Pondering her “word friends” made her realize that she needed to make some real friends. Gabriella was wonderful, but she was so busy with the kids. And Franco was at work Monday through Saturday.
She exhaled deeply and lay back on the blanket, letting the sun warm her face, and thought about Maria Nina from home.
“Che c’è, Tesoro?” What is it, darling?
“Niente. “ I’m just missing home and my friends,” she said, suddenly seeing the vine-covered hills and gossiping at the water pump.
She did like San Francisco. There was always so much going on, but she felt a bit trapped inside the apartment. In Italy, she had often been outside, working in the garden or off running errands for her parents. Whereas here, aside from going to the market, she was often inside most of each day. She sometimes stood in front of the small painting of the Italian landscape she bought for Franco’s parents in New York, wishing she was there instead. She wanted Franco to be there, too, and smiled at the realization that she would miss him otherwise. She wondered if she was falling in love. She liked the phrase that the Americans used. “Falling.” She watched Franco. He lay on his side. His gangly frame comfortable and his eyes sparkling with mischief at her.
“What?” he asked again.
“Nothing,” she replied, in English this time, instead of Italian. She shook her head, but she smiled at him, to let him know that she found him wonderful, and then lay back on the blanket to let the sun’s rays warm her face.
She thought of the words “falling in love” again. Unbidden, the face of Gregorio came to mind. Had that been love, and if so, what was she feeling now, with Franco? Was it companionship? She didn’t think so, because her feelings for Franco were real, too. A different kind of love, maybe. With Gregorio, it had felt desperate and intense. More like jumping off a cliff than falling. With Franco, it was more like the sun warming her cheeks.
In the evenings after dinner, she and Franco often left the apartment to go for walks around the neighborhood. That was the best part of the day. He held her hand and told her funny stories about what had happened at work.
She peeked her eyes open against the bright sun and looked at Franco.
“Let’s read,” she said lazily. “Will you read to me first, or do you want me to read to you?”
“I’ll read to you,” he said, scooting closer to her and laying the book open on the blanket between them so she could see the words. “You follow along with your finger.”
“Perfect,” she said, shrugging off her sense of listlessness, and edged herself over, so she could lean gently against him. “But do you know what we should read next?”
“What?” he raised his eyebrows in curiosity.
“A love story, I think,” she told him, and ran her fingers through his hair. She could have sworn she saw his olive complexion turn one shade darker.
“If it’s a love story you want, then a love story you shall have,” he said, quickly kissing her. “But for now, you get nursery books.”
“For now,” she said. And then she ran her finger along the first line of text and listened to him slowly read the words. Occasionally she stopped him to ask for the meaning of one word or another, but she was coming along well. She always spoke Italian at home, but she switched to English when she went to the market and when they were out at restaurants. She knew she often butchered the tenses and that her speaking ability was choppy at best, but she could get her point across and she was eager to learn. Catarina knew it was just a matter of time before she could speak fluently and she looked forward to the day. She hoped she had plenty of time to get better before she became pregnant. She saw how limited Gabriella’s time away from the family was, and wasn’t quite ready for that herself.
Catarina definitely wanted bambini, just not so soon. Her mother-in-law already looked at her for signs that she was carrying a grandchild for her, but for the time being Catarina was happy; happy each month with the discovery that she, in fact, was not pregnant. Luckily, Franco didn’t seem to be in a hurry either. Although she knew he would be excited if it happened, each month when she got her period, he would smile at her and say, “Va bene. For now I still get you all to myself.”
Until then, she was content to help out with her nieces and nephews. Their apartment was already crowded, and adding another baby would make it more so. Franco still talked about getting an apartment of their own. On the one hand, Catarina liked the idea of making her own home and being the mistress of her own time and her own kitchen, but she had her reservations about being alone all day. She had always lived with a large family, and couldn’t fathom what it would be like not to do so.
The possibility of moving to an apartment was their main topic of conversation on a rainy December evening, while they waited for cannoli at Flavio’s, a tiny old-fashioned Italian café. Catarina loved it, not only because the gnocchi reminded her of her mother’s back home, but also because the people who frequented Flavio’s could all have stepped right out of her village.
They were contentedly facing each other and hashing through the idea, tucked into a tiny leather booth. Franco and Catarina relished the delicious, homey Italian food, and had just finished a large platter of gnocchi, which they had consumed with abandon, and were now sipping strong, thick coffee while they waited for their dessert to arrive. Catarina lifted the cup to her lips, let out a shriek, and suddenly found herself scalded and covered in coffee.
“What happened?” Franco asked her. “Are you all right? Are you burned?”
“I’m so sorry,” she said, using her napkin to blot the wet coffee stain that covered the front of her dress. “I just got startled. That’s all. I saw one of the people who was on my ship, and I was so surprised that I dropped my coffee,” she stammered.
“Who?” Franco asked, looking around the restaurant.
