big deal, I get it. Can’t really control what you say when you’re not fully present.
Especially because you’re obviously hung up on her. ”
Part of me wants to laugh, the other part of me wants to cry. Instead, I place a finger under her chin and tilt her face up to look at me.
“That’s not why I call you Cara,” I say, with a soft smile.
“You call me Cara, because you want her.”
“I call you Cara, because I want you.”
She worries her bottom lip. “I don’t understand…”
“Cara is ‘dear’ or ‘darling’ in Italian. It’s what my nonno called my nonna. It’s… It’s a nickname of high affection in my family.”
How deeply she misunderstood the intensity of my feelings for her. Because even when I’m not thinking straight, I’m thinking about her. Even when I’m out of my mind, she’s on my mind.
She reaches up and touches my shoulder. “You want me?” Her eyes search mine for reassurance.
I pin her with my gaze and nod. “I want you, Tessa.”
We let the weight of my confession rest between us, and I wonder how she’s interpreting my words.
I want her in all the ways that matter, not just one.
But I need to give her room to share her feelings without the onslaught of my own.
Neither of us say anything, but we also don’t remove our hands.
Hers remains on my shoulder, mine under her chin.