“You found a job?”
“I started selling my paintings. It was that or leave Alessio with a baby-sitter. I was surprised at how well it went. I never had to go out and find a real job.”
“I’d like to see your work sometime.”
She smiled. “I’m always looking for clients. Do you ever get up to Park City?”
“All the time. My kids ski there.”
“The Linton Gallery on Main Street has some of my landscapes.”
All of my questions had been leading up to this one.
“And Ross?”
“Ross,” she repeated. “I thought about him every day. I thought that leaving Italy would make it easier somehow. But I was wrong.” She smiled. “My broken heart followed me clear across the Atlantic and found me in Vernal, Utah. I have to admit that I was getting pretty tired of hurting. It was like being sick and wondering when you’re going to get better.”
“I know the feeling,” I said. “But life goes on.”
She smiled. “Yeah, it goes on. But never the way you expect it to. It was about six months after I returned to America that everything changed.”
VERNAL, UTAH. JUNE 2000
Doris Webb sat on a vinyl chair on the concrete front porch of her home. Her needles darted and bobbed in ritualistic motion like two cabaret dancers, indifferent to the occasional pangs of her arthritis. She was happy, and this was reflected in the yarn she had chosen for the blanket she knit: bright yellows and greens and oranges.
It was a small home, with painted wood side panels, identical in architecture to the rest on the street. Like the rest, it had been built in the economic boom of postwar America when entire neighborhoods sprang up overnight in the once pastoral ridges of cow pasture.
Doris had known the home when it was young. She and Ed had bought it new, when they were just newlyweds, their entire lives open before them like a blank diary.
She had lived a life there. It was there that they had raised their one child—their daughter, Ellen. It was that same porch where Ellen had received her first kiss, the night of her junior prom, from Mike Dunlop, a cowboy Ed had never liked. He had flashed the porch light on and off until they quit, while Doris sat in front of the television set watching Johnny Carson, shaking her head and telling him to leave the young people alone.
Only four years later Ed’s wake had been there, in the front room, and neighbors crossed that porch to pay their respects. He had died in the home and wanted his viewing there as well. When it was over, she and Ellen had sat and cried together on the porch until they had nothing left inside to cry out. The neighbors had cried too. And they brought hot bread and pies and potato casseroles with cornflake topping.
There had been other tears shed on that porch. She had stood on the porch and cried the day Ellen left for college, driven to Salt Lake City by her cousin who knew his way around the big city. Then she cried again when Ellen and her baby grandson, Alessio, left for Italy to live. Then too her good neighbors came to her aid, bringing fresh-baked bread and casseroles. That’s how things were done in Vernal.
The home had aluminum window canopies, once bright green but sun-faded to an olive hue. It had wrought-iron railings set in the concrete of the porch, painted white, chipped in places and rusted at the bottom. An oxidized chain-link fence surrounded the yard, with grass intertwined and tall at its base where the lawn mower didn’t reach and the weed eater had failed to bring it down. An apple tree grew in front, its boughs heavy with sour green apples, and some newly fallen fruit peeking up from the grass like bird eggs in a nest.
Yes, there had been a lot of living in that home. Someday she too would be gone. The house would be sold, to a young couple. They would come. They would tear out the harvest gold shag carpets and refinish the hardwood floors protected beneath. Walls would be painted again, this time with paints that had food names: oatmeal, vanilla or cranberry. New appliances would be bought, cappuccino makers and refrigerators with water and ice in the door. The cycle would start anew with somebody else.
But not yet. Doris’s daughter was back. Her grandson was back. And she had a blanket to finish.
Doris set down her needles and waved as Eliana’s car sidled up to the curb and stopped. As Eliana took the keys from the ignition, Alessio slumped down in his seat, his frown returning. “Why can’t I come with you?”
“Because I said so. And stop whining. In eight blocks you’ve filled this car with more whine than Chianti produces in a year.”
