The Gift, page 26
Yes, that seems like the right thing to do. My body loosens, and I pet Nala once again, resting my hand behind her ears.
Okay, let me get back on track. Let’s get us back on track. I’ll obviously have to accept the chair. Teenage Toni would have slapped me silly for giving any other choice another thought. So…I’m really considering deserting my family legacy, huh?
Adulting stinks. So does the remaining feeling of sandpaper rubbing against my soul.
Chapter Fifty
As I pull into a parking space at the grocery store on Christmas Eve eve, my phone rings with an unfamiliar number. I’ll let it go to voicemail, since I have to get started on baking my favorite seasonal food from Milan—panettone. It takes days, and I only have two until Christmas, so I gotta get into that store.
The alert sounds before I enter, so I stop walking, block one ear, and press the phone up to my other ear to hear the message.
Oh.
I didn’t get the loan.
I guess I don’t have to worry about declining it if I accept LA Phil’s offer after all.
Hmph, that was fast. They saw me a mile away and screamed, “Ha ha, nope!” at the top of their lungs while they clicked the big, fat NO decision box. Then, they evilly laughed about how I’d think I could ever get approved while they sipped on thick, black coffee and planned their next refusal.
I fall back against the red brick wall of the store to catch my breath. Somehow, it’s been sucked out of me once again. This is surely a December to remember.
The helpful banker reminded me in the message that I could apply again with a co-signer because I need more assets of my own to get approved solo. She wasn’t part of the sneering group. But the fact of the matter is that I’m too much of a risk for the bank. Me, a risk.
There’s that word again.
But I don’t know anyone who owns enough assets to co-sign. Flora has her business, but she has a loan herself. My parents do own their house…no, I can’t ask them. It’s bad enough they have to change their expectation of my career, let alone assist in it. I don’t know if their house would even be enough for the bank anyway.
There’s nobody to help.
But wait. Why am I racking my brain to apply for another loan when I have LA Phil’s offer on the table? My thoughts automatically traveled to continuing down the wine path in the distance when I have the music path inches ahead. My head falls back on the wall a little too hard, but it may be needed to knock sense into me.
Well, the bank thinks I’m a risk, and Christian thinks the move is too risky, so maybe everyone is right. Maybe the nudges from Pietro were in my head. Maybe I should just go inside and get the raisins and candied citron I need.
I may need to shift my thinking once again, twisting it to how the signs I received must be leading me toward being in LA Phil—that I’m meant to be in the place I always wanted to be in my career. Was the P on my paper standing for philharmonic and not Pietro? Is the universe trying to tell me this is the way to save my marriage?
Just as that thought comes to consciousness, Christian calls.
Talk about coincidence.
“Hey, can you pick up some chips for a snack later?” he asks.
“Sure. Need anything else?” I try to sound springy, like nothing life-changing happened again.
“Just for you to come home.”
My insides melt. See, this is what I want, what I need, what I remember with my man. I also need for it to stick around this time—both the feeling and us being us.
“Aww.” I kick a pebble by my foot with my sneaker.
“Okay, see you soon.”
“Bye.”
So, here I go with another tidbit I may or may not tell Christian. The more I lean toward accepting the offer, the more I’ll have to “forget” to think about how to get funding for the vineyard…and that I was rejected by the bank for a reason he’s told me all along. Sounds like a plan.
I could use a sip of the rum that I’ll be using to soak the raisins in tonight.
Ambling into the store, I slip my phone in the front pocket of my crossbody purse and try to get on with my day while attempting to funnel my thoughts in one forced direction.
Chapter
Fifty-One
With Frank Sinatra crooning “Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas” as we have ourselves a whole lot of antipasti and finish cooking Christmas dinner, I keep feeding my soul with Bitto and Slinzega, treasures from our Lombardy region of Italy. The sweet cheese complements the thin, air-dried meat in my mouth as I think about throwing in salami for good measure. Why not also add in the last cheese from the platter and have a dash of gorgonzola in the wad of goodness?
Before I manage my culinary feat, Mom drops a bowl and sends Nala scattering to the next room. “Ooh, so sorry.” She grimaces.
After swallowing my heap, I respond, “One of the few times I bring her over to be with us.” I purposely leave my face without emotion to mess with her.
“Stop it now.” She taps my shoulder with the end of her flung dish towel and giggles.
“You should bring her over for all Sunday dinners,” Flora says before piling meat in her mouth.
“Maybe there’s a reason I don’t,” I joke. “Be right back.” I search for Nala and find her crouched under the red-light-filled Christmas tree.
Stooping to the floor, I say, “My gorgeous little lioness, don’t be scared. It’s okay.”
She doesn’t move closer when I reach out my hand to pet her, so I pat the ground. “Come out,” I add in my softest voice.
After a few more pats, she crawls out far enough for me to scoop her up and comfort her. “Oh, principessa.”
Once she tilts her head to rub it against my arm, revealing her mustache front and center, I know she’s fine, so I place her on the carpet.
“Dad, you think you’ll ever try a new theme on this old tree? It’s been decorated with only red and white ornaments for as long as I can remember.”
