Chapter 33
“Fourth place!” I announce incredulously as the crowd in the square starts to disperse after the contest results are announced. “I got fourth place. I beat so many Italian nonnas!”
“Good job, Nipotina,” Nonna says, patting my cheek. “I knew it. Your father would be so proud of you.”
I flush pink, feeling proud and a little melancholy at the same time, wishing Dad were here to see this small victory. I’ve had so few since his death, it makes me sad that he is not here to celebrate this one.
“Bruna and I are going to go home,” Lorenzo announces. “It’s been a long day.”
“The crowds have worn me out,” Nonna says. “I have a headache. Do you girls want to go with us?”
“I can drive Juliana home if she wants to stay,” Nicolo offers.
I agree. Nonna does look worn out, but I still have to wait in a long line to retrieve my contest entry pot.
Alex opts to go with Nonna and Lorenzo. She wants to stop back by the granita stand on the way back and give Tommaso her number.
“See, I told you Italy is great,” I tease her. She rolls her eyes at me and follows Lorenzo and Nonna out of the square.
Now it is just Nicolo and me and about a thousand Italian revelers.
The atmosphere of the festival is jolly, the crowds swelling with happy chatter and laughter.
The air is thick with the savory aromas of grilling seafood and risotto from the restaurants nearby.
It’s just after sunset, the golden light starting to fade to gray, the lake deepening to navy and indigo, twinkling with a thousand lights reflected on the water.
I’m still pleasantly in shock over the contest results.
We collect the pot, which Nicolo insists on carrying, and wind our way through the narrow streets lined with buildings hundreds of years old.
They are painted in creams, sunshine yellows, and tangerine, with wooden shutters and balconies bursting with blooms and greenery.
Everywhere you look there is a picturesque piazza with strings of café lights and people sitting at tables eating and drinking wine or strolling through the streets enjoying cups of gelato.
We take our time, savoring the warm evening as it gradually cools, reveling in the sense of relaxed celebration.
My stomach rumbles. The granita seems so long ago.
Laughing, we stand in line to buy gelato at a cheerful storefront.
I get nocciola, a hazelnut flavor, which is one of my favorites.
Nicolo gets stracciatella—vanilla ice cream with dark chocolate flakes.
We wander around eating our gelato with tiny brightly colored spoons shaped like little paddles.
I could do this all night. Italy is so good at creating these little moments of delight.
At last, as it is growing late, we reach Nicolo’s car, a shiny little BMW that looks fast. I slide into the passenger seat, and he expertly navigates us through the crowded streets until we reach the main road out of town.
He drives like a quintessential Italian, confident and slightly carefree, even while passing within inches of stone walls and scooters and families ambling along the side of the road.
I learned long ago to trust Italian drivers to do it in their own way.
The best thing is not to watch too closely, and if you arrive in one piece, consider that a success.
When Aurora and I would complain about our dad’s very Italian style of driving here in the summers, he would chuckle and ask cheekily, Girls, girls. But did we die?
As we drive, I text Aurora a photo from the festival, all of us crowded around my entry on the judging table.
Lorenzo is squinting. Nonna looks a little smug.
Alex is sneaking a peek at her phone. And Nicolo is standing right next to me, looking at me.
I’m laughing, face so radiantly happy it momentarily stuns me.
I tuck my phone back in my purse. I look up to see Nicolo watching me from the corner of his eye.
“Sorry.” I gesture with the phone. “Texting Aurora about the contest.”
“Ah, how is your sister?” Nicolo asks. “Is she still as bossy as she was at fifteen?” he chuckles.
“I was always a little afraid of her, you know. She was so confident, so capable. I felt like she wanted to organize everything, even me.” He looks relaxed while driving, one hand on the wheel, the other resting on the open car windowsill, projecting an effortless cool.
“She’s living in a restored manor house in the mountains of Virginia, married to a blacksmith, has six kids, and makes her own cheese. It’s her version of paradise.”
“Mamma mia!” Nicolo looks impressed. “I don’t know what part of that is the most surprising. So it sounds like your sister has found her right hard thing?”
I hesitate. “Yeah, I think she really has. It’s not what I’d ever want in life, but she’s really happy. And the kids are sweet. Their life is…lovely. Just not for me.”
“What life is for you then?” Nicolo asks, glancing at me in the semidarkness. “What is it that you want?”
“That is the million-dollar question,” I reply, blowing a breath out slowly. “I don’t honestly know. I want to help people. I want to do something that has meaning. I want to give something beautiful to the world. I want to find love…”
“You have not yet found love?” Nicolo asks. His tone is nonchalant, but I see his gaze suddenly sharpen with interest.
I stare out the window at the shadowed houses and olive groves as they glide past. “I’m not sure I’ve found any of it,” I reply truthfully.
“My show is the only thing I’ve ever had that felt like it was mine, like it mattered and helped people.
It’s the only thing I’ve done well. And as for love…
” My voice catches. “It’s been a long time. ”
I leave it at that. I don’t know his romantic history.
I don’t know if he’s been in love once or a dozen times since we first declared our feelings for each other.
It seems pathetic to admit that my first love at fifteen was the closest I’ve come to true love.
I’ve been too careful, too cautious, too afraid of being hurt.
It’s the story of my life. Suddenly, I want to do something crazy.
I’m feeling itchy and uncomfortable and eager to let loose.
We reach the driveway to the farm and Nicolo turns in, winding up the hill, gravel kicking up under the tires. I stare out at the shadowed olive trees, feeling unsettled. How long has it been since I did something spontaneous, something a little wild? I want to do something wild tonight…
Nicolo pulls to a stop in front of the house and I turn to him impulsively. “You want to have a drink with me? For old times’ sake? I have a bottle of limoncello, the good stuff.”
He looks at me for a moment, his gaze searching, then nods. “Of course. But I have a better idea. Let’s go night swimming and then drink limoncello while we look at the stars.”
I hesitate. He wants us to go swimming in the lake.
I haven’t been swimming there since Dad’s death.
My first instinct is to avoid the lake. It still scares me.
Too many memories. But Nicolo has invited me.
And maybe the only thing stronger than my aversion to the lake is my curiosity about Nicolo.
He is sitting there watching me, a gleam of mischief in his eye.
There are a dozen reasons to say no. I’m hungry.
The water is too cold after dark. I try to avoid the lake as much as possible.
But spending time with Nicolo proves too tempting; it outweighs all my objections.
In the end I agree to meet him down on the beach in twenty minutes. I jump out of the car, empty pot in hand, and hurry inside to get ready.