Arabel greets us and ushers us into the busy dining room, where Charlie has gotten us a table overlooking the garden. We find out that she is an art professor at Marymount Manhattan, and Charlie is a lawyer. They’ve been married for ten years and have no children.
“Her children are her books and her antiques from our travels.” Charlie laughs.
“And so are yours.” Arabel pinches his cheek, and he smiles at her. “You see, Charlie and I come to Venice every year, and each time we come, we visit the same churches to look at the same works of art because we find something new every time we look at them.”
“Photographs in books don’t do the trick,” Charlie adds.
“You must join us at Saint Stae. There is a series of paintings there that was commissioned by Andrea Stazio—”
“A very wealthy man,” Charlie interjects.
“Very wealthy, who wanted the lives of the twelve apostles interpreted by twelve young artists. So he selected the best around. My favorite in the group is by a young man named Giambattista Tiepolo. He painted The Martyrdom of Saint Bartholomew.”
“It will take your breath away,” Charlie tells us.
Arabel continues, “The painting always moves me. I think it has to do with the image of this man, Bartholomew, emerging from what looks like a black pool into the light. He is surrounded by evil and doubt, but he persists in his determination to die honorably and see the face of God. It is the best interpretation of suffering I have ever seen. You feel his agony.”
Rosemary, who has done her best to listen to a conversation she has no interest in, is in need of a nap. Her eyes have glazed over. All this talk of art is too much for her. But it has the opposite effect on me. I am ravenous for more details, so I ask questions, and Arabel and Charlie are happy to answer.
As I watch the Dreskens interact, I see that they love each other, but there is also a discourse between them, an intellectual connection that I never think about in my relationship with John. When Arabel speaks about the history of Venice and the masterpieces on display, I wonder what I might have missed by not going to college. The only girls from my high school who went were extremely intelligent and wanted to become teachers or librarians. I knew I would work with my hands, but it would have been enhanced by an education in art and literature. Arabel seems to know a little something about everything. What I know about the world, I know in detail, but my view is not expansive. It is limited to Greenwich Village and B. Altman’s. Perhaps the right connections aren’t simply social but a world of deeply layered ideas, shared by people who care about them. Being around Arabel makes me want to be a part of this world. We make plans to join them as they tour Venice. Arabel has lots to show us.
Arabel and Charlie show us as much of Venice as we can take without falling over in exhaustion. What a coup to have an actual art historian explaining things. Today Arabel insisted we see the glassworks of Murano. On the ferry across to the main island, Arabel explains that the glassworks were moved out of Venice because of the smoke and heat produced by the ovens. When we tour the main factory, it reminds me of the Hub at B. Altman’s. Each person completes a specific task, after which he or she passes the work along to the next person, until the garment—or, in this case, the goblet, sconce, bowl, or chandelier—is finished.
“Isn’t it hard to pick a chandelier when you haven’t seen the house?” Arabel asks me. Maybe because I’m a seamstress, I can envision things as they’ll be in their final form. In my mind’s eye, a swatch of fabric becomes a full skirt, a handful of beads, a jewel encrusted bodice, a piece of black velvet, a collar. When I walked the acre and a half of our lot with John, I could picture the finished house in detail: each room, each doorway, point to the exact spot the bay window should go so the afternoon sun would fill the downstairs with rosy light. What an odd thing, I think, to need to build something so you can visualize it. I couldn’t do what Arabel does, but I think perhaps she couldn’t do my job, either.
I barter with the salesman when I find a stunning chandelier, one I could never afford in the States. The base is burnished copper, and the arms have leaves of gold. The glass ornaments are fruit in every conceivable color: smoky quartz grapes, peridot pears, garnet apples, pink cherries. He promises that he will wrap each piece of fruit carefully and tells me not to be shocked when the chandelier arrives in a box the size of a room.
