“You okay so far?” he asked when his mother and sisters brought out another round of food. Pastas, veggies, salads, meats—it was a veritable smorgasbord.
Family dinners in Boston were quiet, reserved affairs where we spoke in low voices and never yelled across the table, let alone down the length across twenty other people.
This was boisterous, energetic, and physical at times when Marcello’s sister and brothers would poke and prod him. The sense of family was so strong here, so connected, that even though I didn’t understand half of what was being said I never felt like an outsider.
When dinner was over, everyone pitched in to clean up and watched the kids chase the animals through the grass.
“Was this a good day?” he said, taking my hand and leading me away from little prying eyes.
“It was the best day,” I answered.
WHEN I WOKE, the bedroom was filled with the scent of an Italian breakfast. I didn’t know what treats were made, but I couldn’t wait to find out. Marcello was oblivious to it, snoring softly behind me, his arm wrapped around my middle. Rolling over carefully, I smoothed my fingers over his forehead and down his arm, loving the wake of goose bumps that formed. I spent a few minutes staring at him, memorizing his face in the morning light. Suddenly, all thoughts of a hearty meal weren’t as important.
I wondered if I’d ever lose that giddy feeling that I got last night when he told me he loved me. It was something that we’d never said the first go around, but we knew it. I felt it in every fiber of me then and now. Maybe it was the universe throwing us back together as part of some cosmic plot, or perhaps I was just the luckiest person alive, but I was hell-bent on not making the same mistakes I did the first time.
“What are you thinking about?” he asked sleepily. His eyes remained closed, lips fighting back a grin. Leaning forward, I kissed the tip of his nose before pressing my lips to his.
“I’m wondering if it’s possible to love you more than I do right now.”
His hand slid down my back, over my rear, and squeezed. “That sounds like a challenge.”
“Your family is in the house,” I admonished, throwing my head back when his lips traced a path down my neck.
“Then you must be very quiet, tesoro . . .”
* * *
AFTER OUR SURPRISE MORNING TANGLE, he’d tried to get me to sneak into the shower with him. I’d firmly put my foot down on that one, already feeling guilty about doing the naughty in his family’s home. So while he showered, I explored the room I’d be staying in for the weekend.
I’d thought—in fact prepared myself ahead of time—that we wouldn’t be sharing a bedroom while we stayed with his family. Old Italian mother, severely Catholic—it didn’t take a genius to figure out that boy/girl cohabitation wasn’t going to fly. But that’s the thing about preconceived notions, you just never know when you’re going to be surprised. Marcello’s parents were very forward thinking—hip was the word his mother had used when she ushered us down the long central hall and into a large guest room after dinner. “You two, you sleep together here, si?” she’d said.
Blushing, I’d nodded, standing just behind and almost out of sight of Marcello, mortified that she knew what we’d likely be up to under her roof. Marcello laughed out loud as I stammered my good night to his mother, in my best broken Italian accent. Once she headed back down the hall, I’d yanked him inside and buried my red face in the nearest corner of the room.
When Marcello took advantage of this angle by standing directly behind me and wrapping his arms around me while placing wet, openmouthed kisses along the back of my neck, I’d quickly forgotten my embarrassment and let him pull me down into the mess of pillows.
Now, with a clearer head and Marcello and his roving hands safely half a house away in the shower, I looked around a bit. It was a beautiful room.
With a wide window overlooking the hillside below, a cozy yet comfortable bed piled high with pillows and a thick mattress, and soft plush rugs underfoot, it was heaven after a long night of eating, laughing, talking, drinking, and more eating. A heaven I’d sunk back into for a few more minutes of relaxed country snoozing when Marcello reappeared, somewhat dressed and still a bit damp from his shower.
“You should get dressed, Avery. The family leaves for the festival in thirty minutes,” he said, grabbing a shirt out of the closet. “And the games begin as soon as everyone is there.”
“Let me get this straight,” I said, smoothing his crisp white shirt over his shoulders. “It’s like the bocce game that I see the little old men play near the apartment back in Rome, but instead of balls, they play with discs of hard cheese?”
Nodding, he finished tying his black shoes. He was sitting on the edge of his bed, hair damp, and he seemed antsy, his leg bouncing nervously. He, along with one of his older brothers and some neighbors, were part of one of the six teams that would compete in the Piazza Pio in town. Dressed in black pants and the green-and-white scarf he was tying around his neck, he looked like he had stepped out of another time.
“I’m expecting some manly bouts of strength.”
“You will be disappointed. I will flex my muscles for you, though,” he teased, giving me a quick kiss and a swat on the behind as I scrambled out of bed, needing to get ready myself.
Twenty-five minutes later, hair swept back and body poured into a kelly-green summer dress, I was caught by a handsy Italian before we left the bedroom. Taking my hands, he pinned them over the door before sweeping me up in a kiss.
“What’s gotten into you? Not that I’m complaining, but it took me twenty minutes to cover up the love bites you left me yesterday.”
He rested his head in the crook of my shoulder. “Being here, at my family home with you . . . it means a lot.”
“To me, too,” I told him, cupping his face.
