The Gift, page 5
“I love you too.” Hopefully, he hears it for the second time. “That’s why I haven’t understood what’s been going on with us.” Don’t cry, don’t cry.
“Let’s work on it, then.” He releases me. “I’ll try to be less annoyed in general, and you… What do you think you can do?”
“I guess I can try to moan less about work. And look for performance auditions again? Maybe spots have opened up somewhere in the city.”
“That sounds like a great idea. Maybe you can come close to what I make, and we can save more money than we do now—well, if a certain person didn’t spend money on dumb things all the time, like smoothies after work,” he sneers.
Ah, the Toni is not responsible with money comment. It’s been a while since I’ve heard that treat. I have to let it go, though, or combined with his David demand, we’ll be arguing all night, and I don’t have the energy. Plus, I know a smoothie once a month won’t keep us from buying a house. He’s delusional.
“Christian.” I dip my head on his warm chest, inhaling his beach-scented deodorant. Images of him and me walking along the Santa Monica pier rush to mind. In our carefree days, we’d think nothing of hopping in the car to get that salty air in our systems. Or how he’d take me out for tacos when I had a bad day. We need to get in sync again—and fast.
“Let’s do something we used to do, like go to the beach and take a walk. We need more time together again…” I trail off in the comfort of the past that I urgently need today.
“I would love that.” He kisses the top of my head. “We’ll do it soon.”
“Okay.” I wrap my arms around him, and the fear of our marriage disintegrating feels like ages ago. Hmm, like my family’s winery.
Whoa, where’d that come from?
Since Pietro’s tale pings my heart, I squeeze Christian tighter. Don’t think about his disregard of how significant that history is to me. Sure, Pietro’s story invigorates me in a way nothing else has in a long time, but that doesn’t matter right now. Push it down and appreciate Christian’s affection. And push down the thought of his request with David. Push, push, push. Push it all away. Stay in this moment.
I take another whiff of Christian’s scent, and intrusive thoughts melt away.
See, Christian and I will survive. We’re a good pair. Midlife crisis, my foot.
Chapter Eight
As soon as Christian leaves for the gym, I plop down on our bed. Despite the fluffy comforter, my shoulder pain strikes again. “Argh!” The repetitive use injury from my cello playing is an old enemy who’s returned right on time as a guest after my vacation. I inhale a deep breath and rub the throbbing spot. It’s common in my field, so, like everyone, I have to push through. Yes, more pushing.
Meow.
I turn my head, luckily to the left so I can keep rubbing my right side, and smile. “Nala, baby.”
She prances softly across the bed toward me and lies down without a space between us. When I run my hand down her silky fur, she stretches out her front two paws onto my hip. Maybe she knows her momma is in pain.
“It’s alright. I’ll be fine. And don’t be scared by what you heard earlier. Your parents are going to be happy again.”
The reassurance to my little buddy needs to sink into my brain. I mean, what was that about David? Christian’s statement was the most absurd comment I’ve ever heard. The absurdity makes me giggle, despite wanting to cry at the same time.
Nala purrs in response.
At least she’s content.
There’s no way David likes me. He would never disrespect me, or Christian, and he knows how long Christian and I have been together. I guess it isn’t disrespect if he has feelings and doesn’t act on them, though. But no. No frickin’ way. He’s a great friend, a great guy.
Crap. My mind floats to the day ahead of me tomorrow. It’s parents’ night, so my long day just got longer. What I wouldn’t give to be playing for an audience on the stage of the Walt Disney Concert Hall instead of talking about the progress of a ninth grader.
I haven’t looked for auditions in a while, so maybe I should. The thought propels me off the bed, disturbing Nala for a second. “Sorry.”
She raises her head and almost immediately lowers it into her furry mane, closing her eyes.
