Catarina's Ring

by Lisa McGuinness

  “Neither, exactly. I’m thinking something along the lines of the even if your heart is broken, when life gives you a contractor like Ian, you might as well hook up with him one.”

  “Hum,” Saraya said, pondering. “I’m not sure about that, Chris. I mean, from what Juliette says Ian’s cute and all, but I’m thinking not risk the construction of your restaurant to get involved with your contractor cute or anything.

  “Maybe,” Christine admitted, “but from what I’m hearing from Juliette, he may be worth it.”

  “The reality is,” Juliette told them, “It’s not about whether I like him or not. It’s just that ever since Roman broke up with me, I’ve been acutely aware of the fact that we can’t control whom we lose and I’m tired of losing people. Whether it’s death, friends moving, or getting dumped, or people who had become a huge part of your life, are just no longer there. That’s it. Another one gone. You don’t have that person anymore.”

  “That’s why we have to love people with abandon while we do have them,” Saraya took Juliette’s arm.

  “I just don’t know if I’m ready for that. I have great friends, and you two are not allowed to break up with me. I have my dad and Gina, and maybe that’s enough for now.”

  “That’s fine for now,” Christine agreed, “but not forever. You have to keep yourself open.”

  “I promise I will, but let’s drop it for now. Besides, I think I’m going to buy one of these darling bracelets.”

  “If life gives you typewriter keys . . .”

  “Exactly,” Juliette smiled.

  After poking around the antique market, they decided to head over to Fillmore and then to the Legion of Honor to see if they could get into the Picasso exhibit.

  Fillmore Street was one of Juliette’s favorite spots in San Francisco. Funky shops and restaurants abounded, and it had always been a home away from home because her grandparents had lived in the neighborhood the entire time she was growing up. She still popped into some of the long-time establishments to say hello.

  Juliette was thrilled she’d been able to twist Saraya and Christine’s arms so easily into seeing the Picasso exhibit. After stopping in to rejuvenate at Coffee Bar, they headed over to the Legion of Honor. The show featured his paintings and ceramic pieces. She’d always been a fan and had loved visiting the Picasso Museums in both Paris and Antibes when her family had traveled to France when she was in college.

  Chapter 23

  CATARINA, A CLANDESTINE RELATIONSHIP, AND THINKING ABOUT PAINTING

  Catarina stole many more glances at Gregorio before she and Franco left the restaurant, but she never caught his eye. She wondered whether he had seen her before she dropped her coffee cup, directing attention to herself, or whether it was the commotion that made him notice her. His face had registered surprise, but she didn’t know whether it was surprise at seeing her unexpectedly or surprise at being seen by her.

  If he had noticed her first, she wondered whether he would have let her leave without saying a word. The thought of that tormented her. Had he already seen her around town or even at the restaurant another time? Maybe he had seen her several times and hadn’t said anything because he didn’t care anymore. After all, she reminded herself, she’s the one who said “no” to him. And more than a year had passed. He probably no longer gave her any thought. He probably loved someone else. Maybe he was even married to someone else. She searched her mind. Had there been a ring on his finger? She was sure she would have noticed.

  Her thoughts swung wildly between never setting foot into Flavio’s again, and going there as soon as possible to see him, even though she knew it would be wrong now that she was married to Franco.

  She didn’t want to do anything to hurt Franco. He was so good to her, and he was a wonderful husband. But thoughts of Gregorio continued to fill her mind.

  She told herself not to go back to the restaurant. She knew it wasn’t a good idea to see him again.

  Yet, somehow she found herself sitting at the counter of Flavio’s late Monday morning sipping a coffee with clammy palms, nervously looking around for a sign of him. She wore her most prim dress so she wouldn’t give him the wrong idea. She just wanted to talk to him without Franco there so she could speak plainly. After an hour of pretending to read the newspaper and having her coffee refilled twice, she saw him walk through the door, tying on an apron. His curly hair was damp, as if he had just bathed. She wondered where he lived and with whom. A group of bachelors? Or did he live with relatives? Probably a wife, she told herself. If he did have a wife, it would be good. She would be happy for him. Anyway, she would know soon enough.

