The Gift, page 2
“What’s your uncle filling your ears with over here?” Dad asks, leaning over Uncle Roberto and smirking.
“Nothing but truth!” he answers in the same concentrated tone with his usually tiny amber eyes popping wide open.
“The winery our family had in California was in LA? How? Where?” I ask my dad.
“Yes, it was down by the LA River. A friend from here told our family member about land in California that was similar to this land, so Pietro gave it a shot. Plus, I heard he had a friend who made wine barrels who’d also moved to America. The guy was from the family who used to make them for our family here.”
“This is wilddd. Right under our noses, our family has land back home?” I inquire.
Uncle Roberto chimes in, “Well, unfortunately not anymore. Once Prohibition came, our winery business died for its final time. Pietro tried to sell the wine to churches for communion, to doctors for medicine, and even as cooking wines, but nothing worked. Nothing was good enough to keep it going.” He looks down and shakes his head.
“What a shame,” Dad adds. “I would’ve loved to run a business like that.”
My heart jumps at Dad’s statement. “Yeah, tell me about it.” I imagine walking in harmony with the land through my family’s vineyard, grabbing the thin leaves and palming the plump grapes. I’d be free to wear my sneakers, T-shirts, and jeans…unlike dresses like this that I have to wear too often for performances.
Die, tulle, die.
A winery in LA still doesn’t make any sense, but hey, Pietro made it happen. I could too. The ridiculous, fleeting daydream halts as my attention travels to Christian’s stillness.
“Did you hear that story?” I ask him.
“Yeah, who would’ve known, huh?” He voices a normal reaction, but his tone sounds like he can care less. Has the phylloxera bug returned and gone where the sun don’t shine?
All I know is I wish I still had the passion for the cello that Pietro had for winemaking. Would I move across the ocean to a new country to continue my playing? That’s a hard no. I can barely create enough energy to get out of bed in the morning to go to one of my jobs. If only the thrill I used to have for my career would return.
Just as I stand up to grab treats I can’t miss from the dessert table, the best man makes it over to our table to sell us a piece of the groom’s tie.
“I’ll contribute to the honeymoon,” offers the cheerful Christian I sometimes still capture glimpses of—about as often as Halley’s Comet.
“How sweet, babe.” I tap his back with unconscious force, and he jolts forward, almost hitting the tray in front of him and knocking off all the pieces of the tie.
My teeth clench. “Oops, sorry.”
“You don’t know your own strength,” Mom comments. “Unresolved anger?” She chuckles while tightening her lightweight shawl and moving the ends of her curly, walnut-colored shoulder-length hair out from underneath it.
Thinking, uh, maybe, I scream, “No!” instead.
Christian smirks and makes the exchange.
I snatch his tie-scrap-free hand. “Come on. I’ll make it up to you.”
“You’re fine. Don’t worry,” Christian says but surrenders to my arm pull. His soft, warm hand has a gentleness to it.
Can I step on solid ground from the typical eggshells covering my path?
Taking a deep breath and remembering this luxury, we arrive at the dessert table. My eyes widen as I witness the sweets awaiting my mouth. “Yessss. Both of my faves from this area. I love those oval shortbread cookies.”
“What are they called again—off lele Pavia?”
I giggle. “Close. Offelle di Parona. The city of Parona is in this province of Pavia. I know it’s confusing, but—oh, look at the inside of the torta paradiso.” I bend down to examine the interior of the sponge cake. “Looks like custard. I’m in.”
“I think you were ‘in’ no matter what.” He laughs.
Another step away from eggshell row. Phew.
“Alright, dig in. I’m going to go get some dessert wine to dip cookies in then grab the goods.” My eyes don’t leave the target.
“No, I’ll get it for you.”
My head jerks backward, but I try to play off my shock by not changing my facial expression. “Thanks.” He doesn’t even like wine, so he’d only be getting it for me. What an unusually thoughtful move.
He leans down to plant a peck on my lips. “Will you bring me back dessert, then?”
“All over it. Meet ya at our table.”
Meandering through the dancing guests with my overfilled plates, a tinge of hope for my marriage echoes through my chest. Maybe we will make it to that tenth anniversary after all. Italy may be just what we need to heal whatever the heck is broken with us.
Chapter Three
The morning frenzy alerts my heart that I may’ve been wrong about us last night, but it also tells me the wine wasn’t slowing my pace. As I sit on the hotel bed, sipping cappuccino, Christian swirls around me as if he’s had three to my one frothy jolt. “We have time, you know,” I say.
“Don’t you want to get to Milan? We have a lot to fit into a day and a half. And we slept later than I thought we would.”
“Sorry. Yeah, I do want to get there, but I also want to enjoy every single second of being in Stradella.” I inhale a whiff of my drink. “Then, driving through allll the cities in the Lombardy region until we return to Milan.”
Christian places the back of his hand on my forehead and angles his head. “Are you okay, Toni?”
“Yeah, why?”
“I’m not used to this side of you.” He returns to rolling his clothes, making sure to fit them tightly into his suitcase that’s next to me.
