20. Solenne
— ? —
Solenne
We flew back to Los Angeles after spring break, just as we promised Summer we would. School was waiting, and work, and the ordinary rhythm of life that doesn’t pause for reconciliations or cove swims or conversations that change everything.
Two weeks later, we’re back in Sicily for the festival weekend. My lawyer confirmed the withdrawal before we left Los Angeles. The divorce is no longer waiting for us to decide.
Summer is standing in front of the bedroom mirror, turning slowly to watch her dress spin. It’s new, a pale yellow sundress with embroidered lemons along the hem, bought specifically for tonight. She insisted on lemons because they grow in our garden.
“Do I look like a real lemon?” she asks.
“You look like a girl in a beautiful dress.”
“But with lemons.”
“With lemons.”
She spins again, satisfied. In the mirror behind her, I can see myself in the sea-colored silk I chose this morning. Green that shifts to blue when I move, simple enough that I can chase a five-year-old if I need to, elegant enough that I’ll feel like myself when the photographs are taken.
Valentin appears in the doorway in a linen jacket, looking like he’s been ready for twenty minutes and has been politely pretending not to notice that we’re still getting dressed.
“Two minutes,” I tell him.
“Take your time.”
Summer runs to him and grabs his hand, pulling him toward the mirror. “Daddy, come see. We match.”
“We do?”
“Mama’s dress is the color of the sea, and my dress has lemons from the garden, and you’re wearing…” She pauses, studying him. “What are you wearing?”
“Apparently I’m wearing something that doesn’t match.”
“It’s okay. You can be the ground.”
“The ground?”
“Lemons grow on trees, and trees grow in the ground, and the sea is next to the ground,” she says this with the confident logic of someone who has just invented a system that works. “So we all match.”
Valentin looks at me in the mirror. I shrug. “I think she’s got you there.”
“I think she has.”
He crouches down to Summer’s level. “Are you ready for the festival?”
“I’m ready for dancing.”
“Dancing and fireworks and probably too much food.”
“I’m ready for those too.”
I find my cardigan and check my bag one more time. Phone, keys, the small notebook I carry everywhere in case I need to write something down. Valentin watches me in the mirror, patient, present.
“Ready?” he asks.
I look at the three of us reflected there.
Summer in her lemon dress, practically vibrating with excitement.
Valentin in his linen, looking more relaxed than I’ve seen him in years.
And me, in the middle, wearing something I chose because I liked it, going to a festival I helped plan, with a family I almost lost.
“Ready.”
We head downstairs together. At the front door, Valentin offers me his arm. Summer immediately demands to be included.
“I want to hold on too.”
“You can hold Mama’s other hand.”
“But then I’m at the end.”
“Would you rather be in the middle?”
She considers this seriously. “Yes. The middle is the best place.”
Valentin scoops her up onto his hip with one arm, keeping his other hand at my waist. Summer wraps her arms around his neck and beams at both of us.
“Now I’m the highest.”
“Now you’re the highest,” I agree.
We walk out the front door together.
***
The festival fills the town square with light and noise and the smell of food cooking in every direction. Strings of lanterns crisscross overhead, and somewhere a band is playing the same folk songs they’ve been playing at this festival for generations.
Last year, I stood at the edge of this crowd with Summer, watching from a distance while Valentin posed for photographs with Ginevra. His mother had told him Summer was ill and I had chosen to stay home. He never saw us standing there.
Tonight, we walk through the front archway together. Valentin’s hand stays at my waist. Summer, who insisted on walking as soon as we reached the square, holds my other hand and points at everything she sees.
“Mama, look. Balloons.”
“I see them.”
“Can I have one?”
“After we say hello to some people.”
“How many people?”
“A few.”
“That’s not a number.”
“You’re right, it’s not. Let’s say three.”
She counts on her fingers. “That’s not very many.”
“I know. We’ll be quick.”
People notice us as we pass. I can feel their attention, the way conversations pause and resume, the small adjustments as they recognize who we are.
Some of them nod politely. Others smile.
A few look uncomfortable, probably remembering what they saw last year, probably wondering what they should say.
I don’t need them to say anything. I just need them to see.
The mayor finds us near the fountain. He’s a round man with a gray beard who has held this position for as long as anyone can remember. Last year, he was standing next to Costanza in the official photographs.