  She tried to calm herself before she spoke to him. She folded the page of the paper again and tried to focus on the advertisements so she didn’t appear too eager. She suddenly felt flushed and had the instinct to flee, but just then he caught sight of her and walked over. He stood behind the counter facing her. He brought coffee and filled her cup without saying a word.

  “Buon giorno, Catarina.”

  “I’m sorry to bother you here,” she said. “It’s just . . .” she stammered, “I wanted to talk to you again. It was a surprise to see you the other night.”

  “I didn’t think you would notice me and then when you did, it surprised me almost as much as it surprised you, I think.”

  “You knew I was here?”

  “From the moment you walked in. You were here one other time while I was working, too. It almost killed me, but I tried not to catch your attention.”

  “Why not? You could have said ‘ciao’.”

  “I have been looking for you since I got to San Francisco. Every time I saw a dark-haired girl with your stature, my heart stopped. I can’t tell you how many times I have run up to someone only to startle a stranger.”

  “You were looking for me?” she asked. “But when I came in, why did you hide from me?” She had told herself she just wanted to know how he was doing, but she couldn’t help allowing herself the happiness of knowing he had been looking for her.

  “I regretted the way I acted when you left. To be honest, I had hoped you hadn’t gone through with your marriage after all. I had to find out. I couldn’t stand knowing that you might be in San Francisco on your own. But then I saw you here, with your husband, and you obviously had gone through with it. Not only that, but you looked perfectly happy together. Content. You had forgotten me and I felt ridiculous having even come to find you. But for now, I’m stuck here.”

  “It’s not like that, Gregorio. You have to believe me. I did get married. I told you I couldn’t back out. But I didn’t forget you. Please know that. I have been lucky, though. The man I married—Franco—he’s a good man, a kind and honorable man. I shouldn’t even have come to see you; I know he wouldn’t be happy, but I wanted to hear how you are.”

  “Well, now you know my story and I know yours,” Gregorio said, with a tone of resignation. “Listen, I have to get to work. But I’m glad to know you’re happy, Catarina.”

  “Gregorio . . .”

  “Si?”

  “Nothing. It just feels strange, to have you here only to walk away again.”

  “Yes, but that’s how life is, no?”

  “Credo che si,” she said. I suppose you’re right, and stood up to leave. “Would it be alright with you if I came back to say hello sometimes?”

  “Of course. I would like that, signora,” he said, emphasizing the fact that she was married.

  “Arrivederci then. See you.”

  “Si, arrivederci.” He picked up a tub of utensils and a stack of napkins and vanished through the swinging doors to the kitchen without looking back. She folded the newspaper and left with a vague sense of regret and guilt at having come, but also a happiness that she had seen him again. She knew she would have to be careful, in order to guard her heart.

  She spent the rest of the day trying not to think about Gregorio, but her mind drifted to him constantly while she folded the laundry and did the dishes
. What would her life have been like if she had run away with him? At the time, she had been overwhelmed, confused, and couldn’t have imagined. But now, she could imagine them together in a tiny apartment. She pushed it to the back of her mind and focused on ironing Franco’s favorite shirt. She lifted it to her face and inhaled the scent of him she could faintly detect through the clean soap smell. She had come to love her husband, so why think about someone else? She wouldn’t, she told herself.

  She knew the smart thing to do would be to tell Franco everything about what happened on the ship and confide in him. It would be the safe thing to do, because then it would be out in the open. As long as it was her secret, she knew she was ever so slightly in danger of doing something that would ruin her life with Franco. Something pazzesco, crazy. But she just couldn’t bring herself to tell him.

