Unforgotten (12 page)
“Picnics with me, you mean.” She recalled the raging climax of their first attempt when Lance cajoled her onto his Harley packed with wine and cheese to share in the sloping pastureland near Sonoma. She had told him no dates with employees, but did he listen? Did he ever?
He started for the shore. “We could dig for clams.”
“No thanks.” She started after him. “No slimy shellfish.”
“Ever tried it?”
She shook her head. “I love what you cook, but—”
“Say that again.”
She punched his arm. “I am not stroking your ego.”
“You punch like a man.”
“Good.”
He stopped at the water’s edge with a restless look that made her wonder if he would ever quell that urge for speed and distance. But then, she knew better.
————
The road wasn’t enough. He couldn’t outrun what he’d done to Nonna. It wasn’t just about getting it right anymore, it was how many people would he hurt in the process.
He should have stopped pressing, but as Rese said, that wasn’t his forte. He’d forced Nonna to hear him. Sure it was gentle, it was coaxing, but he had not given in.
Italian machismo. And he’d thought he missed that gene. It didn’t play the same as in Pop and Tony. More sensitive, more attentive, but underneath just as determined and demanding. He stared out over the water.
Another woman would have filled the ache with words, given him something to build an excuse around. Rese stood beside him as solemn as the oaks and maples at his back. Hardwood, strong and lasting.
He felt like the whitened driftwood that came in on the tide. Why did he see things too late? Nonna trusted him, and he had used that trust to break her down.
Rese crouched, resting on her haunches, and fingered the pebbles in the sand. Her silence suggested she understood, but she hadn’t experienced the interweaving of lives so intricate every step was a dance on a sticky web. He had shaken Nonna loose, and the fragile gossamer that held her terrified him.
Lord …
But he could not whistle for God and command Him along for the ride. Pride, to think so. And pride to expect it of Rese, of Nonna. Love did not force its own way.
“It is not rude, it is not self-seeking.”
He had learned the words from Nonna, sitting at her table with a blackened eye, telling her how he would get back at the bullies who attacked Rico.
“It always protects,
raggazzo mio
.”
“But I was protecting.”
They’d been caught by surprise, but he wouldn’t be next time.
“Love does not seek revenge.”
“Hah!”
He’d clenched his fists.
“A curse returned, Nonna.”
“You are a child, you talk like a child. Someday you will be a man.”
He groaned. Rese looked up, but neither spoke. He had lain in wait for the meanest of the bunch, found him alone the next day and beaten him soundly. He’d said it was for Rico, but there was no vindication in it, no satisfaction. Was he still trying to strike back? At what?
He rubbed his face. “We should get you something to eat.”
Rese stood up. “What about you?”
“I’m not hungry.”
“Come on, Lance. You know there’s more to food than hunger.”
He raised his brows. “Such as?”
“Connection, acceptance, relationship.”
His own words back at him. But right now he felt like poison. “Maybe we could walk a little.”
She stooped down and took off her sandals, dangled them from her fingers, and stepped up to the water’s edge.
“You might not want to do that.”
“Why not?”
“It’s cold.”
With her toes, she kicked up a fan of sparkling drops, then plunged her hand in and splashed him.
He sputtered. Another blast of salt water, and when he lunged, Rese took off up the beach. His surprise cost him time, but he tore after her. Her legs were strong and swift, and she reached the trees, caught hold of a silver maple, and swung around its trunk.
“You think that’s going to protect you?” He approached, a little winded.
She locked her fingers around it. “I’ve always had a thing for maple.”
He stopped a foot from the tree. “You are so lucky I’ve got a thing for you.”
“Or what?”
“I’d dunk you.”
She raised her chin. “Then you’d have my soggy self against you all the way home.”
He did not let his mind take that and run. Neither would he give her the last word. He pressed his palm to the trunk and leaned in. “Just might be worth it.” He moved around the trunk and stopped. What was he doing? He closed his eyes. Nonna lay in bed, and he was playing on the beach? He dropped his forehead to hers. “I know what you’re doing.”
She didn’t answer.
He opened his eyes and met her gaze. “It’s my fault, Rese. I keep thinking I’ve got it right, then …”
“What would she want?”