“Maybe he likes it that way. Leave the man alone,” Christian says in a humorous tone with a sly smile. His words and loose stance in the door frame of the kitchen should be taken for what they are, but a spark of dread warns me to stay on guard.
Where did that come from? We’re back in order now…again. Right? I mean, we’ve been able to act normal and actually have conversations. That’s something.
“I think some things shouldn’t change, like my tree.” Dad goes back to reading a keyboard magazine.
“I can see how you still like to keep away from meal prep too,” I add.
“Yes, that shouldn’t change either. Tradition is tradition, and nobody wants me to cook for them.” He flips a page and chuckles.
“Likely story, Dad.” I roll my eyes with a grin and pass Christian to return to my spot near the meat and cheese.
Christian inches away to lean against the wall on the fringe of the family room, scrolling on his phone and removed from family time.
“Alright, let’s get the food to the table and mangia,” Mom announces.
After every morsel of food is transferred from one room to the next, Dean Martin welcomes us to the start of the feast with “White Christmas,” a song I can predict a response to seconds after a certain someone hears it.
Dad, sitting at the head of the table, closes his eyes and sings at the top of his lungs to accompany the classic singer, having all, if not more, of his charisma. Move over, Dino—fun fact: that’s the singer’s real name. I know, I know, music nerd alert.
“Who wants to pour the wine?” Mom asks, straightening the wrinkled edge of her forest-green tablecloth at the other head of their table.
“Toni would probably like to do it,” Christian offers to my family.
“Oh, okay.” I grab the bottle of pinot noir and wonder why I keep taking his comments two ways. Half of me thinks giving me wine interaction is considerate of him because he knows I’m an enthusiast now, but the other half is weighed down with him probably wanting to rub in that this is the closest I’ll get to having a winery.
Shame on me for having doubts about him, but I’m programmed now. I’m not a light switch that can turn trust on and off, my God. Okay, stop staring at the bottle and start pouring, Toni.
I shake my head and blink, placing the wine opener on the bottle top. Noticing a familiar label, I ask, “Where did you get this treasure?”
Pop.
Lifting the cork of the Oltrepò Pavese’s liquid magic, I instantly smell it, another trick I learned from Gio.
“We brought it back from the trip. Uncle Roberto gave it to us, along with its friends.” Mom points to the hutch behind me.
“Ah, good to know for future dinners.” I walk around the table and spread the wealth in all of our garland-painted wine glasses sitting next to tall glasses filled with ice water.
“Tell us something new you’ve learned about wine lately, Toni.” Dad sips on his water.
My eyes dart to Christian to see his reaction.
He lifts his chin. “Yeah, tell us something good.”
Although his tone and words don’t give away the topic’s weight between us, I tread lightly.
“Uh, let’s see. There’s a large amount of iron in the soil of the Oltrepò Pavese wine region so the red color of their wine is vibrant. Perfect for Natale.” Just as I give a non-threatening tidbit for listening pleasure, I make it back to my seat, next to Christian.
I’m sure not to turn my head to see his response, but I feel his energy heating up, despite my effort to keep things simple. Don’t ask me how, but a wife knows these things. Maybe it’s his lack of movement, not even raising his hands from below the table yet.
“Buon Natale. Merry Christmas.” Mom lifts her wine glass, and we all follow suit, reaching across the table to connect our glasses and salute. The gesture breaks the thickness in the air to my left.
Starting my tasting process, which I can’t avoid these days and don’t want to, I watch the rich red color of the homeland’s fruit coat my glass in graceful drips. Mid-swirl and bringing the glass up to my nose, the room is oddly quiet. Peeking over my raised glass, I ask, “What?”
Everyone is staring at me.
“It’s getting intense in here, sis,” Flora says from across the table. “You’re so fancy-schmancy now.”
“Because I’m savoring the moment with our region’s wine?” I smile, though it’s forced, not knowing where to land in emotion.
“I’m impressed.” Mom takes her napkin and places it on her lap.
“Well…thanks.” The first taste of the pinot doesn’t disappoint. Notes of cherry and spice shower my palate in bliss.
“What else can you tell us?” Dad starts scooping the first course’s crescent-shaped ravioli from the house-sized red bowl in the center of the table.
Wanting to dive into the casoncelli and taste the sausage, mortadella, and Parmigiano Reggiano filling yesterday, I scan my brain to say something to get us off the subject. “The Mediterranean climate in the Lombardy region of Italy is just like southern California, mild winters with little rain and warmer summers.” As soon as the words leave my mouth, I know comparing locations was a mistake. The sweat building under my arms reinforces my knowledge.
“I knew that.” Christian doesn’t waste a second.
It’s Christmas, I remind myself. He isn’t trying to be a jerk. He’s being his usual self. It’s a typical statement from him.
“Oh yeah, I told you.” I dig into the fluffy pasta and hastily grab my fork to split one shell open. Stabbing it then blowing on my large portion isn’t soon enough to shove that thing in my mouth. Finally, the butter, bacon, and sage sauce sends savory sparks throughout my body, allowing me a moment of escape without having to talk—yeah, for once. I chase it with a bite of the freshly baked bread Flora brought for the meal.