“Just so it gets there without breaking,” I tell him. What a spectacular vacation! Everything I see feeds my creativity and gives me ideas, from the coral buckle I saw on a lady’s shoe to the silk moiré tent we dined in at the hotel. Even the cooking utensils are works of art in Italy, their enamel handles in vivid colors.
The next day Arabel arranges a car for a drive down to Florence to buy silk. I learned about Antico Setificio Fiorentino from Franco Scalamandre, a purveyor of silks on Fifth Avenue. I will be able to repay Arabel’s generosity with some of what I know about textiles and fabric. When I bought silk taffeta from Scalamandre to make a gown for a mezzo-soprano at the New York Grand Opera Company, he told me about the factory where the silk was woven. He painted a detailed picture of the place, from the silkworms spinning the thread, to the chuff of the looms operated from morning till night, to the drying room where the freshly dyed fabric is stretched on wooden frames so the color dries evenly. As we go through the factory, I realize that the materials we work with at B. Altman’s are only a small sample of what they create here. If I had some of these stripes and plaids, I could design a whole season around the variations of pink.
Arabel points to an off-white taffeta that has a delicate watermark in the design. She says, “I don’t know what I could ever do with it, but it’s exquisite.” She holds it up, and I can see from the way the fabric drapes and from the regal simplicity of the tone-on-tone weave—delicate, with a sheen for dramatic effect—that it could be used for only one thing: my wedding gown. Arabel and Rosemary agree, so I buy ten yards, plenty for whatever Delmarr will create.
When we have to say good-bye to Arabel and Charlie the next morning, I’m sad to see them go. I’ve never spent time with such an educated woman, and I see what I’ve missed by not furthering my education. I’m proud of my training and schooling, but I see now that I could have done more. I remember the night at the Plaza when Christopher’s friend asked me if I’d gone to Vassar. How I would have loved to go away and live in a dormitory with lots of other smart, ambitious girls. I’ve done very well with my talents, but I haven’t pushed myself. I have ideas and the passion to execute them, but there is a whole world that I haven’t experienced, and it would have allowed me to rise to the top.
Mama is thrilled to see us when we return safely from our trip. I give her the strands of Murano glass beads I bought for her. When I watch her try them on in the mirror, I notice that she tilts her head like I do when trying on jewelry. Mama takes her eyes off the beads and looks at me in the mirror. “Are you all right?”
“I’m okay, Mama.”
She examines my reflection in the mirror closely, studying me, as she has done all my life. I can see from her expression that she knows something has changed. My mother has always been my closest confidante, so there isn’t much I can keep from her.
“Why are you so serious?” Mama asks.
“I don’t know,” I lie. How can I tell her that this trip has changed me? I met Arabel, who lives in a world of literature and art and infused me with her passion. I saw craftsmanship so exquisite that it made me think about how I could become a better seamstress. Why, though, do my aspirations sadden me? Why do I always feel that I have to give up something I love in order to climb higher?
We spend our last weeks in Godega eating and laughing and enjoying one another’s company. This will be my last family holiday as a single daughter. Of all the things I learned and all the places I saw, not one has meant more to me than these precious days here in Papa’s family home. These are the moments I will treasure: my mother laughing as she sits in Papa’s lap, Rob
erto walking with Rosemary through the fields, Angelo, twenty years too old to be an altar boy in Saint Urbano Church but serving Mass anyway, Orlando baking pizza in the outdoor oven, Exodus fixing the engine of the old car for the twelfth time, and me digging my bare feet into the grass where my father played as a boy.
As we load up the truck to go down to the Treviso train station, cousin Domenic seems preoccupied. He mashes the tobacco into his pipe as though he’s angry at it.
“Are you all right, cousin?” I ask him.
“I will never see you all again,” he says.
“Sure you will. You’ll come to America, and we’ll come back.”
“No, you’re young, you don’t know. You have so much ahead of you that you think you have all the time in the world. I know this time will never come again. You won’t come back.”