When we joined the others outside, the families were all piled into vans. We decided to take the Alfa because why the hell not. Winding Italian roads, hot Italian man, and incredible Italian car, no-brainer. Once on the road and following the others, I turned to him.
“Will you explain the festival now?”
He looked pleased that I’d asked. “It’s simple, traditional. The Il Gioco del Cacio al Fuso has been around for hundreds of years.
“The architect Rossellino rebuilt my town and designed the square as a dedication to Pope Pius. In the center, there is the brick pattern, with a design created with a ring of marble. At the core there is a spindle, and rings drawn around the bricks in chalk. Each ring is worth certain points. We roll the cheese wheel to try and win.”
“But why cheese?”
“Pienza is known for its pecorino. The game used to be played in yards as a pastime for peasant families, but then it became more of a town sport and celebration. Each section of the town participates. I hope you think it is fun.” He loved talking about it, and I enjoyed hearing him explain it. Not just because it was interesting to hear how modern-day families kept alive the old traditions, but because he got excited like a child with a new toy discussing it.
“And this is hard?” I asked seriously. Rolling cheese didn’t seem like it was anything complicated.
“Oh yes. It’s more, come si dice, mental than physical skill. Very. My father participated for years, so did his father and his father before. It’s generational. This is my first year.”
“It is?” That explained why he was nervous, and it added another level of importance to me being here for him.
I wrapped my hand around his and whispered, “So you’ll be using that big brain of yours today. We’ll use the muscles later.”
* * *
HUNDREDS OF PEOPLE MILLED ABOUT, sporting their favorite colors. All rooting for their districts—like The Hunger Games except without the murder. Six teams, or districts, would compete in the trials and the winner got bragging rights.
It wasn’t just the game, though; it was an event for the whole weekend. I could understand now why his entire extended family gathe
red for this. It was a large-scale family reunion for the entire town that drew in hundreds of tourists as well. The restaurants that surrounded the main square had seating outside for people to watch the festivities during lunch and to reconnect with friends they hadn’t seen since the year before.
Many stores pulled out their wares to sell on the street to the onlookers; almost all had specialized flags, shirts, and buttons for the teams. I picked up a green-and-white scarf to tie around my neck like the other women cheering on Marcello’s district.
He was having a meeting with his crew when he saw me, sitting on the outskirts with his family. With a look of pure pride, he marched over and scooped me up in his arms, planting a searing kiss on me and earning a chorus of shouts from the onlookers.
“What was that for?” I fanned myself with the program a woman was handing out.
“Luck, tesoro.” With a wink, he took off and joined his teammates. I’d remember to buy up a few more team-centric items to bring back home.
As far as the game itself, Marcello took it very seriously. I didn’t realize just how competitive he was. He was right, it wasn’t just rolling a wheel, it was about accuracy and patience and strategy to try to get the wheel as close to the spindle as you could. Writing it off as a joke because it was cheese was bad form on my part. I cheered as loudly as anyone else when my man ran by, rolling a giant wheel of cheese with the biggest grin I’d ever seen plastered across his face.
I was waiting for the second round to start when his sister came over carrying gelato.
“Are you enjoying Roma?” Allegra asked.
“I am. This has been the best”—trip, reconnection, vacation?—“the best.”
She glanced around the crowd before turning, asking barely loud enough for me to hear, “Are you staying?”
Allegra continued to eat her gelato as if this simple conversation hadn’t turned serious. I was so focused on being afraid of his mother that I didn’t consider the older, protective sister.
“You mean in Rome?” Or with your brother?
“Rome is not his home. He lives in Rome. He works in Rome. But his home? His home is here.”
I waved to his mother, who was watching us curiously. “I know that.”
Then with four simple words, she knocked the wind right out of me. “I know about you.”
“What?” My eyes found him in the crowd, kneeling beside his father and chatting. I couldn’t turn to face her, afraid of what I would see. Or what I would show her.
“When he came home from Barcelona, he told me about this American girl. A girl that he could not stop thinking about. He could not wait to hear from again.”
Oh boy.
She continued. “He did not tell me at first. I had to get him to talk. He wait a long time for you, Avery. You don’t do this to him again.”
I turned to her. “I have no intention to.”
Even though her words could be construed as threatening, they didn’t feel that way. She was a woman concerned for her family and I couldn’t blame her for that. With a nod, she took off into the crowd, her hand resting on her pregnant belly.
While the other teams competed, Marcello stayed with his group, giving me time to wander around the square. I wasn’t avoiding his family, but I needed time to process.
Just stepping a block away from the festival quieted the streets. Seeing the architecture here, it was no wonder that Marcello fell in love with it at a young age. Plaques described the tiny village as the “City of the Renaissance,” having had many famous architects visit and leave their stamps on the buildings.
Perched high atop the travertine stone buildings, flags flapped in the breeze. Following the bell, I found myself in front of the cathedral with the tolling bell tower that overlooked the square below.
Sitting out front, I tried to imagine a young Marcello coming back here after Spain. Was he really as brokenhearted as Allegra said? Why did he keep it to himself when we went for coffee that first day?