“To slap my head.”
Rese studied him a long moment, then shrugged. “I could do that.”
He stepped back. “Right.”
She raised her brows. “You think I can’t? Ask Sam and Charlie.”
At fourteen she’d handled the jerks who assaulted her. Lance cocked his head. “Okay, give me your best shot.” He waited. “Come on. I won’t hit back.”
She shook her head, then looked away. “I can’t.”
“Why not?”
“I’m not mad. And it’s you.”
“Just think of all the ways I’ve torqued you off big time.”
She glared. “I’m not going to hit you, Lance.”
“What are you, a girl?”
She turned her fury full on him. “Yes. Got a problem with that?”
He grinned, feeling some of the tension release. “You kiddin’? I like girls.”
Rese ran her hand over her hair. “Look, I’m not very good at this.”
“This what?”
“I don’t know, comfort. Perspective.”
He wasn’t looking for comfort, and his perspective was clear as glass. He sighed. “I just want to take it back, to undo something so stupid I’d … do anything to get one more chance.”
“You’ll have a chance.”
He pressed his hands to his face. “What if I don’t? What if I can’t tell her how sorry I am?”
Rese took his hands down. “She knows.”
“How?”
“She knows you.”
He studied her as that small comfort leached in. Nonna would forgive more easily than he could forgive himself. He half smiled. “You’re better at this than you think.”
She shrugged. “You tend to lose sight of things when you’re all fire and emotion.”
He leaned his palm to the tree. “Do I?”
She nodded. “You do okay the other one percent of the time though.” She pushed off from the tree and started back down the beach.
Like photographs doubly exposed, scenes overlap;
bedposts and white walls gilding
with wine country sunshine,
the bustle of a crowd, the scent of dust… .
A
shabby boy picks Nonno’s pocket, but Nonno gets him by the nape before he slips away into the crowd. I cannot believe the gentleness in Nonno’s eyes as he faces the youth and holds out his palm. Though thin and scrawny, the boy is older, I suspect, than my fourteen years. He would bolt but for the power of Nonno’s gaze and the press of people in the Plaza.
His throat works up and down as he slaps the wallet into Nonno’s hand, the one not holding a cane to support an old man. This youth must have seen an easy mark in Nonno, but he didn’t know Quillan Shepard if he thought that. He squirms a little under Nonno’s gaze but seems to realize this man has no vindictive spirit in him.
“What’s your name?”
He doesn’t want to tell but can’t help it. “Joseph Martino.”
“Looking for a job?” Nonno’s words surprise even me. Times are tight, jobs hard to come by. He offers one to someone who just tried to rob him?
“What you got, old man?” The youth’s face isn’t as tough as his words.
“Your life,” Nonno says, “in my hand.”
Again the boy swallows. Someone hardened to crime would have sneered. But few men sneer when confronted by Nonno’s kindness. What will Papa say when he sees Nonno has brought home another stray? Others have drifted on, but something passes between these two that makes me wonder. Nonno could have brought the cops on him. Instead he redeemed him.
Maybe Nonno sees himself—a bitter, unloved youth who found his share of trouble. Whatever the case, he says, “Know how to cut grapes?”
The youth shrugs. “I can try anything once.”
The scenes run together like a moving picture, season after season, hoeing, pruning, harvesting, Joseph becoming to Nonno as devoted as a son.
And then pain twists his face as I tell him Nonno is dead. Quillan Shepard fallen and left to lie. Joseph Martino stands with a shovel in his hand, promising to make a grave, a tomb for our fallen hero. Then he is gone.
The Studebaker swerves and skids down the drive onto silent streets. People sleeping, unaware of the violence, the grief that throbs in my breast.
Papa! Nonno! Signore, why?
I ask, but what good are answers that change nothing? I want it to be different. Maybe Papa wasn’t shot. Did I see him? I have only the sound of it and supposition and Marco’s assertion. And the awful emptiness.
Papa. Oh, Papa
.
And Nonno. His last words, his last breaths as his great heart gave up. Too many griefs; too much loss. Maybe mine, too, will stop.
I keep my eyes on the road. Though I know Nonno will find his place there, I cannot look up to heaven, cannot stare through the stars to the throne where angels sing praises. This is a night for weeping, for beating my breast and raging against the fates.