I smile at Domenic and give him a hug. As gay and funny as Italians can be, they can brood and turn dark in an instant. Nothing in life is certain, I want to tell my cousin. This month has been wonderful. Stop complaining! This is easy for me to say, since I’ve been counting down the moments until I see John.
Roberto loads the last of the bags into the car. Domenic, Bartolomea, Orsola, and Domenica have come to see us off.
“Where’s Exodus?” Mama asks, counting our heads as though we are chickens.
“Mama,” Exodus says in a tone I barely recognize. His sarcasm and humor have been replaced by a serious timbre.
“Let’s go. We have two trains to catch before the plane.” Mama moves toward the truck, her purse over one arm and a small satchel in her other hand.
“Mama . . . I’m not going back,” Exodus says.
Mama grips the door of the truck with her free hand. “What do you mean, you’re not going back?”
“I’m staying here,” he says firmly.
“But what about New York?” I ask him. I would almost expect a half-baked idea like this from Orlando or Angelo, but not from Ex, who I’ve been closest to all my life.
“What about it?” Exodus says evenly.
“It’s your home!” I tell him.
“My heart is here.” Orsola moves to Exodus’s side, and he goes on, “We’re going to get married.”
“O Dio.” Mama plops down on the bench on the truck. “Antonio Giuseppe, you handle this.”
We know Mama means business when she calls Pop by both of his names. We back off as Papa and Mama face Exodus, and ready ourselves for the fireworks.
“Ex, what are you doing?” Papa says gently.
“Pop, you know I love the store and working with you. But all my life I wanted to be outdoors. I always wanted a farm. I like working from the minute the sun comes up till it’s suppertime. This is what I’m cut out for. I want to grow things in the earth, not just sell them. I like how quiet it is at dawn when I go to milk the cow. I like the way my boots sink into the dirt after I’ve plowed it. I don’t want the noise anymore. I want peace.” Ex extends his hand, and we listen to the soft rustle of the breeze moving through the wheat. “That’s music to me, that sound. I feel like I’ve found what I’m supposed to be doing. “
“But I need you back home,” Papa says quietly, as he looks past his son to the fields beyond.
“You have three other sons. And you could always hire somebody from the outside.”
No one in a family business ever utters the words “hire somebody from the outside.” They are considered the highest insult, because the whole point of having a place like the Groceria is to leave your children a profitable enterprise so that the family can stay close and work together.
My mother raises her voice. “We will never hire outside our family. We will close the place down before we hire from the outside!”
“Maria, please.” Papa turns to his wife. “There is a tradition here for him.”
“And a girl! A beautiful girl! Let’s not forget that!” Mama jabs. Orsola looks at the ground. I want to go to her and tell her this isn’t her fault, it’s just the way our family operates, but once she marries my brother, she will see all of this for herself.
Ex turns to Papa, who is the reasonable one in this fight. “There’s nothing that would make me happier than being in charge of my own life. Growing my own food, chopping wood for fire, all of that. That’s what I want to do. It’s how I want to live.”
Mama throws her hands in the air. “Thank God, at last we know what Exodus wants. Well, tell me then, son, who is the imposter I birthed, nursed, raised, and took care of like an angel all these years? Where is he? Maybe he can make some sense to me, because you—you’re like a drunk right now. Drunk on romantic wheat fields, Italian moons, and Domenic’s wine!” she bellows. “You get in this car, and you come home to the United States of America, where you are a citizen! Now!”
Exodus doesn’t move. Orsola weeps, and Papa, who isn’t supposed to be in the sun, is beginning to fry.
“Maria. Let the boy go.”
“Antonio!”
“Let the boy go. If one of my sons has to leave me, this is the place I would want him to go. The Sartoris have been here farming for hundreds of years. I am happy to have a son return to my homestead, where I grew up, and I will be happy to see his children grow up in this house.”
The only sound we hear is the thin chicken walking on the straw in the stable. Mama holds her head in her hands and sits down on the bench in the truck; she knows Papa is right. Exodus climbs up into the truck and puts his arms around her. “In my heart I will never leave you, Mama.”