Digging my laptop out of my work tote then hitting the couch, I type in LA Phil’s website. How many times can a person audition, though? I know how difficult being accepted as a cellist in the orchestra is, but I also wonder if there comes a time to listen to reality. Will I ever get in? When do I give up on that dream? After Christian was rejected hundreds of times for his multiple screenplays, he gave up…and stopped counting the number of declines. Sometimes I wonder if he holds his decision against me—you know, since I’m still trying to reach my goal.
Just as I start to enter the words for my dream job, my neck strikes again. “Alright, alright, I’ll get some ice.”
The relief when the ice pack hits my shoulder seconds later allows me to stare off into the distance without pain, right in eyeline with the plants across from the couch. I love having greenery in our home, especially since we don’t have a patio. They’re the only burst of color in this room, with their glossy, primary-colored pots containing my pothos, jade, and senecio plants. I can only imagine being surrounded by plants outside of my home someday, especially grapevines, like in Italy. That would be on another level.
I’d look out my window and see nothing but rows of green leaves on twisted branches. Maybe clusters of grapes would grace the vines under the clear blue skies. I could run through the rows barefoot, feeling the soil between my toes and hugging the little beauties instead of being stuck indoors like I am all day, every day. Having outside space is the only reason I want a house, unlike Christian, who could care less about the outdoors. Anyway, I’d grab a glass of cab while I continue to take in the view from the porch. I can even hear cello music playing in the background, which I’m sure the leaves would love. Just like my plants here, I bet they’d grow faster to a beat.
Pietro probably never lived my fantasy, but hey, who knows?
Wait.
I balance the ice pack on my shoulder and place my computer laying next to me on my lap. It’s time to look up a little Agosti history and daydream instead of seeing if the orchestra is hiring. I’m sure I’ll find a picture of Pietro online, dancing barefoot, and that’s much more fun than facing rejection. Fantasy over reality for the win!
Shock of all shocks, moments later, I don’t find anything like this—or anything at all—about Pietro or his land, but what I do find surprises this native Angeleno. Everyone knows wine country in California means the Napa and Sonoma valleys up north, but vineyards started here in Southern California. Whhhhat?! And down the rabbit hole I go.
This website states that, in the early 1800s, California’s vineyards began in my hometown because of the flat land and easy-to-irrigate vines near the Los Angeles River. And this was after Spanish missionaries planted vineyards to have wine for communion since the late 1700s. No wonder Pietro heard about it back in Italy—this was the place to be for a century. How sad that everything is gone—well, almost.
I click on a picture of a house that remains on Olvera St., called the Pelanconi House, from 1850…and it still exists. Wow, the oldest fired brick building in the city was owned by an Italian immigrant named Giuseppe Cavacci. My eyes enlarge as I read the next sentence. He had a friend named Giuseppe Gazzo, who helped run their own winery across the street, until Antonio Pelanconi took over and continued the winemaking as long as possible.
Stop the presses. This is amazing. Those two Giuseppes made a mark on history in my beautiful city. And right here, all along, there’s this gold mine of Italian history I never knew about until now.
I spot Nala strutting out of the bedroom from the corner of my eye. “Hey, guess what.”
She doesn’t look at me.
“There were one hundred wineries in LA by 1851. One hundred, Nala!”
This time, she barely lifts her chin. That little princess of mine.
“I know you’re excited too.” I laugh, but the jerk of my head shoots a pain to my shoulder, forcing me to suck in air through my teeth.
Back to reading. I prop my feet up on the coffee table and get comfortable as I think about how I’ll need to drive down there this weekend, no matter what. Prohibition killed most of the wineries, but there’s a little history left. I can’t wait to tell David about everything I’m learning.
My hands stop typing as this thought fully connects in my brain.
He’s my friend. And I should want to tell my friend about what I found. There’s nothing wrong with that.
Staring at the screen in hopes of a distracting link to click on, the words blur. Christian’s comment lingers within me like a muted bassline.
Chapter Nine
"I planned a fun day for us,” I alert Christian as we leave our car parked near the birthplace of LA, Olvera Street.
