The Gift, page 1
Praise for The Gift
“Rich in Italian culture and little-known pieces of history, The Gift delves deeply into the heartfelt and disturbing sides of relationships with characters so alive their readers will hear their heartbeats, feel their fears, and agonize over the choices they must make—a story of dreams: those that come true, those that change, and those that die.”
- Barbara Conrey, USA Today Bestselling author of
Nowhere Near Goodbye and My Secret to Keep
“The Gift is a delightful, heartwarming ode to the Italian-immigrant experience, family, music, wine—and going after one’s dreams. Along with a well-researched, fascinating history of Italian winemaking in Los Angeles and her trademark mouth-watering descriptions of food, C. D’Angelo’s prose sings as she weaves musical notes into her masterful storytelling. I fell in love with the brave, big-hearted, determined Toni, as she wrestles with her competing aspirations and complicated relationships to live a life that feels right to her.”
- Angela Terry, award-winning author of
The Palace at Dusk
“C. D’Angelo does it again with her knack for bringing the evocative past into the light of the present. The Gift is an empowering, compelling, and moving narrative following one woman as she faces a fork in the road and a life decision that requires a healthy dose of soul searching. This scintillating story grips you from the first page, takes you on an emotional journey, and holds your attention until the very end, leaving you satisfied, inspired, and with the sentiment—sometimes the best gifts are those you give yourself.”
- Annie Cathryn, multi-award-winning author of
The Friendship Breakup
“Escape to Southern California by way of Italy, and immerse yourself in Italian American culture, life’s true passions, and incredible wine. The Gift is truly something to savor.”
- Jenn Bouchard, award-winning author of
First Course and Considering Us
“D’Angelo creates a compelling and relatable story with heart and humor. Readers will be just as enthralled with the rich culinary and vinous delights as they are with Toni’s journey. A must-read for anyone considering a major life change!”
- Christina Consolino, award-winning author of
Rewrite the Stars and The Weight We Carry
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental and not intended by the author. All trademarked brands and brand names mentioned in this fictional book are protected by their trademark and are referenced without infringement, dilution, tarnishment, or defamation.
No AI training: Without in any way limiting the author’s exclusive rights under copyright, any use of this publication to “train” generative artificial intelligence (AI) technologies to generate text is expressly prohibited. The author reserves all rights to license uses of this work for generative AI training and development of machine learning language models.
Copyright © 2024 C. D’Angelo.
All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, transmitted in any form or by any means stored in a database or retrieval system, or used in any manner without written permission of the copyright owner except for the use of quotations in a book review.
Printed in the United States of America
Cover design: JRC Designs/Jena R. Collins
Copy editor: Jenn Lockwood Editing
Internal formatting: Qamber Designs & Media
Print edition ISBN: 978-1-7372624-4-2
Digital edition ISBN: 978-1-7372624-5-9
www.CDAngeloAuthor.com
To my dad, Tony,
whose music lives in me.
Author's Note
This story contains references to verbal, emotional, and psychological abuse, which may be triggering for some readers. If you suspect that you may be experiencing any type of abuse, please contact:
911 for immediate assistance
a mental health professional
the United Way by calling 211, the national anonymous number, or by visiting https://www.211.org/
the National Domestic Violence Hotline by calling 1-800-799-SAFE (7233), visiting https://www.thehotline.org/ to chat, or texting “START” to 88788
the Suicide and Crisis Lifeline by calling or texting 988
You aren’t alone.
Chapter One
An urge to run out of this vineyard screaming thumps my awareness as I listen to the string quartet. Musical notes dancing through the crisp Italian air paired with bursting love in the newly married couple’s hope-filled eyes must have that effect on all happily married fellow musicians. There’s nothing wrong with me…or my marriage. Nope.
Look, I want my cousin’s marriage to be the most fulfilling, best decision she ever made. I’m talking about a white picket fence, 2.5 kids, if she wants them, and all that jazz. It’s not her fault the timing of her wedding isn’t perfect for this point in my life or that I can’t forget the way life used to be when I was beginning as a wife. Ten years later, I’m somewhere far from that picturesque stereotype. Now, Christian’s and my anniversary is around the corner, and the impending date pops into my thoughts more than expected.
But it isn’t the time to delve into those reflections right now, especially since he’s squeezing my hand and giving me a grin—contact that’s unusual these days. I’ll take it. I’ll take anything.
Returning his smile, I say, “Gorgeous wedding, huh?” The thin lining of tulle under my knee-length black dress itches more than the offbeat darkness I can’t put my finger on or shake. Ugh, let me be free—if only my enclosed, sticky thighs.
“Yeah, they couldn’t ask for a better day.” Christian looks around, prompting me to take in the moment for its beauty.
First of all, there’s his beauty. That glowing tan skin, those small but powerful umber-brown eyes. Oh, how they suck me in like the day I met him.
He catches my glimpse, and I curve my lips upward then swivel my head to take in another scene of beauty—the rolling hills of vines filled with grapes spread out before us, AKA the epitome of romance. Listening to the deep sound of the cellist’s smooth strokes frosts the cake in the trio of contentment. I wish I could eat this place and return to it anytime I need escape.
