It’s less green than Tuscany, less mountainous than the northern regions. But it has its own wild, humble beauty. Birds flutter from one massive clump of thorny underbrush to the next, chirping and singing. Golden-greenish fields full of brown-and-white cows. Endless blue skies without a cloud in sight. Piled stone walls about knee-height frame the roads on either side.
I can perfectly imagine young Bruno running free in these fields, climbing trees, kicking a soccer ball around, getting into trouble. The thought makes me smile.
It’s a lovely drive out to the little town of Alberobello, which first appears on the horizon as a pearly-white spot in the distance beneath an incredibly lush blue sky.
Bruno explains that this little town is home to several examples of historical architecture called trulli like what we saw when we were escaping in our latest high speed chase.
Once we park and start walking around, I can see why he brought me here. The houses are bright white, made of rock and built straight into the limestone, with cone-shaped gray roofs. The streets are lined with them, and many of the trulli have been transformed into little pottery shops and art galleries, while other buildings are still in use as residences.
Colorful shelves jut out from beneath round windows, holding pots of flowers, number plaques, sometimes surnames. Tourists are around every corner, professional photographers traveling from all over the world to snap photos of the interesting architecture and gorgeous colors. It’s nice to be able to enjoy the interesting architecture, this time around.
As we wander down the tiny cobblestone streets, Bruno turns to me with a grin.
“What do you think?” he asks, as if there’s any other answer to give.
“It’s amazing,” I tell him, shaking my head in awe. “I’ve never seen anything like this.”
“Crazy to think I grew up just down the road from this.”
“Yeah! When I think about where I grew up, this seems like some kind of fantasy land.”
“New York has its charms, too. There are certainly much worse places to live,” he says, shrugging. “But for me, this will always be home.”
“I’m happy that you grew up somewhere like this. Everything you’ve seen, everything you’ve been through—all of that has made you into the amazing man you are today,” I say, kissing the back of his hand.
“Come on, you sweet, sentimental woman, let’s get you some gelato,” he says.
We head down the street to a village square which looks to be meticulously maintained, full of tourists oohing and ahhing over the picturesque surroundings. We sit down at a little cafe, taking an outdoors table so we can people-watch and enjoy the sunshine.
Bruno gets pistachio ice cream and I get hazelnut, and after that we order coffee and pastries. We sit there, just talking and soaking up the sun, being lazy and happy together, for what must be hours.
Finally, when the little woman running the cafe comes out to gently warn us that they’re closing up shop soon, we thank her and head back to the car.
We take our time driving back to the Lomaglio property, stopping on the side of the road to explore an open field, to snap a picture together in front of an especially photogenic olive tree. We’re acting like embarrassing, goofy tourists in love, even though Bruno knows this place by heart, and it’s wonderful.
By the time we make it back home, we’re both sunkissed and tired and unable to stop smiling.
I don’t know what the future holds for us, and I know this lovely dream has to end at some point, but for now, I’m just drinking in every last drop of happiness I can get. Bruno is alive, he’s in my arms, and I can’t imagine anything better than this.
We wash up and get changed for dinner, heading over to the main house. As soon as we step through the door, we’re greeted by the smells of delicious cheeses, meats, fish, and pasta Bruno’s mother has been preparing all day.
I have to wonder if she really goes all out like this every evening, or if she’s just amping up the menu because Bruno is here. Either way, I am sure as hell not going to complain. Especially since I’m eating for two.
At the dinner table, we tell Bruno’s family about the amazing day we’ve had, and I gush about how beautiful the countryside is, how friendly all the people are—including them.
I’m feeling so relaxed that I even let Domenica pour me the tiniest glass of red wine, which I sip contentedly. I’ve never been a huge drinker, but being pregnant, I’ve really missed having some wine or a cocktail every now and then.
And of course, since they’re Italian, they know exactly what wine to pair with what kind of meal. If there’s one thing I have learned from my brief time here in Italy, it’s that even when money is tight, Italians don’t skimp on the quality of their diet.
They might skip buying a new dress or a new car, but they always eat like kings.
And I can certainly appreciate that.
As I’m digging into a plate of pasta, the family starts sharing stories about what Bruno was like as a young boy. Apparently, he got into trouble in school—a lot. Not for anything too criminal, but he was very energetic and prone to pranking people.
“One time, he put a cricket in his teacher’s purse,” Mrs. Lomaglio says, clucking her tongue. “The poor woman almost had a heart attack right there in the middle of class.”
“Oh, that’s awful,” I laugh, playfully hitting Bruno on the arm. He shrugs, looking a little sheepish as he reaches for another scoop of pasta.
“She was awful. She used to make me write with my right hand even though I’m left-handed. Anytime I would go back to using my left hand, she would slap my wrist with a ruler!” he says defensively. “She was my least favorite teacher.”
“Oh, was that Maestra Mancini?” Domenica asks, wrinkling her nose.
“Yes!” Bruno exclaims. “Don’t tell me you had to deal with her, too. How old is that woman? Is she still teaching?”
“Ugh, she was my least favorite teacher, too. And yes, she’s probably still teaching now. I don’t think that woman will ever die. She’s immortal,” Domenica giggles.
