Special Chapter Where We Belong #2
There's music now, someone with a guitar, people singing along to old songs I remember from childhood. The food tables are crowded with people filling plates, and the wine is flowing, and everywhere I look there are faces I know and love.
I've lost track of how many people have congratulated us.
Signora Benedetti kissed both my cheeks and told me she always knew we'd make it work. Gia hugged me so hard I couldn't breathe and then immediately asked when I was coming back to the shop. Tommaso shook Leon's hand with a formality that was clearly hiding genuine emotion.
The baby is still content on my father's lap, fascinated by the buttons on his shirt. When people come over to say hello, Papa solemnly introduces each one as though our child is receiving guests.
"You should eat something," my mother says, appearing at my elbow with a plate of food. "You've been talking for two hours straight."
"Thank you. Have you eaten?"
"Some."
"That means you tried a piece while you were cutting it. Get another plate and sit with me."
She starts to object, then glances at the food and changes her mind. We find two chairs in the shade and, for a few minutes, attend to nothing but lunch.
Leon finds me near the food tables, slightly flushed from the sun and whatever conversations he's been having.
"Your father is teaching the baby to clap," he reports. "It's not going well, but the enthusiasm is there."
"On whose part?"
"Your father's. The baby wants his thumb."
"An equally worthy ambition."
He steals a piece of focaccia from my plate. I move the plate out of reach before he can take another.
"You have your own."
"Mine doesn't have the end piece."
"Because I chose carefully."
My mother stands, taking her empty plate. "I'll see whether your father wants some food before he starts on the next lesson."
Leon takes her chair. His knee rests against mine while we watch Papa surrender his thumb, then reclaim it with an expression of grave surprise that delights the baby.
"He did that with me," I say.
"The thumb?"
"The face. As if I was the first child in the world to catch him out."
Leon watches them for a moment. "I can understand it."
Gia comes over carrying a plate with two slices of cake. She sets it between us and looks at Leon.
"Tell me honestly."
"A dangerous beginning," he says.
"Is it as good as Ysabel's?"
He looks at the cake, then at me. "Am I allowed to taste it before I answer?"
"Of course."
He takes a bite and chews with exaggerated care. Gia waits, hands on her hips.
"Excellent," he says.
"That wasn't the question."
"It's the answer I can safely give."
I laugh so hard I have to set my plate down. Gia calls him a coward and leaves us with both slices, looking pleased despite herself.
A little later, my father brings the baby to us, along with a damp cloth and an account of what has apparently been a very demanding afternoon of conversation. Leon takes over, settling our child on his knee.
I wipe a small chin while he holds a spoon out of reach of curious fingers. The guitarist has started a song I know, and I hum a few lines. The baby stills to listen, mouth open, then offers a sound that bears no resemblance to the melody.
"Your side of the family," I tell Leon.
"Certainly. That was excellent."
He repeats the sound. Our child responds, and for the next few minutes they conduct a conversation neither of us can understand.
People pass us, stopping to talk or simply touching a shoulder as they go. I sit with my dress creased beneath me and my husband's knee against mine, laughing when the baby tries to join the singing again.
I don't want the afternoon to hurry.
For once, it doesn't seem inclined to.
By the time the sun sets, most of the guests have drifted home.
The cleanup is happening slowly, people packing up leftover food and folding chairs with the unhurried movements of a community that's done this many times before.
My father carries a stack of plates to the car. After a last walk around the gathering with Leon, the baby has fallen asleep; my mother offers her lap while he helps fold the remaining chairs.
When he finishes, he comes to find me.
Leon and I stand at the edge of the hillside, watching the last of the light fade over the valley.
"We should head back soon," I say. "Get the baby settled."
"Your mother asked whether we'd like them to stay tonight," Leon says. "She said she wanted to ask you herself."
"Stay with us?"
"In the guest room. They'd look after the baby while we have the evening together."
I glance toward my parents. My mother is looking back at us, and when I catch her eye she smiles.
"That sounds lovely," I say.
We go over together. Before I can speak, she holds up a finger.
"An offer. Not an instruction."
"I was coming to accept."
"Good. Your father has been asking what time your kitchen serves breakfast."
"Whenever someone makes it," Leon says.
"Then I'll make it," Papa says. "Your mother can lie in."
