He put his finger underneath the strap of my dress and tugged it off my shoulder. He kissed down my neck. Then my other strap. He turned me around and kissed down the back of my neck. It was like a feather being skimmed over my skin. Incredible. Teasing. It felt like the room was spinning.
I heard the zzzzhhhhh of the zip and felt the dress go slack. I breathed out as it fell. His hands moved to my chest where the dress had been holding in my breasts. His palms against me, against my nipples, making me moan. He pulled me back against him and I could feel him through the fabric of his rented suit pants. I reached around and fumbled with his belt. He moved my hands aside to do it himself and I heard the pants fall to the floor on top of my dress. I turned around and cupped his face in my hands before pulling him to me and kissing him hard.
My Alex.
He was standing in shirt, tie, socks, and underwear. I yanked at his tie and he unbuttoned his shirt like the thing was on fire. My breasts brushed against his chest and he groaned through our kiss. He pulled at the side of my underpants, then crouched down to drag them down my legs. I stepped out of them as he pressed his face against me. I’d never felt anything like it before. My whole body seemed to crumple in on itself, and then I was on top of him and he was underneath me on that linoleum floor and we didn’t care.
His underwear got caught on him. He sat up and maneuvered them off, then patted around on the floor till he found a small packet. I watched as he put the condom on, his hands shaking, but he was quick, as if he’d practiced.
We both paused, as if the floor was going to fall through. This moment we’d been thinking about for so long. Planning. The room came back into focus; tea-lights, like a thousand stars, white flames flickering around us. Alex, in the shadow of the bathtub, his face pink and his eyes wide.
He inched inside me, slowly, slowly. It hurt, but not as much as Janet Longhurst had said it would, and then it felt good. It felt good that Alex was groaning and saying, “I love you. Oh, God, I love you. Oh, God.”
I blinked fast in the darkness, noticing every sensation. My knees against the linoleum, the cool air grazing my nipples, Alex’s fingertips pressed into my buttocks.
He grasped hold of my hips and moved me back and forth until I got the hang of it, and he was pressing himself up and into me. Faster and faster.
“Oh, Frankie . . .”
His whole body went rigid, his breath caught in his throat. Tea-lights twitched. Then I felt him shudder beneath me and his head tipped back. His body seemed to slump.
I lay down on him, all of my skin against all of his, and he kissed my forehead.
“Was it okay?” I whispered.
“Yes. God, yes.” Another kiss. He was holding me to him, his arms looped across my bare back. “Are you . . . all right?”
“Yeah. Yeah, I’m good.”
I kissed him and felt a smile on my face. It felt like he was still inside me; I could feel him in the muscle, in the tissue. I ached, but it wasn’t bad.
Alex sat up a bit, took off the condom as I glanced away. I crawled off of him and he stood to check the bathwater. My knees were pink. He pulled the plug to let out some water, and then got in, carefully holding my hand. He bent his legs so we could both fit, and we sat, one at each end, smiling at each other.
“We did it, Frankie.”
I stared at him, smiling, and then at the water and the lights swimming on its surface. I begged my brain to remember it all and never, ever forget.
Affogato
ESPRESSO AND ICE CREAM
The word affogato means “drowned” in Italian because the ice cream is drenched in espresso.
Serves 4
Good-quality vanilla ice cream
4 shots (about 3/4 cup) hot, strong espresso
OPTIONAL EXTRAS:
Good-quality dark chocolate (broken into pieces then stirred into the hot espresso so it melts)
Frangelico (a nip added to each serving)
Whipped cream (a tablespoon on top of each serving)
Amaretti cookies (1 cookie crumbled on top of each serving)
PREPARATION
Scoop a generous serving of ice cream into small bowls or glasses. Pour a shot (about 3 tablespoons) espresso over each. Add the extras of your choice.
Chapter Five
• • • •
Papa is outside, waiting in one of the chairs, when I get up in the morning. He’s a small man, bald, with sagging cheeks and round glasses. He lifts his hand in a wave when I walk out to greet him. His fingertips are stained black from his work as a mechanic.