  As the days passed, she realized she was becoming preoccupied and conflicted so she was especially careful to be funny and charming with Franco. She stored up little anecdotes to tell him about her day and talked him into reading a love story to her. Her favorite was Portrait of a Lady by Henry James. She loved listening to Franco read to her. She especially enjoyed hearing about the heroine of the story, Isabel Archer. Catarina could understand and sympathize with her indecisiveness.

  In spite of the angst it was creating in her, she found herself making excuses to leave the apartment to visit Flavio’s for a cup of coffee and to see Gregorio. While she sat at the counter sipping her coffee, he stood on the other side, rolling silverware in napkins as he prepared for his shift. When their eyes locked, she forced herself to look away. She never stayed long. Still, she found herself confiding in him, telling him the details of her new life. She enjoyed the way he turned half of his mouth up when she told him something amusing. He confided in her as well. She enjoyed hearing about the other bachelors he lived with and about his dream of working for himself one day. He wasn’t sure what he wanted to do, but he knew he didn’t want to work for someone else forever. He was tired of taking orders and wanted more freedom.

  His desire to change his life made her think about her own. What did she want to do? She had never thought about that before. When she was young, she lived the way her parents lived—did chores, was lucky enough to learn to read and write a little with Mateo. And then she went to work for the Carluccis. She was never asked what she wanted to do. Not by her parents or herself. Life was what you were given. But now, talking to Gregorio about his dreams, she realized that people—even some women—could do what they wanted in life. In a way, she had already done so by leaving Italy and marrying Franco, but she had never given a thought to shaping her days once she was here.

  She and Franco had been living with his family for more than a year and most of the time she did chores and errands.

  She often found herself looking at the painting she bought when they were in New York. The scene made her feel a connection to home. It made her wish that she could paint, and one day she mentioned it to Gregorio.

  “You want to become a painter, eh?” he said with his half smile, as if she were about to launch into an amusing story.

  “Si,” she said, “I think I would like that.” She realized, as the words left her mouth, it was entirely true. She didn’t expect to become a real painter—a professional—but it could be something just for herself. She felt an unexpected sense of excitement at the prospect of putting paint to canvas. She had always noticed colors and textures. She had loved to sketch as a child but it had never occurred to her, until now, that she could develop that part of herself. It would give her a chance to recreate the colors and vistas of her childhood. It would be a way to bring that part of her life—a part that she dearly missed—back.

  “Well, good luck, principessa,” Gregorio said. “Maybe you can become a painter while the rest of us toil.”

  “You don’t understand, Gregorio, it’s boring cleaning an apartment all day. I love talking with my mother- and sister-in-law, playing with my niece and nephews, and gossiping with the shopkeepers, but it’s . . . I don’t know how to explain it,” her voice faded away.

  “It’s not what you want? Because . . . ” he slipped his hand on top of her hand, which had been resting on the counter, and wrapped her fingers in his. His hand was warm and calloused. It was larger than Franco’s hand and heavier. She knew she should pull her hand away, but she didn’t.

  Her heart skipped a beat. This wasn’t what she had meant to happen. She looked at his hand on hers and then looked up at him and saw a look of longing. She was afraid that her own face was a mirror of his. After a moment, sitting paralyzed, she forced herself to slide her hand out from under his. She placed it on her lap and stammered, “I’m not saying it’s so hard . . . I just wish . . . maybe . . . that . . .”

  She didn’t know what she had been saying. They had been talking about her desire to paint, but now he seemed to think she was talking about something else. Was she? She felt confused. It was dangerous territory and she needed to steer the conversation away from where it had drifted.

  “You wish what?” he asked, giving her a smoldering look, as he wiped down the counter where their hands had just been clasped. She was sitting in what had become her regular spot. Then he looked up and nodded to a table full of people who had just entered and sat down. He walked over with his order pad. His movement gave her a moment to think and she knew she had to leave before she did anything regretable.