“I don’t know what happens when I come here.” I walk toward the window, finally comfortable again in my red low-top Converse sneakers and jeans, and absorb the dew-covered greenery and sparkling Po River in the distance. “Don’t you remember the last time we came?”
The crinkling sound of him shuffling his clothes stops, so I turn around.
“I guess so. Maybe I just didn’t notice before. You used to complain a lot less about…well, everything.” He sneers.
“Well, the last time we came, I also didn’t have three jobs and have to run around like a chicken with its head cut off when we’re home. I thought I’d only have to hustle for a few years at most before getting into the LA Philharmonic, but I kind of have to keep up the pace or there’s a domino effect. My schedule can’t take alterations.” Turns out, the beauty of the Po Valley outside of these walls can’t take away the reality that awaits me later this week.
Christian walks toward me and grips both of my hands while he stares into my eyes with his beauties. “Slow down. Take a breath.”
I do as suggested and exhale with such force that the curled-up ends of the otherwise straight hair tucked behind his ears bounce.
He removes one hand from our grasp and smooths his upper slicked-back hair into place then returns his hand to mine.
God forbid one of those dark-brown babies be out of place.
“That’s more like it.” The corners of his thin lips curl as if following their neighboring feature. “Let’s enjoy the remaining time we have left. And you’ll handle things like you always do when we get home. Or, you know, just think of seeing Nala again for now. She’ll bring a smile to this pretty face.”
I let go of his hands to give him a hug. “Thanks. I needed a reminder that I’ve got this.” His tall, lean body sends familiar comfort through short, petite me. “Now, back to today. And remembering our furry feline friend waiting for us at home. She always eases the misery of my life.”
When I back away from the embrace, I notice Christian squinting, yet he remains quiet and returns to packing.
Uh-oh. Misery may be a stronger word than needed. Just keep the conversation moving, Toni. “I’ll grab the toiletries from the bathroom. That’s all I have left to gather.”
A few minutes later, when I’m sitting in the driver’s seat of our rental car, I remember the accordion museum. It’s not worth asking Christian if he minds stopping, because I already know the answer. Dad will have to be satisfied that I’ll return to it the next time I travel here. At least I visited it as a kid.
Christian clicks his seatbelt into place. “Let’s hit the road, Jack.”
“Onward!” I point at the windshield as I put the car into drive and push down the desire to see the prized accordions.
Driving out of the city, I make sure to pass through its Piazza Vittorio Veneto, where the Civic Tower has stood solid in the main square for centuries. The only time I’m glad to stop for a traffic light is when I can stare at the giant, red-brick clock tower from early Roman times. Its tan top third above the tapered brick archways and below the round clay roof tiles houses the bells on all four sides. As a child standing at the bottom of the tower, I always felt protected by its stately height.
“Toni, the light’s green.”
“Oh, sorry.” I snap back to being age thirty-five, but the momentary reminiscing urges me to change my mind and ask, “Hey, what about hitting up the accordion museum before we leave? I think it’s open by this hour.”
Without hesitation, he snaps, “No way. We already started later than I thought we would today. There’s no time to lollygag.”
“Um, that’s the best part of coming to Europe.” It’s all I can do not to drive directly to the museum this second. Sigh. I should have listened to my first thought. So much for avoiding angering him.
“Stop being an idiot. Just keep driving—if you can even handle that part of the plan.” He grunts as he fires the last few words, shifting his attention to the side window.
“Excuuuse me? I make a simple request, and it’s straight to bash Toni time.” Who the hell does he think he is, talking to me that way in the homeland? I mean, it’s never okay, but come on, have some respect. For something. For someone. We can’t even function here, in sacred Italy.
“You always try to veer off course, and I’m tired of it. Can’t you ever be normal?” His voice fills the car with heat.
I mumble, “Maybe I don’t enjoy being trapped in a clock, analyzed every second of the day and for every move I make.”
He slams his fist on the dashboard. “Someone has to keep you on track, and that will never be you, buzzing here and there in fantasies of living the artist dream while I sacrificed my screenwriting dream and took a stable job for us.”
I jump in my seat and shout, “I didn’t ask you to do that!” My God, this endless topic can rear its ugly head anywhere in the world.
“You didn’t have to! That’s what grownups do. Someone has to have health insurance for us,” he huffs.
“I knowwww! I’m trying to get in LA Phil and have one job. That’ll give me my own insurance, and I won’t have to use your plan. Oh, the cost for two people versus just you—I’ve heard it enough, Christian.”
“That’s just how it is.” He inhales a huge breath and places his hand on my lap.
My body flinches in response.
“Look,” he continues, “I know you’re trying to reach your goal, and I support that, even when it seems like I don’t. But I know what’s best for us. I’m the brains of the operation.”
My gag reflex warns me of my true feelings, but Christian’s mixed message signals guilt for causing an issue as well. I should’ve known better than to act on impulse. Try to focus on the support part of what he said, Toni. He means well.
Not realizing I’d been gripping the steering wheel so tight that my hands are clammy, I loosen them for some sense of relief. “I don’t want to upset you. I just want to have a good vacation, and I guess I wasn’t thinking about honoring the itinerary we agreed upon.” Mostly you, Christian, but whatever. “I’m sorry.”
