The Gift, page 3
“I used to ‘go with the flow’ when I was trying to be a screenwriter, making zero dollars a week. That didn’t work out so well, if you don’t remember. The Hollywood dream is called a dream for a reason.” Sarcasm oozes from his lips.
Well, that flopped.
And yeah, I couldn’t forget when everything changed for us if I tried. When he was doing what he truly loved, he was a different person. He would never have spoken to me the way he does now. “Christian, not everything relates to money,” I add with a groan.
“And some things are about money, Toni!” His voice fills the car so much that the tiny thing may topple. “I thought we were on the same page—to save for a house.”
I fully give in and match his volume, abandoning my effort at tiptoeing. “How did we get on this topic again?!”
“I don’t know,” he retorts and focuses back on his phone.
“Look, you know I want to buy a house too.” I take my tone down an octave. “We’ll get there. We will own our own property and have more room than our small apartment. All I’m saying is that we’re on vacation right now. Let’s enjoy these few days here in a city we’ve never truly visited. Alright?” I speak so smooth and calm that I’m thinking this thought in the same cool vibe. Go me.
“Alright,” he chops, still concentrating on his phone.
“Sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt you.” I look over at him, and he lifts his head. Our eyes connect before I need to look at where I’m driving again.
I smile, but inside, I can only think how I hope there isn’t a third argument today.
Walking onto the white and gray stone in square outlines on the pavement of the duomo’s piazza transports me the way playing cello used to, when it fed my soul. As I stare at the cathedral in front of us, I attune to a violin off in the distance, but is that soothing melody only in my head? Looking around, I confirm I’m not losing my mind when I spot the player, who looks like a dot in comparison to the gigantic structure behind, amongst the large crowd.
“Wow,” Christian expels.
“That—that sums it up.”
“I read this is Italy’s biggest church, but you can’t grasp that until you see it in person, you know?” he says, staring ahead.
“The statues, the gargoyles, the spires…”
“Yeah, and look at the gold Virgin Mary statue at the highest peak,” he adds.
“She shines in all her glory. My God. This is unbelievable.” I can hardly tear my eyes away from the bright white beauty with a pink hue before me, but I want to take a spin. Channeling Maria in The Sound of Music, I swirl with my arms outstretched. To my left is the huge archway of the Galleria Vittorio Emanuele II, with its extending smaller multi-arched buildings. Further left stands the statue of the first Italian king the mall is named after, riding his green copper horse with pride.
“Want to go inside the duomo? I did have it on my—”
“Do you even have to ask?” I lock my elbow with Christian’s arm and practically run to the entrance, dragging him in tow.
Entering the massive Cathedral of Santa Maria Nascente, I continue to be humbled by its size. Countless pillars carved with statue upon statue, just like its exterior, protrude from the also seemingly endless stained-glass windows. The violin music from outside floats into the doorway where we stand and encourages me to glide farther inside.
Looking down at my feet, the floor is like nothing I’ve ever seen in my life. Geometric flowers in black, white, and red line every inch of this place in graceful structure, echoing as we walk. “Holy cannoli.”
Christian chuckles. “This is one holy cannoli.”
“Oh, yes, cannoli.” I pause. “I could eat.”
“We have to visit the rooftop first, though.”
I slide my hand over the backs of the simple wooden pews as we walk toward the altar. “Okay. And yeah, I didn’t mean right this second, babe. I need to take in more before we leave.” Oh, how my cello would sound in here with these acoustics. A touch of old Toni fills every nook and cranny of my body, striking me that the cello can’t be blamed for what’s missing in my life.
Hey, wait a sec. Milan may be able to reignite my passion. Maybe that’s premature, but I’ll take that train of thought. How reassuring, to grasp onto something in my life besides this pew.
On the roof, I can see for miles, all the way to the snow-capped Alps in the distance. Peeking through the ornate gothic arches and spires, I also spot the most amazing view of the cityscape. “We need a picture of us up here.”