Mal occhio
. A curse upon me. The devil has had his way. I press my hands to my eyes and sob.
————
Rese had hoped for a quiet dinner with Lance, Star and Rico, and Chaz, if he wasn’t working, but as soon as Lance pulled in on Rico’s deathtrap, his mother motioned to him from the window and called, “You two come up. I’m making spaghetti.”
Lance killed the engine. “Need a hand?”
Doria leaned on her palms. “I’m capable of spaghetti.”
“I didn’t mean you weren’t.” He sounded weary. The day had taken its toll.
His mother fanned a hand before her nose. “That bike smells like burnt oil.”
“Maybe you better check the stove.”
She started to argue, then turned and disappeared.
Rese climbed off, and Lance wheeled the bike onto the canvas tarp inside the enclosure. It did stink, though it seemed to have worked out some of its issues on the drive. As Lance had? He’d gone out of his way to be cautious on the way back, but, hooking the helmet over the grip, she was glad to lock the bike up behind them. Lance had it out of his system, and they’d survived.
He cocked an eyebrow. “Spaghetti?”
With pandemonium. “I wish she didn’t go to all that trouble.” Truly.
He finger-combed his windblown hair and looked up at the empty window. “She’ll be deeply offended if we don’t accept.”
That went without saying. She was obviously touchy. It reminded her of Lance in their first days together, how he’d work up a steam over nothing. Her mouth twitched remembering the times she’d infuriated him without even knowing. His heritage was volatile.
“Of course we accept. Mmm, spaghetti.”
He smiled. “You’re hungry.”
“Starved.”
The apartment was empty when they went to wash up, so dining with Star and Rico and Chaz would not have been an option. Dining alone with Lance could have been nice or difficult, depending on his state of mind, and the fact that he’d forgotten to stop for food the whole time they were gone indicated a serious instability. So in the interest of sustenance, she prepared for mayhem.
But only Lance’s mother and his sister Sofie were there when they went in. A strong tomato aroma that was not unpleasant filled the air, and a violin played a lilting melody on the stereo. Rese felt as though she’d been braced for an attack that didn’t come—but she expected it still.
Lance raised his brows to his mother. “How is she?” Nonna Antonia being the first and only thing on his mind.
Doria shrugged. “Not very coherent. Sleeping mostly.”
“Unconscious?”
Doria shook her head. “Not like last time.”
Rese accepted the glass of red wine that Sofie, standing at the kitchen counter, handed her. With nothing in her stomach, it should incapacitate her soon enough. But Doria took a tray of thick mushrooms slathered with something green and chunky from the oven. It was hard to imagine anything less appetizing.
“Portobello with pesto.” Doria sent Lance a pointed look. “Sofie made the pesto.”
“Ma.” He took the glass of wine his sister offered and a strip of mushroom. This last he held out, and Rese had no choice but to take it.
The mushroom was rubbery, but surprisingly tasty. Hunger charged in, and she finished the appetizer with only two sips of wine, then accepted a second slice as Lance’s father came in.
“Roman, you got the bread?” Doria called.
“I got the bread.” He brought a brown paper bag to her, and a warm yeasty aroma wafted from the crusty loaf she pulled out.
Rese thought she might faint.
“Good, it’s hot.” Doria set it in a basket and folded a cloth over it like a baby.
Sofie carried the basket to the table. She had yet to say a word. Monica was obviously the talker. And Lucy. And all the aunts. And several cousins, uncles, and brothers-in-law, nieces, nephews, and even Lance. But at the moment, it was quiet enough to think and observe, and what Rese noticed was a sag in the kitchen ceiling that didn’t bode well. Was it polite to mention it? Probably not.
“You might check the pasta, Momma.” Lance raised his chin toward the steaming pot.
“I know. I’m checking.”
Lance winced when she pulled up a wad of spaghetti.
“So a little past al dente.”
“Want me to drain it?” He reached for the pot and unloaded its contents into a metal cone in the sink.
“The sauce is perfect.” His mother dipped a spoon and held it toward Rese. As Doria had no intention of surrendering the utensil, that left no choice but to lean in and suck it off the spoon.