“That man there,” Catarina told him, pointing to the one man whom she had never expected to see again. He was wearing the clothes that the other waiters at Flavio’s wore, which confused her. Why wasn’t he wearing the uniform of the ship? Her mind raced for answers.
Gregorio had an equally surprised look on his face. Catarina’s heart lurched and she tried to regain composure as he walked over to their table. His look of surprise was quickly replaced by one of acute indifference, and Catarina found it cut her to the core. How can he feel nothing, she wondered, while she had to fight to keep herself from jumping up and running to him.
“Catarina,” he said. “Or should I call you Signora . . .?” his voice trailed off, as he realized he didn’t know her last name.
“Brunelli,” she added to help him. “And, this is my husband, Franco. Franco, this is Signor Villa. He was one of the men who worked onboard the ship I traveled on from Italy. We dined together several times, along with the others in our group of passengers, during the crossing.” She felt herself stammering a bit with nervousness, but Franco didn’t seem to notice how flustered she was.
“Nice to meet you,” Franco said, and reached out to shake Gregorio’s hand.
“Have you stopped working on the ship?” Catarina asked, happy that her voice didn’t betray the turmoil she felt. His hair was different, too. Less closely cut, but his face was the same one she’d thought of so many times since she had last seen him.
“Si, I got tired of making the crossing. On my last voyage there was a tremendous storm, and I vowed if I made it to land I would never make the trip again. I was sure we were all going to drown.” He smiled and shrugged, so she wasn’t sure whether his story was true or exaggerated.
“Now you work here?”
“As a waiter for now. Just until something better comes along.” He self-consciously brushed at a stain on the sleeve of his shirt. “Well, I better get back to work,” Gregorio said hesitantly, as if he didn’t want to.
“It was nice to see you again,” Catarina said.
“You, too,” he said looking away. She watched him walk to the counter and pick up plates to deliv
er them to the guests in his station. She was thankful he hadn’t waited on them, which would have been more painful than she could have endured.
She turned back to her husband, who was studying her.
“He seems nice,” he said.
“Yes, he was very nice to Maria and me,” she smiled. “Now where were we,” she asked, “before I threw coffee all over myself?”
“Waiting for our cannoli, I believe.”
“Ah yes, and here it comes,” she inclined her head towards the waiter coming their way with a plate of the Italian pastries and a fresh cup of coffee for her.
Catarina looked around the restaurant before they left, hoping to catch a glimpse of Gregorio again, but he was nowhere in sight. They walked out into the evening to begin their stroll home. The streets were quiet and although she kept up a conversation with Franco, her mind was on Gregorio the whole way home. He was as handsome as she remembered, although there seemed to be a new weariness around the eyes, and she thought he looked a little thinner. Neither change diminished her attraction to him and as much as she regretted it, she couldn’t help but think again about what her life would have been like if they could have been together.
Those thoughts made her feel like she was betraying Franco, so she entwined her fingers with her husband’s and smiled at him to try to make up for the guilt she was feeling. She was distressed even thinking about Gregorio, but she couldn’t get him out of her mind.
Chapter 22
JULIETTE, COFFEE FOAM ART, AND ANTIQUE MARKETS
By the time Juliette got home, talked to her friends, her sister, and her dad, she had a bit of a champagne hangover coming on from her crazy meeting with Ian. Although it was only midday, she couldn’t wait to take a nap so she grabbed a blanket and curled up on her couch.
When she woke up, the afternoon sun was slanting through her window. She contacted the owner of the building and finalized the rental details. She smiled again thinking about Ian and the waitress who assumed they were newly engaged. She splashed her face and brushed her teeth, then plunked herself down in front of her computer to look at some styles of windows. She loved thinking about the possibilities the space could offer. Juliette had a good eye for color and design, an artistic trait she had inherited from Nonna Catarina. Her in-law studio had several paintings from her grandma. All of them featured lush Italian landscapes or scenes of the California wine country. She sighed. She would love to have her mom and grandma there to talk color and show them samples.
She spent the evening reading, and finally, she dropped into bed in the wee hours, and didn’t stir until late in the morning. It was odd not having a job, and she realized she should face facts and work on getting some sort of gig to bring in money to tide her over before opening the café.
She made herself a latte, got out her laptop, and checked the “help wanted” ads under waitresses, cooks, and catering on Craigslist. She wanted someplace where she could just pull a shift and leave without any aspirations or drama. Her hope was to find work in some little indie coffee house where she could serve up specialty coffees, so she started her search there. She responded to several ads online, and then decided to kick it old school and opened the newspaper to the “jobs offered” section to check that out as well.
Several weeks later, Juliette was racing around, picking clothes up off the floor, and gathering miscellaneous mail and papers into a pile. Her place was a bit of a wreck and Ian was coming over to review the café plans.
She had spent several nights at her dad’s house to help out while he healed, and it was nice to be home again. He was improving daily, much to Juliette’s relief. His physical therapist was somewhat of a drill sergeant, but she seemed to be getting the job done. Juliette was relieved that he would be walking without crutches soon and was ready to care for himself for the most part.