“All over it, Tone Tone.” Christian aims the phone for a selfie of us, capturing the arches as our frame.
I begin to separate from our pose, but he pulls me in and kisses me for what seems like hours compared to recent affection. Tingles soar to my toes, and pleasant chills dance through my chest.
He pulls away, but I pull him back for one more smooch.
When we finally unlock our lips, he says, “Now that’s more like it.”
“Yeah. Yeah, it is,” I reply. My head falls on his shoulders, and we stand in serene silence, staring off into the clouds.
Chapter Five
I wish Italy’s embrace could last a lifetime. Walking out of the Santa Maria delle Grazie’s convent refectory, I continue to envision Leonardo da Vinci’s The Last Supper in my mind’s eye. Spanning almost the entire wall in its delicate, pale, aged state still shocks me as I leave in a daze, especially since seeing the hidden staff and notes I’d read about online. What a genius, leaving the world a song within a masterpiece. Much like life, classic paintings are inspiring, complex creatures, stirring my soul and awakening my senses.
Can I bottle this feeling, please? I’d make millions if people could buy the warmth, depth, and history rooted in this land then could spray it on their necks as the most magnificent perfume. Italy is like a child’s high on Christmas morning all day, every day, paired with renowned food and wrapped in a blanket of kindness.
Milan’s magic today sends me back to Christian’s and my early years. Feeling the adrenaline of playing my cello for him rushes over my body in a wave of pleasure. His supportive words for my career goal and the freedom and bliss we experienced as a new team burst from my heart and into the gentle air between us. Oh, when we had it all.
The first time Christian and I came to Italy together, as honeymooners, we strolled along the streets of Rome as if clocks didn’t exist. One time, we even hopped on a train to Pompeii for the day, spur of the moment, and he was the one who suggested it! Can you believe that? Well, if you’d met him way back when, you would. Full of passion and talent, I couldn’t help but fall deeper and deeper in love with him every day and imagine us growing old together. He never told me I embarrassed him, I never worried about saying something that would set him off, and our vacation needs were the same—a true rest from life’s schedule of demands.
The time crunch that I’m way too familiar with in my day-to-day life creeps into my thoughts, tossing my stomach. Ugh, all those years in my childhood, stuck in my bedroom, practicing the same concerto over and over until I could play it in my sleep. Then, stressing out to get into college on scholarship for my playing, all to end up far from LA Phil. But guess who encouraged me to keep trying, to keep auditioning, to keep the hope alive? Ding, ding, ding! Christian! Yes, back to him, I know. My mind is a churn, and not the kind you’d want—you know, like chocolate and vanilla ice cream in a waffle cone (with sprinkles, always).
Glancing at my man as we amble into the mall’s corridor, he’s of course staring at his itinerary on his phone. The in-my-face reminder of how life has transformed since our honeymoon pushes the musing of our past selves out with my exhale. But I’m keeping the joy of Italy, darn it. I’ll never let go.
“Hey, Mister. We don’t need that today.” I cover his phone with my hand. “Let’s just go into these stores or something.”
He slowly lowers the phone but keeps his strong hand around its frame and says nothing.
Walking through the Galleria, I can’t help but look up at the glass ceiling. Trying not to bump into anyone at the same time should earn me a medal. I can hardly hear myself think in this mass of people, which may be a good thing.
“We don’t have that much time before we need to get to dinner then the show,” he warns seconds later, bringing his phone back to his attention.
“We have time. Come on!” I grab his elbow and pull him into a hat store. Before he can stop me, I throw a fedora on my head and ask, “What do you think?” Making exaggerated modeling faces in the mirror at least brings out a chuckle from him.
“I don’t think that shade of yellow goes with your dark-brown hair.” He looks past me and says, “Here, try this one on your round, little face.”