“That’s dumb, Mom.”
“So is your whining.”
“Why do I have to stay?”
“Because I said so, Mr. Ferrini. You have school tomorrow. And mommies sometimes need time for themselves. Besides, you hate art shows. Remember last time all you wanted to do was go home? And Nonna—” She corrected herself. “Grandma would be very sad if you didn’t stay with her. She’s missed you.”
He didn’t smile. “I don’t even know her very well.” “Which is precisely why you should stay.”
Alessio made a face.
“Oh, stop that. You and Grandma will have a ball. I promise. By the time I get back, you won’t even want to go home.”
“I doubt that.”
“Come on, son.” She climbed out of the car.
Doris shouted from the porch. “Hi, Ellen.”
“Hi, Mom.”
“Where’s my little Alessio?”
“He’s in the car.” She raised her finger to her head, her hand shaped like a gun. Doris only smiled. She had been a mother once. Still was.
Eliana opened the trunk and took out a small suitcase and a backpack. Then she opened Alessio’s door, giving him the eye. “You be good, or I’m not bringing you back that new Nintendo game you wanted.” She dropped his backpack in his arms.
“All right.” He climbed out of the car, the frown still stitched to his face.
“There’s my Alessio.”
“Hi, Grandma.”
Doris just smiled. When they reached the porch, she greeted them both with a hug. “Come on inside, you two.” They stepped in.
Eliana breathed in deeply. “It smells good.”
“They had a sale on apricots at Smith’s and I was making some fruit leather.”
“That brings back memories.”
“Alessio, I have a Nintendo game in the family room. You’re going to have to set it up for me.”
“Okay.”
“It’s right there past the kitchen.”
He ran off.
“I don’t want him playing Nintendo the whole time I’m gone.”
Doris just smiled. “Don’t worry, we’ve got plenty to do. So how’s everything at your duplex? All moved in?”
“Yes. It’s nice.”
“You know, you could have just moved in here with us. Alessio would have more room out back to play.”
“I know, Mom. And I appreciate it. It’s just . . .”
Doris waved her hand, dismissing Eliana’s need to explain. “I know, dear. I was young once too. You can’t go back. Besides, having your old mother around would just cramp your style.”
Eliana laughed. “What style?”
“Everyone at church has been asking about you.”
Eliana picked up a thin sheet of apricot leather. It was still warm. She pulled a strip from it and ate it. “I love this stuff. So what is everyone asking about?”
“You know, the usual stuff. How are you doing . . . what are you up to . . . when are you going to get married again . . . the usual.”
She groaned. “I figured.”
“You know Michael Sanford’s available.”
“The one with six kids? He got a divorce?”
“No, his wife died of cancer last year. He’s a good man, Michael. Good dad. Not a bad-looking man either.”
“Six kids?” She raised her hands. “Piano, piano.”
“Piano?”
“It means slowly, Mom.”
Doris looked at Eliana thoughtfully an
d it made Eliana uncomfortable. Her mother could always read her, in the same way she always knew what the weather was going to do better than the weatherman, something Eliana never understood as a child and still didn’t.
“You miss him, don’t you?”
“For the rest of my life.”
She sighed. “Oh, Ellen. I miss your father too. I sometimes find myself baking something I don’t even like, just because he liked it. It’s the only promise of love, I suppose.”
“What promise? Torment?”
She smiled sympathetically. “Maybe.”
“I sometimes wonder if it was worth it. I know, it’s better to have loved and lost and all that . . . but that kind of thinking doesn’t help much on cold nights. Sometimes I just ache. Why did I have to fall so hard?”
Her mother smiled. “I don’t know, sweetie. But life has taught me to never regret having loved somebody. To lose love is a misfortune. But not to have loved, that is tragedy.”
“Now you’re sounding like an Italian.”
“I’ll take that as a compliment.” She hugged her daughter. “It’s so good having you back home, Ellen.”