“How interesting, Toni. You may be the best grape grower yet. You’re off to a good start.” Dad reaches for his first slice of bread.
My emotions are split again. Dad is trying to be supportive but is pulling the pin on the grenade sitting next to me. Who knew Christmas dinner should be approached with caution?
“She wanted to tell you some good news today.” Christian places his hand on my lap and tightens his grip.
“Mmm.” I pretend again that I never speak with my mouth full.
“What? You bought a vineyard?” Dad tosses another bite of doughy, buttery bread heaven into his mouth.
Like it’s that easy to buy a vineyard. I wish.
“Um, no.” I smile. The moment a child can tell their parents something they’ve always wanted, which said parents helped them to achieve, is the ultimate Christmas gift. “I was offered the spot in the LA Philharmonic.”
Cheers of, “What?” and, “That’s incredible news!” fill the room. Mom jolts up from her seat and claps while Dad pounds his hands on the table like he’s drumming, beaming from his round face. Flora’s mouth hangs open. Nala scurries under the tree again. Poor girl.
“Yeah, I can’t believe it.” I look over at Christian, who just removed his tight hand.
He smiles and says, “It’s no shock. She’s awesome.” He leans over to kiss me on my cheek.
“Thanks.” I’m torn by the pleasure of being able to share the news with those who would appreciate it almost as much as me and how I didn’t get to choose the moment I told them. There continues the constant roller coaster. And I even waited until I was face to face with everyone today so it could be special. Thanks for nothing, Christian.
“We’re so proud of you.” Dad stares at me with a father’s look of pure joy.
“Yes, we are.” Mom jumps up again and says, “Time for the second course, to celebrate. I’ll be right back with the tacchinella. Flora, want to carry in the mostarda di Cremona? We can’t let Toni’s hands be harmed in any way now.” She laughs.
“I see who the preferred child is in this family.” Flora also laughs.
“Well, I still need to decide if I’ll accept it,” I shout.
Sound and motion stop once more.
“I don’t understand.” Dad draws his brows together.
“Huh?” Mom calls from the kitchen.
“She’ll obviously accept it. Right, Tone Tone?” Christian asks but doesn’t ask.
“Well…I probably will. I mean, stable pay, benefits… But the wine—”
“The wine dream was just a replacement for the real thing,” Christian cuts me off with an ease of passing along information, like telling me the sky is blue.
My head retracts. Was it? Could that have been why I got so swept up in reviving my family’s business? I don’t know what end is up anymore.
Dad looks over to Mom, and they exchange the same expression of upward-shifting faces and angled lips.
“I don’t think so, Christian.” Flora breaks the seconds that seem like years. “She can have two passions.”
“She can, but—” Christian continues.
“Why don’t we give Toni time to talk?” Flora’s tone bites all the way from the other room.
I glance at Christian peripherally and slowly turn my head.
He’s glaring in his old chum’s direction.
Things have changed, even between them.
“Go ahead, Toni. Speak,” he concedes.
Dad and Mom again exchange another glance, this time with a squint.
They have to be picking up on the changes too. It can’t just be me—unless I am losing my mind. But that’s for another day’s sorting out.
“I’m pretty sure I’ll take it. I just want to be sure-sure. You know?” Images of my feet touching that Temecula Valley soil flash in my head.
“Honey.” Mom walks back from the kitchen with the plate of roast turkey hen and sets it on the table. “You need to do what makes you happy.” She looks directly at Christian then back at me. “Remember?”
Okay, there’s no uncertainty about them noticing changes.
“Yes, your mom is right,” Dad contributes right away. “We’ll be here for you whether we visit you in a concert hall or at a vineyard.”
“Hey, I always knew marching band was better than orchestra.” Flora sits back down and starts shoveling from the side dish she carried as her voice climbs an octave. “You wouldn’t have these issues now if you marched, like me, since there aren’t many adult marching bands. I tried to tell you what ruled all when we were younger.”
“Ha, ha.” I play the game and add, “But we know orchestra wins.”
Just like that, we’re back to the battle of flute vs cello—one I’d much rather be in than the one in this room with my husband.
“We’ll be playing after dinner. Right, Toni…?” Dad pauses, like he’s about to say more but instead cuts off a piece of meat.
“Of course. No matter what I choose to do as a career, I’ll always play with you.” I don’t look him in the eye for fear of getting tearful. The colorful, sweet candied cherries, figs, pears, and apricots shining in their spicy mustard allow for a distraction as I stack the mixture on my plate.
As Christian remains silent, I glance over, hoping he’s in the same we-love-Toni spirit as the rest of the family.
He carves his hen, allowing the stuffing of sausage, ground beef, and soaked bread to fall in scattered freedom on his plate.
Lucky little suckers.
I sip more pinot before carrying on in my own symphony of food. As long as we get to my panettone, I’m safe. Bread can always save the day, especially since panettone translates to Toni’s bread—perfect, right? Then, Dad and I will play, no talking about orchestras or vineyards needs to happen, and…I’ll have the car ride home to deal with the Grinch.