After a moment Papa seems to remember that there is another aspect to all of this. He made his mistakes with Rosemary’s entrance into the family, and he won’t make the same ones twice. He turns to Orsola. “Orsola, welcome to the family,” he tells her. She embraces Papa and then each of us, and finally Mama. Papa gives Mama his handkerchief. She blows her nose and says, “Is anybody in this family ever going to have a normal wedding?” Roberto cranks up the truck, Domenic and his family climb aboard with us, and the last thing we see as we take the turn to the road to Godega di Sant’Urbano is Exodus with his arm around Orsola’s waist and one very thin chicken peeking out the door of the farmhouse, their new home.
CHAPTER NINE
John is waiting at the gate when we get off the plane in New York, holding a dozen red roses tied with a white satin ribbon. He’s dressed impeccably, as always, in a beige linen suit, a blue-and-white-striped shirt, and a navy tie. As many times as I took out his picture in Italy, seeing him here, so handsome, makes my heart beat too fast; I can’t breathe. I know ladies aren’t supposed to run, but I don’t care. I run down the gateway and into his arms. I bury my face in his neck and breathe in the smell of his skin, which I have missed desperately.
“How’s November fifteenth for a wedding day?” he whispers.
“November! We’ve got invitations to send, a band to hire, a meal to cater, a dress to make! It’s crazy!” I tell him. By now my family has gathered, though they are hanging back like a clump of moss on an old rock.
“I don’t want to wait,” he says, smiling.
“I don’t, either!”
“We can be ready by November fifteenth,” Mama says with a hint of panic. I know her well enough to understand that she thinks it’s too soon, but since our meeting with Father Abruzzi, she’s tried hard not to shoot down every idea John and I have about our wedding. Instead of arguing, she gives John a kiss on the cheek. After my mother has spoken, my brothers become animated once again and greet John with handshakes. Only Papa, dear Papa, has to force a smile. He will never say another word against John, because he promised Father Abruzzi, and he doesn’t want to lose me. But why can’t he see how happy I am?
Roberto and Rosemary ride in the Packard with me and John and most of the luggage, while Mama, Papa, Orlando, and Angelo follow in a taxi. I tell John about Exodus’s decision to stay, and Rosemary regales him with stories of our trip to Venice. When we all reach Commerce Street, John helps my brothers unload the luggage,
weighed down with Italian books, candlesticks, leather purses, and silk. The chandelier and all the housewares were to be shipped by boat. John has things he needs to do, so he kisses me and promises to pick me up for dinner.
The first thing I do is take a shower. I stand under the luxurious, pulsating hot water for fifteen minutes, enjoying every second. It feels decadent after a month of washing in tepid water without any pressure. I step out of the shower and throw on my robe. When I go into the hallway, Ro hands me a glass of lemonade. “You didn’t have to do that,” I say.
“The hell I didn’t! I haven’t seen an ice cube in thirty-one days. I wanted you to know they really exist.” She clinks her glass against mine and goes back downstairs, leaving me to get ready.
I grab a sweater on my way out the door with John that night. New York City is still warm in the evenings, but it feels downright chilly compared to the Veneto. John has made reservations at the Vesuvio.
“How much did you miss me?” I ask once we’re settled in our booth.
“Every second. And you?”
“Every half-second.” I lean across the table to kiss him.
“I was scared to death you’d meet some Italian count or duke or whatever they have over there and decide not to come home.”
“They could have lined up Italian bachelors from the top of the Alps to the heel of the boot, and I wouldn’t have been even mildly tempted. I have the best fiancé in the world. Why would I even look?”
“Beautiful girls can have their pick.”
“And I pick you.”
“I got you something while you were gone,” he says with a grin. “When I saw it, I said, ‘There’s only one girl in the world who could do this justice.’ ” John motions to Patsy, a tall, dapper Italian and the owner of the restaurant, who brings a large box to the table.