“It’s good to be back.” She sighed. “Well, I better get going. Let’s go over everything.” Eliana took a folded sheet from her pocket and handed it to her mother. “I’ve written everything down here. Alessio needs to be to school by eight-thirty. He’s at Meadow Moore.”
Doris nodded. “I know where that is.”
“His clothes are in his bag. His inhalers are in his bag. And there’s also a spare one in his backpack. You have my cell phone number and here’s the gallery’s number in Park City. It’s the Linton Gallery. It’s long distance from here so you’ll have to dial a one. And, if there’s an emergency—”
Her mother stopped her. “I’ve practiced using the inhalers. And the hospital is only two blocks away. I’ve already talked to Sylvia over in emergency; everything’s fine. Her son has asthma too. So do Marge’s son and grandson, next door. They’ve all agreed to help. We could practically open an asthma clinic in this neighborhood. Now, just go on and have a good time. Everything’s going to be just fine.”
“All right, Mom.” She called out, “Alessio!”
Alessio ran into the room.
Eliana stooped down and kissed him. “I’m going now. Now, you be a good boy and do what Grandma says. I’ll call you tonight.”
“When will you be home?”
“Tomorrow night.”
Doris put her arm around Alessio. “We’ll be okay, Eliana. Alessio just needs to spend more time with his nonna. Now, what do you say to making some sugar cookies? I have some Halloween shapes, like bats and ghosts.”
“We could do that.”
“Uncle Bert is coming over a little later. I bet he’ll let you drive the go-cart.”
“Really? You have a go-cart?” He looked up at his mother. “Can I?”
“Yes. But only if Uncle Bert is with you.”
“Don’t worry, Bert’s the only one who can get the darn thing started. Now, you go on, honey. We’ll be just fine. I’ve been doing this mother thing for a long time.”
“All right, Mom.” She kissed her cheeks.
“I love how those Italians do that. They’re such an affectionate people, aren’t they?”
“They are. Ciao, Mom.”
It thrilled her when her daughter spoke Italian to her. “Ciao.”
The drive from Vernal to Park City was a little more than three hours, with nothing to see but scrub oak and desert terrain. Eliana didn’t mind the drive. The sun-baked asphalt road stretched out before her flat and desolate. She welcomed the opportunity to be alone with her thoughts.
It was a warm day, and she cracked her window just enough as to not drown out her car’s CD player. She still listened to her Italian CDs. They were like old friends. But even they seemed different now. Foreign somehow.
Her mind wandered over the blank backdrop of the terrain. She wondered where Ross was. England? Germany? No, she didn’t see him either of those places. Spain? Maybe Spain—the dark, sun-kissed hills of Barcelona, or south in Seville. She could see him in Spain.
He’d learn the language fast. He was good with languages, and they are similar, Spanish and Italian. It would come easy for him. So would the women, she thought. This made her stomach ache a little. Would she be so easily replaced? She did not doubt him, only herself. She never saw what he was so taken by in her in the first place. Still, maybe it was different for a man. Love is a portion of a man’s life, the Italians said, the whole of a woman’s. The Italians had much to say on the subject. Even the word romance found its root in Roman. As much as it hurt her to think of Ross with another woman, she didn’t want him to be alone. She wanted him to find a kind, beautiful woman who would care for him the way she had wanted to. One who could give him everything she couldn’t. He deserved that. Her love for him demanded that.
She had gone to sleep on a thought the night before. As she walked the labyrinth of her aching heart, she realized that love and gratitude are born twins. For if she were asked what she felt for Ross, she’d say love. But what she felt most was gratitude. Gratitude for what he had brought into her life. Gratitude for the way he had loved her. Gratitude that he had made her feel whole again. In spite of what she had said to her mother, gratitude even for the pain.