“That’s not nice,” her mother scolds, though I can tell she’s fighting a smile.
“Bruno was such a troublemaker. So much energy. Always falling out of trees and catching little animals. Do you remember when you brought home that turtle?” Mr. Lomaglio says.
Bruno chuckles. “Yeah, of course. I loved that little guy.”
“What was his name again?” his mother asks.
“Baffo,” Bruno answers, laughing. “I kept him in a cardboard box with plants I picked inside it. I had the hardest time trying to figure out what to feed him without asking you and having you find out I was hiding a turtle in my room.”
“I don’t remember that,” Domenica says, frowning.
“You were just a baby back then,” Bruno says. “I think that might have been why I thought I could get away with it—Mama and Papa were too busy taking care of you to notice me sneaking food out of the pantry to feed to Baffo.”
“Oh, but I did find him,” Mrs. Lomaglio says, rolling her eyes. “By accident. I was cleaning your room one day, looking for your soccer jersey while you were at school, when I tripped over that cardboard box and out came Baffo. I screamed so loud the neighbors called the police, remember?”
“They called me, too. They thought someone had broken into the house,” Mr. Lomaglio says, shaking his head and grinning. “I rushed home from work only to find my wife, baby, two policemen, and a turtle in my living room. I have never been so relieved and confused in my life.”
“Oh, I bet you were in big trouble when you got home from school,” I remark to Bruno.
“I don’t think I was allowed to play outside for a week,” he says.
“Served you right for scaring me so much,” his mother chuckles.
“I think Baffo was probably much happier as a free turtle than living in a cardboard box in my bedroom, anyway,” Bruno admits, grinning.
“Oh!” I exclai
m suddenly, putting my hands on my stomach. There’s a weird sensation in my belly, something bigger than just butterflies, bigger than just nausea. I look over at Bruno, who’s looking at me with concern. A smile jumps to my face. “I think the baby just kicked!”
Mrs. Lomaglio gasps and comes rushing over, with her husband and daughter trailing after her, all of them eager to put their hands on my stomach in case it happens again.
“Maybe it’s a sign that the baby wants to be called Baffo,” Domenica giggles.
“I don’t think that’s on our shortlist of names,” Bruno says, laughing.
We wait quietly, patiently for a few minutes. Every one of them has a hand on my barely-protruding stomach. At first, I think it might have been a fluke, just indigestion or something. But then—it happens again! Everyone gasps, and Mrs. Lomaglio almost starts to cry with happiness.
“This is a cause for celebration!” she declares, rushing off to the kitchen and emerging again with a plate of sweet pastries.
I have no idea how this woman cooks and bakes so much all the time. She’s like a machine. But we all gladly partake of the sweets, gushing to each other about how excited we are for the baby.
I know it will be awhile, but I’m already so excited to meet this kid, no matter how crazy the world around us may be.
After dinner, we help Mrs. Lomaglio tidy up, and then head off to bed. I fall asleep smiling, lying next to the man I love, the man I thought I lost, who came back to me by a miracle.
I dream the same dreams I’ve been having for the past few months—Bruno, the baby, and me, living happily together in a cozy house. Just doing the dishes together, cooking dinner together, spending time in each other’s company like we should be.
And when I wake up early the next morning, I trot out to the porch to watch the bees and butterflies flitting around in the garden. The plants are all growing high and healthy, ready for the harvest. It’s a modest life the Lomaglios lead out here, but they’re comfortable. They’re happy.
They don’t have much beyond the necessities, but they eat well, they’re as healthy as can be considering the parents’ ages and Domenica’s illness. They love each other unabashedly, and they spend their days in quiet joy, especially now that Bruno is here.
I can’t help but think about how much I envy them. This simple, humble, beautiful life they lead out here in the Apulian countryside—it’s like a dream.
I imagine what it would be like for Bruno and I to live this way. To find a little house of our own in the golden hills, plant a garden, grow some of our own food and go to the farmer’s market or the grocery store for the rest. Eat wholesome, delicious, lovingly-cooked food. Watch the sunrises and sunsets together. Drink wine. Eat cheese and fruit. Drive down the winding roads and find new places to kiss each other under the bright blue sky.
It’s everything I never knew I wanted. Maybe it’s not the most exciting way to live, but when I really think about it, I’ve probably had enough excitement to last me a lifetime.
I just want to be comfortable and happy and surrounded by love—and I can’t imagine a better place for our little baby to grow up. Especially with Bruno’s family so close by. It just seems perfect.
After the sun rises, Bruno joins me on the porch, kissing me on the cheek and wishing me a good morning. I’m just about to tell him about my dream, about how wonderful it would be to stay here and build a life together—when my phone suddenly buzzes in my lap. I pick it up and read the text message I’ve just received.
And immediately, an alarm bell starts sounding off in my head.
Something is wrong. Very, very wrong.
13
Bruno
“What’s the matter?” I ask, stepping forward to her, reading the concern and confusion written on her face. “Did you get some news from back home?”