The cherry-red ribbon wrapped around the straw sunhat fits like a glove. “Yeah, that’s better. I guess you know me.” I look down at my matching shoes and make a silly, wide-eyed face.
“I know you better than anyone.” He hugs me and walks off to try on who knows what.
Buzz.
I reach in my handbag to look at my phone.
David: Do you mind if I borrow your dry erase markers?
As my colleague and closest friend, he should know he doesn’t need to ask!
Toni: Of course not, you fool.
He doesn’t miss a beat and responds with an emoji sticking out its tongue.
Not everyone understands our humor, but that’s his way of saying thank you.
“Who’s that?” Christian asks.
His voice prompts a tiny jump from me.
“Didn’t mean to scare you.” He places a hand on my shoulder.
“No worries. It was David.”
“Oh,” his tone flattens and his hand leaves my body.
For some reason, he’s been acting strange lately when I talk about David. Today is not the day to explore that, though. “Let’s keep moving.” That seems to be my plan these days. “The place is dead anyway,” I joke.
He gives a Mona Lisa smile. “Good one.”
“Swingers has such good lines.” Trying to build on a good memory, I add, “Remember the night we watched that movie?”
“I do. We had frozen strawberry margaritas and nachos while we sat on your futon.” Now, he smiles bigger.
I dip into his side, and he embraces my body with his long arm. “You made sure to bring me a quilt the second I said I was cold.”
He squeezes tighter as we walk. “I’ll always keep you warm.”
Butterflies soar through my abdomen, as well as the promised warmth.
Entering the colossal glass dome where both arcades meet, we stop and gaze upward once again. “This’ll never get old,” I voice, mesmerized. The half-oval paintings at the peak of the dome’s sides shine in the ideal lighting inside the glowing glass panes.
“I read this section is four stories high,” he says.
“Then, all four stories will never get old.” My giddiness can’t be withheld as my interest turns to the floor’s mosaics. “Look!” I screech, rising above the crowd’s steady hum and breaking free from our attached bodies. “I didn’t notice the coats of arms before now.”
“Oh yeah,” he responds as we both scope out the ground. “Let me Google them.” Seconds later, he continues, “They’re for cities in Italy. We’ve already hit two of the four together—Rome and here. We have to make plans to visit Turin and Venice.”
I nod in agreement. As long as this Christian exists in the future, sign me up.
He clutches my hand, and a few minutes later, we walk into the bright sun of the duomo’s square once again. “Let’s get an aperitivo before dinner. It’s on my list, but pretend it’s not.”
I roll my eyes, making sure he sees my comical face to go along with it. “It’s something I’d like here anyway, so I’ll ignore your precious list.”
“Northern Italians created the tradition to open your appetite for dinner, so we have to do it while here in the big city, Toni.”
“We didn’t realize there was a tradition when we were young and carefree in Italy the last time, huh?”
“Exactly.” He leans over and kisses my cheek with excited pressure. “Now let’s drink and eat.”
A few minutes later, I’m in food heaven. Even though Campari is the popular red bitter in this region of Italy, I chose a newer and more citrus-flavored aperitivo liqueur, Italicus. The hint of bergamot mixed with prosecco and an olive suits my airy mood this evening, preparing my stomach for its meal.
Sipping my sweet goddess of a drink that’s instantly my favorite aperitivo, I also consume the action on the square. We have the best spot from this two-seat courtyard table, sitting shoulder to shoulder. “Look at how every single person stops walking, bringing their head up a few notches to take in the view of the cathedral.”
“Who wouldn’t? That thing’s like nothing I’ve ever seen.” Without a pause, he continues, “So, want to order dinner?”
“I—I…sure.” I’m not ready to shift gears, but whatever.
“I already looked at the menu. I want the risotto alla milanese con ossobuco.”
“You’re three steps ahead, as always.” My eyes widen.
“I’m a man with a plan.”
“Well, whatever that meal is, I’ll have it too.” The last thing I want to do right now is to decide about food when I’m in a drink-and-atmosphere coma.