Maybe she too would marry someday. As foreign as the idea seemed to her, her intuition told her that she wouldn’t be alone forever. Alessio needed a father. She would make a partnership with a man and they would be friends and she might even learn to love him. Still, a part of her feared that deep inside she would always feel that she was only settling.
She ejected the CD and put in an old Eagles album. The Italian stuff made her think too much.
Three hours later Eliana arrived in Park City: the mining town turned exclusive ski resort. There was a time when land there could be bought for fifty dollars an acre. Now the old mine shacks on Main Street were being snatched up by the rich and famous for a million dollars and change. Even in the summer months, when the hills were dry and the runs bare, the town was busy with tourists.
She parked her car in the lot at the Linton Gallery then walked down the road two blocks, where she met up with her new art dealer, Marsha Ellington, at a sidewalk café.
A warm mountain flurry descended the Wasatch slopes and ruffled the fringes of the café’s awning. Eliana sat sipping iced tea across from Marsha, who was meticulously spearing the olives from her pasta salad with a fork, then piling them next to a partially eaten hard roll on her bread plate.
“You heard me. I told them, no olives. How hard is that? If he hadn’t taken so long to bring it out in the first place, I’d make them do it over.”
“Olives are good for you,” Eliana said.
“Yeah, well so is Jazzercise, but you don’t see me prancing around in spandex.” She speared another olive and dropped it on the plate. “There are a lot of olive trees in Italy, aren’t there?”
It was like asking if there were a lot of Italians in Rome. “Yes. We had them at the villa.”
“Are there two kinds of trees, black olives and green olives?”
“No. They come from the same tree. All olives are green at first. It’s just a matter of how ripe they are when they’re picked.”
“I’ve wondered about that.” She disdainfully speared another olive, adding it to the pile. “So how’s the adjustment back to American life? Everything getting back to normal?”
“I’m not sure that I know what normal is anymore. It seems that everyone is in a hurry all the time.”
“That’s what we Americans do best.”
She sighed. “Not this one.”
“Good. Artists shouldn’t be in a hurry. Are you going to stay in Vernal?”
“I don’t know. It’s pretty small. I guess we’ll see.”
“There’s plenty of nice places available in Park City. I’ve got an ex who’s a real estate agent up he
re. Bad husband but good agent. Give me the word and I’ll tell him you’re looking.”
“I’m not sure if Park City is right for us.”
“Well, Park City certainly loves you. You’ve got to be pleased with how things are going.”
“I didn’t know what to expect.”
“Let me tell you, this kind of response for a first showing is extraordinary. I talked to Carolyn on the way up. She said there are only a couple paintings that haven’t sold yet. I’m not surprised. Tuscany is so haute right now.” She took a fork of lettuce and dipped it into a small cup of Italian dressing. “Taking nothing from your talent, of course.”
“Toscana seems to be all the rage back here.”
“I told you you’d do well. I knew it the moment I saw your first painting. I do think we should play up your countess title. It’s much more exciting owning something done by nobility.”
Eliana shook her head. “No.”
Marsha raised one eyebrow.
“Absolutely not.”
Marsha sighed, then conceded with a flourish of her free hand. “You’re too humble, Ellen. You’ve got to learn to flaunt. It’s marketing. But either way, things are going to just keep happening for you. That reminds me. I can’t believe I almost forgot to tell you. Do you know Boyd McCann?”
“No.”
Marsha reached into her purse and brought out a business card. She laid it on the table in front of Eliana. The card was burnt umber, with a large palm leaf in gold foil embossed with the name Boyd McCann and Associates.
“You met him last week.”
“I did?”
“Yeah, he’s a big Salt Lake City interior designer. Does all the Deer Valley, Walker Lane crowd. Only deals with the filthy rich, Hollywood ski bums, my kind of filth. He left me his card the other night. He wants you to do some private commissions.”
“Really?”
“Oh, it gets better. Are you sure you don’t remember him? He was that forty-something guy at the reception, the one with the cute butt and the Mercedes-Benz ragtop?”