“I...I don’t know,” she says, glancing up at me. “It’s a message from my mom. But it’s just an X.” She shakes her head, forcing a smile. “Never mind. It was probably just an accident. I’m jumping at shadows. It’s just kind of weird to hear from her. Feels like we’re in a whole different world all the way out here, and the past few weeks have been so crazy that it feels a lot longer than it has been.”
I’m not entirely convinced that’s all that bothers Serena, but I don’t want to push her, so with a raised eyebrow I nod, then soften my expression into a smile and come to give her a hug as she puts her phone away.
“That’s understandable. You’ve been through a lot. Give it some time, and everything will settle down in your mind—a clear head is important in times like this.”
She nods, taking those words to reassure herself as much as I try to reassure her. “Right.” Brushing a strand of hair out of her face, she flutters her eyes up at me. “So, what’s the plan for today?”
“Besides the massive breakfast that’s about to start smelling heavenly inside?” I say, nodding back to the house, where I can see the silhouettes of my parents through the reflective glass moving around in the kitchen.
“Right, assuming I survive another feast,” she says with a laugh, and I help her up to her feet, even though she doesn’t need it.
“I convinced them to hold back from cooking dinner for us again so we could get out for a little time to ourselves,” I say, holding her around the waist and beaming down at her. “I found out that an old friend of mine opened a restaurant in town, so we need to get down there and see whether it’s bad enough that I can give him a hard time.”
“Don’t!” she laughs, slapping me on the chest before I scoop her into a hug, chuckling and peppering her cheek with kisses. “Seriously, be nice! Let’s not accidentally make any rivals while we’re here.”
“I’m kidding—he was this big musclebound oaf back in the day, so it’s funny to see him running a little restaurant now. But he’s a good man,” I say, giving her a light squeeze.
“Sounds like you,” she says with a teasing quirk of an eyebrow.
“Exactly, which is why I’m sure it will be the best pasta you’ve ever had. But that doesn’t mean I won’t make fun of him while I have the chance.”
Later that day, my old friend doesn’t prove me wrong.
The little restaurant he inherited from his father is on a plaza in one of the villages nearby, and it’s a cozy hole in the wall that tourists usually wouldn’t notice unless they knew what to look for. There are about ten tables in the place—not too shabby for this area. The floors are old, dark wood, and there are pictures from local history and important people all around the walls, along with a fireplace toward the back.
“This place is cozy,” Serena remarks as we sit at one of the little tables, watching a few more people trickle in for dinnertime. It’s a mix of younger people like us on romantic dates and older couples who are probably regulars or friends of the family—that’s how places like this stay open.
“The family always did have an eye for interior design, as much as you can call it that around here,” I say, beaming around the place.
She casts a look toward the kitchen, then whispers to me, “You don’t think we’re crowding the place, do you?” She tears off a piece of the tough bread that’s been laid in front of us. “We ordered our food more than half an hour ago.”
“That’s normal, I promise,” I say after taking a drink of the soda in front of me. If Serena isn’t drinking, I’d rather not either, despite my friend’s insistence that he give us a bottle of some of his oldest wine. “Service times in Italy are nothing like they are back in the USA. It’s something you just...get used to. Kind of like how lunch and dinner can be all-day events, you usually go to a restaurant expecting to just sit around and talk for a long time before anything else happens.”
She looks thoughtful for a few moments, then nods slowly. “Okay, I get it. I don’t know if I like it yet, but I get it,” she adds with a playful smile, and I grin, crossing my legs with hers under the table.
“I think it’s more relaxed,” I say
with a shrug of my shoulders. “I always felt rushed in places in America, but you know, the country’s changing. Who knows what it’ll be like a few years from now.”
“Maybe more than that, down here,” she points out.
I nod, looking around at the old building. “A great deal more than that, true.”
Before much longer, though, our food arrives, and we start eating—and I’m proud to see that my friend hasn’t made a liar of me. Serena eats the food ravenously, giving me a thumbs-up between mouthfuls of pasta.
She’s having orecchiette alle cime di rapa, to be precise. It’s a traditional southern dish made with pan-fried broccoli, anchovies, chili, and garlic. A little unusual for the American tastes, but Serena seems to be appreciating it without hesitation.
It makes me happy to see her taken care of like this. I worry sometimes that all the stress of running around so much will wear on her, but she seems to have more energy than ever. And as my old friend cleans the bar up at the counter, he gives me a knowing grin with a glance to Serena when she’s not looking.
I smirk and wave him off, and Serena looks up at me, wiping her mouth with her napkin.
“What?”
“Nothing,” I say with a chuckle, “just old friends teasing me.” I give her a once-over and add, “You make a good impression around here.”
That makes her blush, and she shoves more food into her mouth to avoid acknowledging the fact that she’s the most beautiful woman in the whole village.
But as the dinner goes on and we get closer to the end of our plates, Serena takes her phone out and sets it on the side of the table, periodically checking it.
I ignore it at first, but once it’s out and on the table, I notice that Serena’s demeanor seems to have taken an anxious turn. In fact, she’s seemed a little tense all day—the easy going, loving energy between us so far has seemed muted ever since she got that message in the morning.
Bound in Love Page 12