You’d think I could stay in this zone, but as I sip the pinot noir in my glass and savor its hint of cherry, an ounce of envy enters my soul with the thought that people still love to play their instruments. And I mean love. Those performers look like they’re having the times of their lives. For them, it must be a simple relationship, a simplicity I know nothing about anymore.
Is this tulle ever going to stop itching?! I shimmy my hips and unscrunch my nose. Refocus, Toni. This isn’t a place for anything but joy. It’s a wedding!
Continuing to scan the view, the dry yet silky wine slides down my throat as a wave of calm embraces my body. Being outside has this effect on me, where I can get out of my head. How could it not when there’s no restriction on space? Oh, to be as light as the notes in my glass, embraced by their clear view of nature. Wine’s original home always feels like mine as well.
Directing my gaze on Rocca di Montalino, the fortress on top of the highest hill, the varying sizes of its rectangular windows gleam in the sunlight. The beige stucco walls and red tile roof set against the green land and blue sky spark flowing melodies in my mind. Imagine all the starts of marriages that house has overlooked down below, when couples think it’s only up from here…
“Toni,” my dad calls out from behind.
Saved by the bell, or…the dad.
“Yeah, Dad?” I let go of Christian’s hand and turn around to see an accordion strapped to his chest. I’m not sure what’s wider, the bellows on the extended instrument or his smile.
I laugh. “Um, Dad, whatcha doin’?”
“You can’t have a wedding in Stradella without an accordion,” he answers.
“What was I thinking?” I slap my forehead.
“Your Great-Uncle Roberto brought his dad’s here today, since it’s tradition.”
“Well, let’s hear something,” Christian requests, angling his head.
Dad whispers in response, “Not during aperitivo, Christian. Maybe I can play ‘La Tarantella’ after dinner.” Dad’s deep brown eyes light up as he fingers the motion on the keyboard while staring into the distance.
I grip his broad shoulder and say, “One bit of good luck from the song and a bonus when you play it for them. Double the pleasure.”
“That’s right.” Just as Dad, right on time, adds, “You need to visit the famous accordion museum,” my sense of smell alerts me to the salame d’oca to my left.
“One sec,” I tell him while grabbing a slice of this region’s famous spicy goose meat from the waiter’s tray.
“Don’t you think you need a napkin, Toni?” Christian asks.
“I’m good,” I say, throwing the chunk of meat in my mouth.
He should know his wife by now. A wife that doesn’t worry about napkins or getting her hands dirty. I know when I need to restrict myself, but this isn’t one of those times. Is anyone paying attention to my eating habits besides him? Doubtful. Now, if I was at work or shaking hands or
“Toni,” Dad says while continuing to grace the keys of the accordion strapped to him with one hand while pushing away a lone straight strand of thinning light-brown hair with the other brawny hand. “If the inventor of the modern-day accordion hadn’t stopped here in his travels and decided to fix his broken accordion back in the 1800s, we wouldn’t have Grandpa’s, made right here in the factory.”
I’ve heard this story, oh, only five hundred times in my life, especially when we visit the city of our family’s roots, but its lightness is a welcomed guest. “I know, Dad. Mariano Dallapé changed the world, and he deserves all the praise. We’ll see if we can make it there before leaving for Milan tomorrow.” I dip my head and quickly lick my fingers from the greasy salame, then look at Christian for confirmation of the possibility.
He half nods but looks away and takes a deep breath before returning eye contact. “Can you please stop embarrassing me?” he mutters through gritted teeth.
Whoa, he’s in one of those moods. Is it the salame? The proposed schedule detour? I can hardly keep track, and I can’t get pulled into this right now. Well, I can at least try not to get sucked into his pit.
But what I won’t try is to be someone I’m not. He didn’t marry someone different than who he sees now, so what’s with the attitude? I guess I should’ve noticed his shift years ago, but I thought it’d be temporary. Nobody thinks the man they love can make you feel like gum stuck on the bottom of a shoe at all, let alone for years.
The quartet’s performance ceases, and I move on too, though still not escaping flashes of being reminded of the career I’ve come to resent. No philharmonic wants me to play with them. I guess I have to get used to the fact that my cello and I will never be a part of the cool club.
Out of the corner of my eye, I notice a savior. “Olives,” I blurt out. “Be back.” Distraction is key when in denial about life choices.
As I wander over to the staff member carrying my prize, I carefully weave between boisterous guests talking, singing, laughing, eating, and drinking with intense joy. There’s no louder setting than an Italian wedding. Swirling my wine on the journey, the sweetness of the grapes grown right here in the Oltrepò Pavese wine region wafts into my nostrils. Ah, that’s the good stuff—the stuff that’ll make me forget about what lurks at home in Los Angeles and let me enjoy the present.
Grabbing assorted Mediterranean olives on toothpicks from a muted vine-painted bowl, I feel a tap on my shoulder.
