Chapter 19 #3
“I learned something from you,” I said. “In the kitchen, in the field, in the cellar in Malta. I learned that a man doesn’t have to stand still. There is power in taking life’s moments.”
I let that sit.
She reached up and touched the side of my face. “You did,” she said.
I took the ring from my pocket. I showed it to her in my open palm. The gold was dull, worn to an oval at the bottom. The stone was set crooked, a white dot with no shine. My mother’s. The one thing that had come with me through everything.
I said, “It isn’t much.”
She shook her head.
I said, “I want you to have it.”
She said, “Are you asking?”
I got down on one knee, in the dirt, between the rows.
I said, “Will you marry me, Angela.”
She made a sound I had never heard from her before—a single, shocked exhale, half laugh, half cry.
“Yes,” she said. “Yes, Pietro.”
She dropped down beside me. She kissed me, hard, dirt and all. Her arms locked around my neck and she pressed her forehead to mine, and the tears came, but the good kind, the kind that washed instead of burned.
I put the ring on her finger. It fit. It looked right.
We sat there until the sun dropped behind the bluff and the sky started to turn.
She said, “I never thought I’d have this. Any of this.”
I said, “You deserve it.”
She said, “So do you.”
We stayed on the ground, in the vines, with the river below and the sky above, and I held her, and I held everything I wanted.
Dinner was on the farmhouse terrace. Marco had outdone himself: three courses, each with its own bottle, and a fourth for the toasts.
Serafina had made the pasta, by hand, and Angela had helped, though I suspected her main contribution was tasting the sauce and making approving noises.
The baby slept in a basket under the edge of the table, a small fist poking out from the blanket.
Sal, who by some miracle had decided to stay the night, sat at the far end, hands folded, watching. He looked more relaxed than I had ever seen him.
The sun was down, but the afterglow carried enough light for the river to show blue in the distance. Every now and then, Marco would get up and check the temperature of the wine, or the state of the roast in the oven, or just to say something to the baby, who responded by snoring at him.
The engagement was not a surprise. Not really.
Marco had known for weeks, Serafina too.
But when Angela held out her hand to show the ring, Serafina burst into tears, which made Angela cry, which made Marco blink hard and reach for the wine, which made Sal look up from his glass and smile, the small, rare smile that meant he approved.
Marco came around the table and pulled me to my feet. He hugged me, tight, and said, “You did good, cousin.” Then he hugged Angela, just as hard, and said, “Welcome to the mess.”
Angela said, “Thank you,” into his shoulder.
We sat back down, and Marco opened the best of the bottles. He poured a little into each glass, then raised his own.
He said, “To new things. To stubborn vines. To family.” He looked at Angela, then at me. “And to love that doesn’t quit.”
Serafina wiped her eyes and said, “Salute.”
Sal lifted his glass, but did not speak. Instead, after the first sip, he put his hand flat on my chest, right above my heart. He looked at me for a long moment, then said, in Sicilian, “Be happy, brother. You’ve earned it.”
I nodded. I said, “You too.”
Angela sat close enough that our shoulders touched. She had her hand on my knee, her thumb making slow circles. The ring caught the candlelight.
We ate. We drank. We laughed.
When it was nearly midnight, and the last of the dessert was gone, Marco looked around the table and said, “Where’s Tonio?”
Sal shrugged. “Probably still at the gym. Or the bakery.”
Marco rolled his eyes. “The bakery girl. Of course. He hasn’t shut up about her for a month.”
Serafina grinned. “At least he found something better than punching walls.”
I said nothing. I thought about Tonio, about what waited for him next, and hoped it would be as good as this.
Sal caught my eye. There was a moment—a brief one—where I saw the weight we both carried, the thing we were keeping to ourselves for now. But he nodded at me, once, and I nodded back, and the moment passed.
Angela excused herself and went inside. When she came back, she had changed into my shirt again. She walked to the end of the terrace and looked at the stars. I followed her, leaving the others to their talking and their wine.
She said, “Are you happy, Pietro?”
I thought about it. I thought about the years before her, the old nightmares, the running. I thought about the things I had done, the things I had lost.
I said “Yes.”
She put her head on my shoulder.
“I’m happy too,” she said.
We stood that way, looking down at the river, until the others called us in for the last toast.
Inside, the baby had woken, and Marco was rocking her in his arms, singing in a voice so off-key even Serafina laughed. Sal poured one last round. The wine was deep red, almost black, and tasted, as Serafina said, like home.
We raised our glasses. We drank.