“Oh yeah?” He smiles and walks around the car toward me. “I’m glad we’re having some time together.”
“Me too.” I attempt to reach up to his shoulders and wrap an arm around them.
“I haven’t been down here in forever.” He looks up at El Pueblo Plaza’s towering historical monument.
Turning to admire the old social justice museum as well, I comment, “That building never gets old. It’s so fresh, so pure and simple in aged white.”
“But with that elaborate circular frame around the door. Look at all the carvings in it.” He points.
“I love it. I also love that one dome at its peak, shining in the light like Mary on top of the church in Milan,” I say.
“I wrote a screenplay years ago that opened right here,” his voice softens.
Looking up at him, the distance in his eyes is apparent. “You never told me that.”
“Field trips here as a kid made an impact on me, so I wrote a story about it. Not that my work went anywhere. But, you know, learning about the Spanish and Mexican influence was always interesting to me.”
I rub his back. “Yeah, it is. Who knew there was also an Italian influence?”
“Not I.”
“Me neither. And we both grew up down the road. I read that right here in the Plaza and along this street is where the earliest Italian enclave existed. Where did my people go?”
He dips down to scoop me up. “I don’t know, but my people are right here,” he says, swinging me around and kissing me.
“You swept me off my feet, Mr. Kendall.” Oh no. As soon as his last name slips out—the one I didn’t take because of being known professionally as Toni Agosti—my heart drops. It’s always been a sore subject with him, and I didn’t mean to cause a rift today, especially after he showed vulnerability about his lost artistic past.
His eyes flicker in a downward motion for a millisecond, but he snaps back, kissing me once again and placing me on the ground, not yelling or even rolling his eyes.
He must really be trying to have a good day with me. We need to have a good day. Quick, change the subject.
“So, let’s walk this way and go to the Pelanconi House, babe.”
“Deal.”
Walking under the lush leafy ivy on the archway to the entrance for the promenade of booths, shops, and restaurants, I hear a mariachi band playing nearby. Grabbing Christian’s hand, I lead us to them. The three musicians rhythmically beg for me to sway to the beat. Before I realize, I’ve let go of Christian’s hand and am clapping as I rock to the guitars and trumpet.
Christian joins in clapping, though more subdued than me.
Time transports me to us dating again, and I’m having a blast living in the memory. We’re not old married people trying to rekindle something anymore. Nothing but joy and laughter are ahead of us, and I feel like I could stay awake for days on adrenaline. Music, you little rascal, you always heal the soul. Let’s see if it sticks.
When the song is over, I run my fingers along one of the colorful woven backpacks next to me as we leave the impromptu dance floor. “If I didn’t have to wear my cello as a backpack, I’d get one of these.” Picking it up to inspect the inside, I notice a tag marked Made by Flora.
“Christian, look.” I hold the backpack open and show him what I found.
“You have to buy it. If not for you, for Flora.”
“She would adore it. You’re right. And I haven’t visited her since we came back from Italy,” I respond.
Yeah, there’s my thoughtful hubby. Actually, he’s been reminiscent of his former self since our talk this week. Even after my school-parents’-night moodiness that I tried to avoid but couldn’t, he heated up the dinner he made and brought it to me on the couch. The mariachi band strikes up a song again as if on cue to signal we may be alright.
After a few minutes of admiring the Mexican treasures while we stroll, we end up at La Golondrina Cafe, the Mexican restaurant that’s on the bottom floor of the old Pelanconi House. I speedwalk to the sign above the glass doors on the home—uh, restaurant—to read its history in real life, not online, though it’s exactly the same information.
Christian comments, “So the guy lived on the second floor, had a wine cellar down below, and his winery across the street. You’d love that—no commute.”
“You got that right. And to have a winery.” As soon as the words leave my mouth, I hear an internal symphony. Have you ever seen one of the cartoons where the person floats along a staff of notes while the song whisks them away to their destiny? Welcome to my vision.