Things were in order enough to spare her embarrassment by the time the doorbell rang. Juliette brought Ian outside to the table in her tiny backyard garden. It was cooler then the previous day, almost crisp.
While Ian rolled out the plans, Juliette filled him in on the new job she’d found.
“It took me a couple of weeks to find it, but now I get to work on my skills at creating little pictures in the foam on the top of lattes and cappuccinos,” she joked and handed him a latte in a white ceramic mug with a curly heart in the foam. “So far, the only shape I’ve mastered is a heart, but it’s only been a couple of days and I’m working on expanding my horizons.”
“Nice,” he smiled. “What other pictures are you working on?”
“I was thinking of trying to create landscapes, but that seemed a bit ambitious, especially given my limited time frame, so I’ve settled on attempting a tulip in addition to the heart. I’ve had some good results, but sometimes things go awry.”
Ian laughed at her mock seriousness.
“Hey, don’t knock the coffee art,” she laughed, “or next time you’ll get a frownie face.”
“Duly noted,” he said, reaching for his briefcase and bringing out the latest version of the plans. “I’ll behave. Just don’t hex my coffee.”
In the weeks since they began working on the project together, they had formed a companionable friendship. Now, at the final stages before they submitted the plans for permits, they wanted to go over them one last time. It was the first time Ian had been to Juliette’s home.
Ian dove right in. “Before we move forward, let’s review everything while we can still make changes easily.”
“It’s going to be a beautiful space,” Juliette admired the plans like a doting new mother. “I keep trying to picture myself working there and when I go over my movements in my mind, I can’t think of anything I would change.”
“Once we’re working on the interior of the building, as long as it’s within the footprint of the structure, it’s no problem to shift things around if you do decide you want to tweak something.”
She peeked at Ian’s profile, appreciating his quiet confidence. He seemed completely comfortable in his skin.
Forget it, she told herself. Best not to even go there.
When the meeting was finally over, Juliette picked up their coffee cups while Ian packed up his stuff. She put the mugs in the sink and turned to walk back out, but saw Ian following her in.
“I love this place,” he said, looking around her kitchen. “How long have you lived here?”
“About four years. I moved in not long after I finished culinary school. I was lucky to come across it when I was out running one day and noticed the “for rent” sign. It’s small, but it’s perfect for me.”
“It’s got a great aesthetic. I like your sense of style. It suits you.” He casually leaned with one arm up against the doorjamb and surveyed her face with the same interest he had when he surveyed the room.
Because it was Saturday he hadn’t shaved and the dark stubble gave him an appealing scruffy look.
Juliette met his eyes and then looked away, trying to casually hide the sudden unexpected blush she felt in her cheeks. She busied herself putting the cups in the dishwasher.
“I’ll give you a call after I make these changes and submit them for the permits,” Ian said.
He turned towards the door, absentmindedly tapping the rolled up plans against his thigh.
“Sounds good,” Juliette said and walked him to his truck.
Ian opened the driver-side door and tossed in the plans and his briefcase, then leaned over and gave Juliette a kiss on the cheek.
“Bye, see you soon.”
“Yeah,” she said. “See you soon.” She turned and walked back to her cottage door, then turned and waved as Ian backed his truck out of the driveway.
She sighed and ran her fingers through her hair then looked at the clock and realized it was almost time to pick up Christine and their friend, Saraya for their début foraging expedition to the San Francisco Antique Market on Treasure Island. Milling around flea markets and antique markets was one of her favo
rite ways to wile away a weekend afternoon. And this was one she’d never been to before. She hoped to find something interesting for her café.
She grabbed her purse and coat and then headed out. As she backed her car out of the driveway Ian had so recently vacated, she couldn’t help but focus on how excited she was to be on the cusp of fulfilling her dream. For the first time since Roman had shredded her heart, it occurred to her that maybe his defection was for the best. If he hadn’t broken up with her, she’d still be in Lucca instead of here. Being in love with him in Italy had been amazing, she couldn’t deny that, but being back and opening her own café was incredibly exciting too. She tried to stay focused on that.
Saraya picked up a bracelet and dangled it from her fingers while considering. It was made from old typewriter keys and she loved it immediately.
“What was that old saying your grandmother had, Juliette? The one about weeds and flowers?”
“She had a million sayings but I’m guessing the one you’re thinking of was, ‘If your garden’s full of weeds, pull them out and plant flowers.’ It sounds more exotic in Italian, though.”
Juliette guessed it was some sort of Italian version of “If life gives you lemons, make lemonade.”
“For some reason that’s what this bracelet reminds me of,” she said.
“If life gives you typewriter keys, make a bracelet?”
“Exactly.”
“I think she might have a thing or two to say about your current situation,” Christine added, picking up a bracelet as well.
“What do you mean?” Juliette asked, “The I’m excited and terrified about risking all of my money to open my own café one, or the I’m a loser who got her heart broken one?”
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