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This is the dilemma that hangs over this birthday party like the hand-painted mural of clouds and breaking sun on the ceiling in the breakfast room. Mackenzie is not happy.
“When are we leaving?” Gabe whispers in my ear. “I can’t eat one more carrot stick dipped in ranch dressing. I even had the cotton candy.”
“What do you think of the pirate?”
Gabriel checks him out head to toe. “Cute. But he’s straight.”
“Well, that’s that. We’re outta here.”
Pirate Billy Bones takes his final bow. The children stand and jump up and down, screaming in gratitude.
We weave our way through the guests to say good-bye to Mackenzie and Bret and their girls.
Maeve gives me a big hug while Piper extends her chubby arms to me and falls out of her mother’s embrace into mine.
“I could take them home,” I tell Mackenzie.
“Anytime.” She laughs.
The foyer is cluttered with pink goody bags.
“Do not take a goody bag,” Gabe says.
“It’s rude if you don’t.”
“Do we need a Little Mermaid blow-up beach ball and a SpongeBob tabletop croquet set? Sorry. Pass.”
The commuter back to the city arrives right on time at the tiny station just off Chatham’s Main Street. I climb up the steps and see that the train is mostly empty, yet I have a hard time deciding which seats to take.
“What’s the matter with you?” Gabriel chooses our seats. “There’s no first class on a commuter. Just grab anything.” He takes the window, and I sit down next to him.
“Something’s wrong,” I say.
“No kidding. You look ashen. Oh, no. Was it the guacamole?”
“I didn’t have any.”
Gabriel pounds his chest lightly. “I did.”
“What didn’t you have?”
“A makeout session with Uncle Rehab. But he wanted to-believe me. I know why he drinks.”
“You do?”
“Closet. In it. Can’t get out.” Gabriel shrugs.
As the train careens out of Chatham and rolls through Summit, a strange feeling comes over me again.
I can’t describe it, but I’m troubled about something. I’m unsettled by the party. By the conversations. By the atmosphere.
I close my eyes and imagine the party again. And then, I remember when Piper fell into my arms and held me tightly. There was something about that moment that was profound. Something happened when she hugged me and wouldn’t let go. I’ve held a lot of babies, and done my share of babysitting my nieces and nephews, but this embrace, from this little girl, was entirely different. It had meaning beyond the moment. Dear God. This isn’t the cry for motherhood women get, is it?
6. April Played the Fiddle
1 aprile 2010
Cara Valentina,
I just returned to my new home. I took the rooftop apartment in the old printing press off the square in Arezzo. It has many aspects of the original architecture but is restored with all the modern conveniences. The floors are gleaming squares of white granite that, when hit by the sun, nearly blinds me. I will be shopping for rugs in Florence.
I had di
Tonight, at di
Love is built in a series of small realizations. It begins with a laugh-yours, the first day I met you in our shop. I heard your laughter long after you were gone. I still do. Then, your face, which I remember in detail, even as I write this. How beautiful was your expression of wonder when you held the fragile silk faço
Love,
Gianluca
“What do you think?”
June places Gianluca’s letter carefully on the cutting table as though it’s a yard of rare duchesse satin.
She removes her reading glasses and leans back on the work stool. “You haven’t been with enough men to know about love letters. These babies are rare. I never received a letter like this. And trust me, I would have liked to. The man is into details. And he has vision for your future together. He thinks things through.”
“It’s almost too much. I can’t believe it.”
“You take every salesman that walks into this shop at his word-why not Gianluca?”
“It’s like when I was a kid and I’d eat too much white chocolate-I knew I’d had enough after one bite, but I wouldn’t stop. I’d eat the whole bu
“You can’t be serious.”
“I don’t know. But I’m glad that I have the time and the distance to think about it. He’s there, I’m here.”
“How convenient. There’s an ocean between you and him that you can fill with excuses not to fall in love. I know an avoidist when I see one. But listen to me, sister. This man is one in a million-make that a billion when you factor in worldwide overpopulation. And not just because he’s tall and handsome and Italian, my favorite food group, but because this guy knows what matters to a woman. Some men go their whole lives long and never get it. This one gets it and writes it down and mails it to your door. You don’t know what you have here.”
“Oh I think I know what I’ve got. I just don’t have any idea what to do with it. When it comes to men, what do you want, June?”
“I always hoped to be seen. You know, not a spotlight thing, I got enough of that when I was a dancer. I’m talking about something deeper. I want a man to see me for who I am.”
“That’s the problem with these letters. It’s like he’s talking about a goddess.”
“That’s how he sees you. He’s describing his experience of you. I got news for you-that’s what love is. It’s how he sees you-not how you see yourself. Be the love object. And for Chrissakes, don’t object!”
“All right, all right.”
“I mean, you want him, don’t you?”
“Of course.”
“Part of getting what you want out of life is knowing exactly what to ask for.” June points at me and winks like a gunslinger in an old western. “What are you looking for?”
“I was hoping I’d recognize it when it came my way.”
“This man is for real.”
“You’re like Tess and Jaclyn. They believe in ‘the one.’ You meet a good man, fairly young, and then…that’s it. Forever.” There was a time in my life when I believed in “the one.” That, of course, was back when I had it. I’d known Bret all of my life, and then I was in my twenties and had dated him since high school, and then we got engaged. I thought that’s what happened to people-they grew up with a boy, then after years of being together and spending lots of time with each other’s families, continued the relationship into marriage. Most of the women I know followed that formula, so of course I figured that I would too. And I did, until I found something in my life that would require more of me than teaching school, which I enjoyed, or working in an office, which I didn’t. When I decided to become a shoemaker, I had to sacrifice everything-weekends, a social life, and all the things that a woman must do to make a traditional life. I just couldn’t see how I could do both-and Bret, at the time, didn’t either.