  On the walk home she felt like her life was going down too many roads at once and she didn’t know how to decide which one was the right one. She wanted to be with her husband, be a part of his family, raise children, and learn to paint; at the same time she wanted to run away with Gregorio. She wanted to feel his lips on hers. She yearned for him. She could visualize both lives. She knew if she gave Gregorio one word he would be with her.

  She sat down on a bench she passed en route back to their apartment and put her head in her hands. She knew her parents would be ashamed of her and she felt the weight of that on top of everything else.

  “I have to give him up,” she mumbled. “I’m a good wife. I love my husband.” She wished Maria Nina were there to remind her not to do something stupid.

  She stood up and walked the rest of the way home, happy to be enveloped in normalcy when she entered and was greeted by her nieces and nephews.

  It was easier to push Gregorio to the back of her mind while she went about the task of helping her mother-in-law get dinner on the table. Dinnertime was her favorite time of day. The family came together, sat, bantered, talked about the day, and berated each other good-naturedly. There was laughter and Catarina appreciated being comfortably ensconced in the familial scene.

  While she pushed the thought of Gregorio from the front to the back of her mind, she realized the thought of learning to paint still remained and had deeply taken root. In point of fact, the physical prospect of putting paint to canvas thrilled her. She wondered how difficult it would be to learn and wondered if she would be any good. What if she didn’t have the raw talent? She wasn’t sure why she had suddenly become so passionate about it, but there it was. When she and Franco were getting ready for bed, she broached the subject.

  “You know how I’m afraid of moving to our own apartment because I’m afraid of being lonely?” she asked. “Well, I think I may have a solution.”

  She dangled her feet off of the edge of their bed and talked to him while she watched him change into his pajamas. She always found this endearing. Maybe because once he was in his pajamas he was a different Franco. He was not the son, or the jeweler, he was just hers. It made it easier to share this dream with him.

  “You see, besides Gabriella, I don’t have any real friends here. I love your mama and your family, but I dearly miss Maria Nina and Anna from home. And, maybe if I could do something to make some new friends, that would help me, no? Then I wouldn’t be lonely and we could move to our own little apartment.”

  “What kind of thing are you tal
king about doing, my tesoro.”

  “Well, since you ask,” she said, and smiled at him. She crossed her legs and her face became animated. “I know this sounds strange, but I want to take painting lessons. I could learn to paint landscape paintings of home. That way maybe I won’t miss it so much.”

  Franco moved over to her and lifted her chin in his hand. “That’s not such a surprise, Catarina. I see how you stare at that painting. As though by looking at it, you are there for just a moment or two.”

  “Do you think it would be ok? I know it’s a lot to ask, and I’m sure I won’t be a good painter, but maybe with work I could paint something that would be nice just for our house.”

  “I think it’s a good idea. We can find a class for you, and you can see whether you enjoy it. I’m sure you’ll make a wonderful painter. And then when we have babies, you can teach them to paint.” He smiled at the thought.

  Catarina smiled as well and met his eye.

  “Maybe we should work on that right now,” Franco climbed up beside her on the bed and kissed her.

  “Maybe we should,” she smiled and wrapped her arms around her husband, content to be in his arms, the thought of Gregorio momentarily gone from her mind.

  Chapter 24

  JULIETTE, UP TO HER ELBOWS IN PREPARATIONS AND PASTRY DOUGH, HOT SUMMER NIGHTS, AND GUSTO

  Gina was resetting some loose emeralds in a ring while Juliette leaned against the counter. She had stopped by the store while she was in the city to look at some secondhand restaurant equipment.

  “How are things going on the café?” Gina asked, while focusing her attention on the task at hand.

  “Great, the plans are currently waiting to be approved but Ian thinks it will only be a matter of days now.”

  “Exciting.”

  “I know. I’ve started trying out a bunch of pastry recipes to have something to do, because I can’t do what I’m really itching to do.”