“It’s golden saffron risotto with a piece of veal braised in a mixture of celery, onions, carrots, and white wine,” he reads from his phone. “My mouth waters just thinking about it.”
“Sounds perfect. Let’s get it. OH, I want to see the wine menu.”
“Sure thing.” He slides the menus to my side of the small table.
To stay true to my family heritage, I scan for Oltrepò Pavese wines. Pietro pops into my mind, and honor instantly fills my chest. But what’s this? “Christian, I never knew!”
“Knew what?”
The brief description of Italy’s regions under each area heading adds to the Milan magic. “The menu explains what Oltrepò Pavese means in English. Pavia across the Po. The Po River, you know?”
“Interesting.” He looks down. “Maybe I’ll order another one of these Italicus drinks.”
“Change it up. Try some wine.” I angle my head and bat my eyelashes.
“Nah. I’m good.” He pats my thigh then moves his hand back to his own.
“Your drink is only meant to have before dinner, so drink some wine with me,” I urge.
“Uh…alright. For you. Something very light.”
Bingo.
“Yes, let’s see.” I point to the sauvignon blanc. “How about this? I don’t know what food goes with what wine, but who cares, right?”
“That’s fine. But I’ll order sparkling water too, just in case. Be ready to drink an extra serving of wine if needed.”
“I’m always more than ready for that.” And him not wanting any adventure whatsoever. We’re talking about wine here, people, not conquering Mt. Everest. Maybe if we had more in common these days, we’d have a strong bond again, and wine could be our ticket. Hey, a girl can dream.
I pat my protruding stomach and let out a satisfied sigh on the way to La Scala, where we’ll see the theater’s philharmonic perform tonight. “Dinner hit the spot.”
“The ossobuco was so tender it fell off the bone.”
“And you’re a wine drinker now!” I play-pinch his chin.
“Let’s not go that far. I enjoyed a small taste,” he corrects.
“I’m counting on you liking it as much as me.” What? Ooh, the wine may be taking hold. That’s what happens when a five-foot three-inch tiny woman drinks a little too fast. My region’s wine called for it, though. Or maybe it was Pietro’s influence. “Pietro!”
Christian tilts his head and asks, “Who? What are you rambling about?”
My feet wiggle as I walk on the cobblestone street. “He’s been on my mind since Uncle Roberto told me more about our family’s story.”
“Oh, okay.” He looks at his watch. “Are you ready for some Mozart symphonies tonight?”
“Always. But back to Pietro. Can you believe the drive in that man? I mean, the persistence, the loyalty to his vision, the—”
“Stupidity.” The word enters our space with a humorous tilt in Christian’s voice.
I stop strolling and become one hundred percent sober, shooting daggers into his eyes.
“Toni, the guy had all the odds against him. You have to know when to say enough is enough.”
I’ve had enough. “Don’t judge someone else for pursuing the American dream just because it didn’t work out for you.” No one insults family.
“It was time to be realistic. Not everyone’s fantasies are meant to be reality.” He looks away as he spats.
“People can still try. And my ancestor tried so much that wine was coming out of his ears.”
“What?!” He pierces his eyes—which have a hint of red, I swear—back in my direction. “You’re being ridiculous. You didn’t even know him.”
“That’s a ridiculous statement. He’s why I’m from the US. He’s the one to thank for us meeting. Otherwise, I’d be living in Italy. But maybe that would’ve been better for all of us. Stupid, stupid Pietro.” I drift away from Christian and continue spewing the lava that’s been bubbling the last few days, months, years? “Pietro, oh, Pietro. What have you done? How dare you try to have a better life. How—”
“Your point’s been made! You’re so sensitive.”
“I am sensitive, but can you see how you’re disrespecting my family? No accordion museum, this—”
“Oh my God.” Christian places the back of his hand on his forehead. “The horror that we didn’t go to a museum you’ve been to already.”