She laughs. "We'll see how long that lasts."
They've looked after the baby before, in the nursery that now feels as familiar to them as the rest of the house. Mamma suggests taking the guest room beside it, and I find myself looking forward to an evening without one ear turned toward the monitor.
"If you need us, just knock," I say.
"We know where you live," Papa assures me.
I lean in and kiss my child's forehead, breathing in the familiar sweet smell. "Thank you. Both of you."
"Thank us by sleeping in," my father says. "You look exhausted."
"I am exhausted."
"Then go be exhausted somewhere comfortable. We'll handle everything else."
We drive back together, Leon and me in front, my mother beside the baby's car seat in the back.
Papa follows in their car with the baskets and flowers. At the estate, I help Mamma put the baby's things in the nursery while Leon carries their overnight bag to the guest room.
Only after we have said goodnight do we collect our flowers and go back to our room together.
***
Our room is cool after the warmth of the day. I set my flowers in the water jug on the dresser and take off my shoes, flexing my toes against the rug.
He closes the door behind us, and suddenly we're alone. With an entire evening ahead of us, and no reason to hurry.
"Hello, my wife," he says playfully.
"Hello, husband."
"How are you feeling?"
"Tired... Happy. A little overwhelmed." I step closer to him. "You?"
"The same. All of it." He reaches up and tucks a strand of hair behind my ear. "I keep thinking about how lucky I am."
"You're not lucky. You worked for this."
"Both can be true." His hand slides down to cup my jaw. "I had a very good day."
"So did I."
He kisses me, soft at first. The kind of kiss that belongs after vows and cake and too many congratulations, after handing our sleeping baby to my parents for the night and closing this door on the rest of the world.
Familiar. Grateful. I taste the faint sweetness of Gia's orange cake on him and smile into it, and he smiles back against my mouth like that alone is enough.
Then the kiss deepens.
I lean into him, letting myself feel everything I've been too busy to feel all day on the hillside.
The warmth of his body against mine, the solid beat of his heart under my palms. The way his hands know exactly where to rest on my waist without asking.
Flowers sit in the water jug on the dresser, stems still damp from the celebration, pale petals open in the lamplight.
My shoes are already off; my toes flex against the rug. The window is open a little, night air cool after the warm afternoon, carrying the soft sound of leaves.
Somewhere down the hall, our six-month-old sleeps in the guest room.
For once, if someone sings a lullaby, it will not be me.
For once, the evening is only ours.
"I've been wanting to do this all day," he murmurs against my mouth.
"Then why did you stop?"
"Who said I stopped?"
Leon kisses me again, more insistent this time, and I respond in kind.
Making out turns warm and filthy without losing the light in it: open mouths, the wet slide of tongues, my quiet laugh when he nips my lower lip, his soft curse when I fist his shirt and pull him closer until there is no honest space left.
We move toward the bed, unhurried but purposeful, and he backs me gently into the dresser first, one hand bracing beside the jug so nothing spills, kissing me until I am breathless and smiling and already aching.
"Leon…"
"I love you," I say between kisses, because the day deserves it said again where no one can clap for us.
"I love you too." His forehead rests against mine for one breath. His eyes are dark with heat and affection both. "Do you know how many times I wanted to take you home today?"
"Before or after the vows?"
"Both. During the vows, during the cake. Every time someone pulled you away to talk."
"You should have said."
"You were enjoying the party."
I slide my hands up to his shoulders, then into his hair. "I'm enjoying this more."
"Good." He kisses my throat next, open-mouthed over the yarn necklace, lingering on the uneven knots like they are part of the vow we just renewed. Warm breath.
Then suction, gentle enough not to hurt, firm enough that I feel claimed. Then lower, unfastening enough of my cream dress to bare my shoulders, my collarbone, the soft tops of my breasts.
His mouth follows every inch he uncovers. "My wife... Again. Forever. Look at you, perfetta."
"You're going to make me cry on our vow day."
"Good tears." He drops to his knees on the rug in front of me, looking up like kneeling is another kind of promise.
His hands slide the dress up my thighs with reverence and hunger tangled together.
"Sit on the edge of the bed. Let me worship you before I take you.
I've been patient all afternoon with my hands to myself. I'm done being patient with my mouth."
I sit on the edge of the mattress.
The frame creaks softly.