I should have a winery. I should open one, just like Pietro did on land not too far from here—which I will find soon, darn it. It would be me and the grapes, in ultimate harmony. We’d—
“Toni?”
He wakes me from my pipe dream. “Yeah, sorry. Just taking in the info.” But how unbelievable would it be to have a winery? “Let’s, let’s go over there to try to find the old winery plaque.”
As we cross the narrow street, I turn back to take a mental snapshot of the Pelanconi House. Wooden railings on the upstairs deck in front of the three wrought-iron-covered glass doors contrast with the building’s white background. Down below hosts rich dark wood framing around more glass within large doors, while cart wheels line the entry railings to the restaurant on either side. Maybe they were from the Giuseppes’ cart.
“Here it is, Toni,” Christian calls out next to the red brick building housing another entry into El Pueblo’s stores. “The Pelanconi Winery was here, between Alameda and Olvera Streets, prior to 1875.”
I catch up to him and read the history for myself, needing the repeat to absorb the magnificence of the Italian immigrants who created a legacy in a new land. “So much happened here, where we’re standing.” I look down at my feet on the red tile path made to resemble historic brick, I’m sure. “Maybe we can come back and eat at La Golondrina, but I’d like to go to a few more points of interest.”
“I’m open to anything. But I am getting thirsty. Want a drink?”
“Sure.” Glancing around, a food stand catches my attention. “I’m going to grab water.”
“You can’t get water when we’re surrounded by all this culture. You can drink that anytime. Come on.” He walks to the stand, and I follow.
The rainbow of fruit, from mangoes to bananas, bursts from the glass case below. He’s right. How can I pass this up? “Um, I’ll have a guava Mexican soda. You?”
“I’ll take the orange soda. That’s what I couldn’t get enough of when I was a boy coming here.”
“Whatever floats your boat.” I pay the vendor and check the location on my phone to make sure we’re walking the right way. “I want to see the Italian Hall. It should be around the corner.”
“Ahh.” Christian’s usual exhale in response to soda seems emphasized by nostalgia. “Alright, lead the way.”
Before we know it, we’re standing in front of our destination. “Ha!” I scream, “I love the huge gold letters above the balcony. It’s classically Italian.”
Christian moves his hands from close together to spaced apart in front of his face, a true film enthusiast move, and says, “Italian Hall,” slow and meaningfully. “I wonder what went on here back in the day behind the American and Italian flags blowing in the wind up there.”
I look down from the otherwise plain beige brick building and read from Google. “It’s the oldest structure from the Italian community here in LA, now on the historical list of buildings. Looks like it was built in 1908 and used for gatherings for Italians. There were rooms for functions and businesses, even the ‘longest bar’ in a saloon was inside.”
“Fascinating stuff, babe.”
“You’re telling me. So,” I continue, “over time, the Italian population faded from this area.”
“Obviously, huh?”
“Yeah, so sad.” My heart clangs. “But the Italian American Museum of Los Angeles opened in 2016 right there in the old building.” The letters IAMLA on part of the Italian Hall building bring a smile to my face. I am Italian American and from LA, so the name describes me.
“We gotta go in,” he says.
“That’s what I was thinking. Glad we’re on the same page.” I guzzle the rest of my carbonated drink, and Christian finishes his orange sweetness too.
Seconds later, I hold back a sneeze prompted by the bubbles. I wouldn’t have thought about restricting bodily reactions years ago, but I have to put in as much effort as I see him trying to put in. I won’t be the one to ruin the time we’re having this afternoon.
Standing on the mini off-white hexagon tiles in the foyer of the museum, I bend down to sneak a quick brush of my fingers over the word Italian, part of the words Italian Hall spelled out in maroon among other accenting forest-green tiles. Christian doesn’t catch my move—a good thing since he’d say it’s dirty. Instead of germs, pride fills my body as I follow him up the glossy light wooden staircase leading to the promised land.