The silence didn’t answer any of my questions, but Marcello would. If we were going to give this everything we could, we had to make sure that the past was forgiven first.
I made it back to the match just in time to see his team play their last round. The crowd had thinned over the course of the afternoon, unlike my thoughts, which multiplied the longer I stood on the sidewalk watching him.
“Is everything okay?” he asked, draping his arm across my shoulders. We hung back from the rest of his family after the match and were strolling through the center of town, enjoying the last of the celebration.
When we got back to the car, he had pulled off the scarf, tucking it into his pocket. “There is a party at sunset if you want to come back,” he offered, opening the car door.
“Maybe you’ll win for me next year when we come back,” I said, placing my hand over his on the open door.
He smiled so brightly, and looked so young in that moment, it was like seeing the past. He looked every bit the twenty-two-year-old whose heart I broke.
“That is a promise.”
* * *
THAT AFTERNOON I TREATED MYSELF to a catnap in one of the chaise lounges by the pool and a walk around the gardens. Wanting to give Marcello some time alone with his family, I wandered this way and that, marveling at the colors. A path led through a winding garden with several “rooms.” Whoever had designed the space did so with an exacting sense of proportion, the lines graceful but clean, the palette varying but complementary. As was becoming customary, my hand twitched as I thought of the compositions I could create here, especially now in the late-afternoon sun, the golden hour.
As the pathways took me back closer to the house, I found myself at the edge of the kitchen garden, filled to bursting with summer vegetables and herbs. Walking under an archway blanketed by flowering vines, there stood Marcello with a small spade and his mother with a keen look in her eye.
“Avery, how was your walk, good?” she asked, waving me over.
“It was good; your gardens are lovely,” I answered, stepping into Marcello’s outstretched arm and letting him pull me into his side. “What are you two up to?”
“Weeds,” Marcello answered, rolling his eyes and earning a tug on his ear from Susanna.
“Bah, you think you are too old to help your mother? These weeds, they choke out the tomatoes! Come.”
We followed along behind his mother, who pointed out all the different herbs she’d planted and the ones she’d be using in tonight’s feast. Rosemary, parsley, several varieties of oregano, and the most enormous basil plants I’d ever seen. They were bushy and three feet high if they were an inch, and she attacked them with her snippers, cutting huge handfuls for her basket.
“Cello, the yellow tomatoes, see how they are surrounded? Save them, yes?”
“Yes, Mamma,” Marcello answered, and stepped to wage his war on the encroaching weeds.
“Can I help?” I offered, picking up what looked like a hoe that was lying in the eggplant beds.
Marcello nodded, gesturing toward the plants opposite him and digging in.
The three of us moved about the garden for half an hour or so, Marcello and me digging while his mother puttered about, snipping here, staking there, murmuring to her plants and her son all the while. They switched between Italian and broken English as we moved down the rows, and while I couldn’t understand everything, it was pleasant nonetheless to see and hear Marcello with his mother, whom he obviously adored.
At the end of my row, while digging around the last tomato plant, I struck something hard under the dirt. Loosening the soil slightly, I tugged and pulled a large piece of wood, scarred and blackened.
“What did you find?” Marcello called, peeking up over his row.
“Just an old piece of wood,” I replied, turning it this way and that, examining it more closely. It appeared to have writing on one side, but it was hard to tell. “It almost looks like it was, I don’t know, burned maybe?”
“Let me see
,” Susanna said, setting down her basket and heading my way. Picking up the wood, she turned it over, running her fingers over the letters. “This is from the old barn; it burned many years ago.”
“Before I was born, there was a barn that stood right here; you can still see the foundations, yes?” Marcello pointed, and I realized that what I thought was just a low wall around the garden was in fact an old foundation.
“It burned the year after we were married,” she said, lost in thought. “Very awful, very scary. All the animals were saved, but the building? Distrutto.”
“That’s terrible.” I looked around, trying to imagine what it used to look like.
“It was terrible,” she agreed. “But by the next summer, things began to grow. First, just the weeds. But then Gabriella, Marcello’s grandmother, she go and plant tomatoes. And they were enorme! The fire, it burned the barn, but it made the earth . . . forte. How do you say?”
Marcello supplied the word. “Strong.”
“Ah yes, strong.” She nodded, and waved her hand over the entire garden. “Bad beginning. But now?” Her eyes twinkled. “Magnifico.”
I stared across the rows at Marcello, wondering if he was thinking the same thing I was.
“Very fertile, this family,” Susanna said. “Scusi, this family’s land.” She winked at me, then turned and headed back toward the house, calling over her shoulder, “Marcello, you finish that row, then you wash before dinner. You are disordinato!”
“Messy, Mamma, messy!”
“Yes, you are messy, too!” came the reply.
I pushed my way through the plants, surrounded by the smell of green growing things, in a place that was once covered in blackened ruin.
“Fertile, huh?” I asked, leaning up on my tiptoes to kiss his disordinato face.
“We have many tomatoes.”
“And you have many siblings.”
Now his eyes twinkled. “Big families are good, yes?”
I kissed him then, getting his messy all over me. “I think a big family could be very good.”