“Tone Tone, we’ll go to the museum next time.” He rubs my thigh.
Okay, one, he only calls me by his self-proclaimed genius musical pet name when he’s trying to appease me. Two, he does see a next time of us coming here, so that’s optimistic for our future together.
Stop.
Where did that thought come from? Like my marriage is in shambles? I think not! All couples go through rough patches. We’ve just been scatting instead of bopping to a pop song. We’ll get back in our groove.
I grin and glance at my husband, who’s making puppy-dog eyes back at me.
“Fine. Next time. You have to promise.”
“Pinky swear.” He holds out his little finger to seal the pact.
Maybe some time alone in Milan will do us some good. Family time is wonderful, but a chance for a little romance may be just what we need to kickstart us again, to return to how we used to be. Ah, the good old days.
As we turn onto the road leading us out of Stradella, I mentally say goodbye to the surrounding vineyards lining the hills in all directions. Sure, there’ll be more on the way to Milan, but they won’t be Stradella vineyards—the land of my ancestors. I breathe in the fresh September air and drive, but not without thinking of Pietro once more.
Chapter Four
As we approach the outskirts of Milan, I adore the mustard-yellow buildings with matching orange shutters that always alert me we’re nearby. The reddish-brown Mediterranean clay roofs glisten in the bright sun so much I wish I had my sunglasses accessible. Taking a swift glance at the floor of the backseat—if you can call it that in this toy car—I see I won’t be able to reach where my handbag slid. My SUV at home must be three times the size of most cars in Italy, but I usually keep my bag in the front seat for easy access. I could use that towering machine that makes me feel tall and powerful right about now.
“Do you need something back there?” Christian asks.
“Oh, yeah. It’s okay.” My eyes strain to open to their usual width.
“No, what? I can get it,” he offers.
Well, someone seems like he’s in a better mood. Maybe his catnap did the trick.
“My sunglasses,” I say, pointing. “In my bag.”
He reaches behind him and whips them out, even cleaning them with the cloth from the case before handing them to me.
See, this is what’s so confusing about him. The varying between the solid Christian I used to know and the fluctuating Christian he’s been more and more makes me want to scream. There have been a few times I did, by the way—well, into my pillow. I’ve thought about calling him out on how I feel, but he’d reject anything I say about a change in him, so it isn’t worth it. Yet, he keeps getting worse over time, so do I just stand by and cross my fingers for the best?
My mind drifts to the moment I met the man of my dreams soon after returning to LA after college in New York City. Going to the grocery store that day on the way home from the beach, wind-blown hair and sandy feet galore, Christian entered my world over rolling limes. Yeah, you read right—rolling limes.
Crawling on the floor to scoop up those that got away when I pulled the exact wrong one out of the bin, I looked up and met his eyes, not being able to help grinning at his kindness…and gorgeousness. This stranger was gathering the rogue fruit just out of my reach, kneeling on the floor despite being in professional clothing. Come to find out, he’d just had a meeting to sell one of his scripts, which bonded us when we met on our first date. We were two artists trying to make it in the big city.
From that night on, I was head over heels for my charming man, bursting with giddiness at the thought of him. When he got down on one knee again, it was to ask me to be his life partner—and I assumed an equal. Not a moment’s delay led me to saying yes at the top of my lungs. The presence of other diners didn’t keep me from jumping on him, causing us to huddle on the ground, full of joy. I never imagined needing to hold back thoughts, opinions, and actions when he used to love me for me, even the messy parts.
Speaking of the newer husband model, he pulls out his phone and starts reciting our plans for this leg of the trip, bringing me back to this year. “First, let’s see if we can drop our bags off at the hotel. We can’t leave everything in the car since it’s unsafe.”
“Are you calling my family’s country dangerous?” I play-punch him on the shoulder, still in the daydream of times our bodies were practically inseparable.
He doesn’t proceed to laugh at my joke. “No, not at all. It’s common knowledge you don’t leave bags in the car, especially in tourist areas.”
O-kay.
“Next, let’s see if we can get lunch in the Piazza del Duomo,” he continues.
“Yes! I’ve never been able to walk around the cathedral square. Every time I’ve come to Italy, with or without you, I fly in here and drive straight to Stradella. I need to experience Milan this time.”
“You do, do you?” Now he laughs.
Does he understand what I’m saying, though? “Babe, I need to keep things slow here and soak up all of the Milanese spirit. Wouldn’t that be fun, to really get it?” I jiggle my shoulders but sense his stare and stop.
“Huh?”
“Where’s my husband with the free-spirit artist soul? We can work in some time in our schedule.” I try to insert a giggle as I wince internally for the words that escaped.
“He’s right here,” he says defensively. “I am a film professor, you know. I’m still employed in the arts.”
Ooh, I better soften this up. “I know that. What I mean is, you used to go with the flow a little more. That’s all. Let’s just play some things by ear. Take it easy. We don’t need a list for every second, babe.”