“Signora Caruso.” He takes my hand warmly, which surprises me. “I was hoping to see you tonight. The arts program auction exceeded every expectation.”
“I’m glad. The committee did all the real work.”
“But the connections you made, the artists who donated pieces because you asked them to.” He gestures broadly. “The auction will pay for the children’s summer workshops. We can offer more places now.”
I’d joined two planning calls after Valentin asked me about the festival, reaching out to a costume designer I’d worked with on the series who had been looking for a good cause. She’d donated a sketch that went for more than either of us expected. The local committee had handled everything else.
“The sketch looked beautiful in the photograph the committee sent,” I say. “I’m glad it helped.”
“You must see the display before you leave. We’ve put the children’s work beside the donated pieces.” He smiles at Summer. “Perhaps you’ll add something next time.”
The mayor moves on to greet someone else. Summer tugs at my hand.
“Is that one person?”
“That’s one person.”
“Two more?”
“Two more.”
We make our way through the square, stopping to talk to the man who runs the gelateria, then a volunteer from the children’s activities who wants to thank me for the auction connection.
“The kids made so many things,” the volunteer says. She’s holding a painted tile that one of the children clearly made, all bright colors and uneven brushstrokes. “They were so excited to know their art was part of something bigger.”
“That’s wonderful.”
“Your daughter should come see the display. We kept some of the pieces out so families could look at them.”
Summer is already pulling me in that direction. I let her lead, Valentin following, and we spend ten minutes looking at crayon drawings and painted rocks and one ambitious attempt at a clay bowl that didn’t quite survive the firing.
“I could make that,” Summer says, pointing at a lopsided vase covered in fingerprints.
“You could.”
“Can I?”
“We can find some clay when we get back to Los Angeles.”
“I’m going to make a vase for Bunny. She needs somewhere to put her flowers.”
“Bunny has flowers?”
“She will when I pick them for her.”
We move on. The band has shifted to something livelier, and people are starting to gather in the cleared space near the stage where the dancing will happen. Summer spots the balloons again and gives me a meaningful look.
“Three people,” she says.
“Three people.”
I buy her a yellow balloon that matches her dress. She holds it like it’s the most precious thing in the world.
Near the stage, a photographer is setting up.
Last year, this is where Costanza arranged the family photograph.
She positioned everyone carefully: herself in the center, Ginevra at Valentin’s side, the mayor and his wife flanking them.
I watched from the crowd, holding Summer, who kept asking why Daddy wasn’t waving to us.
Tonight, the photographer sees us and waves. “Signor Caruso, are you joining the family photographs?”
Valentin looks at me. “If my wife is ready.”
I nod.
We walk toward the designated spot. Other families are gathering nearby, dressed in their best, arranging children and adjusting collars. The photographer is organizing them into groups, calling out names, directing people to stand here or there.
When it’s our turn, the photographer gestures toward a mark on the ground. “Signor Caruso, here, please.”
Valentin waits for me instead of stepping forward alone. “The three of us,” he says. “Together.”
I put my arm around his waist, and Summer plants herself between us. Someone beside the camera asks whether we’re waiting for any other members of the family.
“No,” Valentin says. “We’re all here.”
The photographer crouches to get Summer’s face in the frame. “A little closer, then.”
Valentin looks at me. I step close enough that our shoulders touch.
Summer holds up her balloon. “Can this be in the picture?”
“If you want it to be,” I tell her.
“I want it to be.”
The photographer takes several shots. Summer grins in every one. I can feel Valentin’s hand steady at my back, anchoring us in place.
When we step away, I realize I was holding my breath. I let it out slowly.
“Okay?” Valentin asks.
“Better than okay.”
The music shifts again. The dancing is about to begin.
Summer has been promised the first dance, and she intends to collect.
The square has cleared a space in front of the band, and couples are beginning to gather at the edges, waiting for the traditional opening song. Summer tugs at both our hands, impatient.
“When does the dancing start?”
“Soon.”
“How soon?”
“Very soon.”
“That’s not a time.”
“It’s the best answer I have.”
She sighs dramatically, which she’s recently learned from watching something on television that I should probably monitor more carefully.
Delfina appears at the edge of the crowd, dressed in her own festival clothes, looking more relaxed than I’ve ever seen her at an event like this. She’s here as a guest tonight, not as staff, though she insisted on checking that we had everything we needed before we left the house.
“The music is about to start,” she tells us. “Would Summer like to be closer?”