“You don’t get any for your sister and mom?” Flora’s hands are on her hips as she exaggerates annoyance through crinkled eyes.
“Yeah, what’s the deal?” Mom chimes in to help her daughter tease me.
Seeing their faces works as well as the wine does for my own mood. “I only have so many hands, you know?” I retort as I hold up each filled hand and smile.
“Likely story, sis.” Flora smiles in return.
“Seems like antipasti is starting, so let’s sit down at our table. Come, come.” Mom leads the way with her gathering hand gesture.
Dad and Christian are already seated when we reach our spots, along with Uncle Roberto and more loving family members. I don’t know if it’s the wine, the food, or my typically battling thoughts succumbing to my heart’s desire to enjoy every second of this needed vacation, but I sense an unfamiliar slowness wash over me as I sink into my chair. Is the Italian way of living finally taking over Italian American me, shooting through my DNA straight to this instant? Is there still hope to achieve la bella vita?
I’d love that, but in reality, it’s probably the effect of the wine, which’ll leave my system in the familiar tune of dreams escaping me over the last decade.
Chapter Two
After warming my stomach with a few slurps of zuppa alla pavese, a gratifying surprise that it’s not in the next course as primi, I remember how much I used to crave it every time we visited here in the fall, and today is no different. Toasted, buttered bread in vegetable broth with a poached egg and grated grana cheese on top is our region of Italy’s take on minestrone soup, and it always hits the spot. If only this was an American-sized portion… As I scoop up the last bit of my treasure, Uncle Roberto pokes my side.
“Ay, la mia bella nipote.” He holds up his glass of wine.
He’s always been my favorite uncle—and not just because we’ve been the same height for as long as I can remember—so hearing him call me his beautiful niece warms my heart as much as this wine. I hold it up to clink glasses with him. “Salute.”
“Sì, sì. Are you having a good time in our city?” His heavy Italian accent makes every word waltz between us.
“I am.” I look to my other side toward Christian, who’s talking to Flora. They always get along well. I wish we could as consistently as them.
“What’s this, this…space…”—he wrinkles his already creased forehead—“distance in your big brown eyes?” Placing his fingers under my chin, he gently lifts it to match our eye levels.
How can he tell? Nobody else seems to notice a difference. He’s my “great” uncle for a reason, I guess.
“Distance? Oh, no. I’m just enjoying the dinner. Look, here comes the primi.” Can I speak any faster?
The server places a dish of risotto in front of me. I lower my head to take a whiff, holding back my curls from drifting over my shoulders and into the dish I can’t wait to devour.
“An uncle knows. But maybe I can bring you back to where you are. Here.” He looks around the tent and swipes his hand over his bald head possessing about three hairs. “You see those vines out there?”
I hear his question but mentally float away by taking a bite of what I know is risotto Pavese—it can’t be mistaken. Not with its Italian borlotti beans, carrots, onions, garlic, tomatoes, celery, and, of course, grated cheese. The Pavia province is all about rice and wine. Wine—
“Yes!” I come back to the wedding. No, not distant at all.
“You are very excited for the vines, sì?” Uncle Roberto chuckles.
“For sure!” bursts out of my mouth a decibel too high. I smile at my exaggerated response, also by glancing beyond my uncle to the vineyard. The clusters of purple grapes within my view, linked to their secure bright-green leaves and whimsical brown vines aren’t a site I can witness in Southern California. “We are one lucky family to be here.”
“And we always have been. You know us Agostis had a vineyard here a long time ago, right?”
“I do. My parents brought Flora and me to the land the last time we visited Stradella. It’s so sad that it was lost to the phylloxera bug.”
He clenches his chest. “Oh, you know how to get an old man right here. They called it the Great Wine Blight of the late 1800s. Nobody ever forgets that time because they never want to lose their vineyards to a disease ever again.”
“I don’t blame them. It sounded awful. Devastating.” I soothe the ache of my family’s tragedy with another bite of the buttery risotto.
“Many families gave up winemaking, but not the Agostis.” He points his finger in the air. “That’s how you ended up living in California, after all.”
“You know, my dad told me the story in the past, but I don’t remember all the details. Some of us stayed, and some of us came back here, like your direct family members.”
“That’s right.” He moves his head up and down. “But do you know what our family did for work in your California?”
I swallow, pause my opening lips, and come up blank. “I’ve actually never given it thought. How strange.” My brow scrunches as I sip more pinot that was just refilled by the waiter.
“They opened a winery!”
“They did not.”
“They did, la mia nipote. A successful one, in Los Angeles.”
“That can’t be, Uncle Roberto. There aren’t any wineries and especially not vineyards there.” I laugh at the thought of rows of vines existing in place of the familiar concrete jungle.
“I do not lie to my sweet one. Our ancestor Pietro made the journey in 1911, all the way from here, to Genoa, to New York City, and on to your city after the family tried and tried to make the vines come back to life. Once they couldn’t have their winery and couldn’t make it in related industries, they decided to give America a try. To bring back the wine in our veins.” As he slams his fist on the table, everyone’s heads turn to us.