“Principessa,” he says.
“Hey, Papa. Daniel told you I was here?”
He nods. I sit beside him and he smiles at me.
I had been living with Papa for two weeks before the funeral. He insisted on sleeping on the couch, waking before I did every morning and making me coffee. As the days slid by and fell over one another like skittles, Papa stopped just short of dressing me and propping me up on the couch before he left for work.
Papa works for his brother Mario, and even if Zio Mario had insisted he take time off to be with me, which, let’s be honest, is unlikely, Papa wouldn’t have. He takes his work seriously. I’ve never figured out if it’s an immigrant work ethic or just the way he’s made. Perhaps both.
He reaches out for my hand now, and frowns. “I can’t stay too long, duci.”
“It’s okay, Papa. I know.”
I give his hand a squeeze. I’m willing to endure a little loneliness for the solitude and peace, for the distance from the empty shirts hanging in the closet.
Papa glances around, up into the trees, at the sunlight falling like confetti through the tiny gaps. He looks out of place here, with his leather shoes and pressed, short-sleeved shirt. We never went camping as children.
“Have you enough food?” he asks.
I nod. I don’t mention Bella.
“I didn’t want to think of you hungry. You are eating, aren’t you?”
I nod, and watch his chest fall with relief. Grieve, wallow, sleep till noon, tear your hair out by the roots if you have to, but mio Dio, don’t stop eating.
“Good . . . good,” he murmurs, and glances at the forest again, the cabin.
I know he will report back to the aunties. He will tell them I’m fine, that I’m taking a little break and will be home soon. That the cabin is very nice and trim and well cared for. He may even tell them it’s more modern than he imagined, and won’t check inside in case this is a lie. He doesn’t lie well to his sisters. He looks towards the outhouse and away quickly. He won’t tell them about that. He’ll tell them about the food, tell them I’m eating. I’m glad I’m not still wearing my black dress and the boots I found in the closet.
“Bella came,” he says, a little like a question, more of a statement.
I shrug, thinking of her on the step. Cropped hair, long skirt, skin the color of espresso crema.
“Do you want coffee?” I offer, remembering my pot and grinds, wanting to change the subject.
Papa frowns but indulges me. “No, I should go soon. I just wanted to see you for myself. Bring you some things. Mario will be expecting me. I shouldn’t be late.”
Papa is never late. Like me. Not like Bella.
“I will come back again soon, to see you are okay.”
“Thanks, Papa.”
He stands from his chair. “It’s a nice little cabin,” he says, gesturing to it.
“It was Alex’s great-grandfather’s.”
Papa cocks his head. “Do the Gardners, Barbara and Marshall, know you are here?”
“Daniel does. They’re not using it.”
Papa’s question makes my stomach jump a little. I can’t go back to the apartment yet.
“No,” he says, reassuring, giving me a smile. “You just have a little rest, Francesca, and come home when you are ready. Vincenzo has his birthday in a couple of weeks. You remember?”
“Of course,” I say, though I’d forg
otten. I can’t plan beyond each day, sometimes each hour. That my cousin is turning twenty-two is of no interest to me. He is closer in age and personality to Bella. Alex never thought very highly of him.
Papa’s face registers relief at my lie. It has been hard enough having one daughter who doesn’t come to family functions, let alone two. That makes me think of Bella. I spent years making up for her absence. She’s home now; she can go to Cousin Vinnie’s birthday party. She can make a dish the size of a side table—meatballs and sarsa semplice, or something sweet like ricotta cheesecake with chocolate and cream and glacé cherries—and kiss cheeks and fill the family in on her life.
“Your sister is staying a little while,” Papa says.
“Uh-huh?” I try to sound casual, though it comes out waspish. “How long?”
“I don’t know, cara mia.” He presses his lips together, pauses. “I think she would really like to talk to you.”
“Uh-huh,” I say again, looking at the ground. “Will you tell Aunty Rosa thank you for the cannoli?”
“Francesca?”
“It was very kind of her and—”
“Francesca, will you talk to her?”
I fold my arms across my chest.
“You should give her a chance.”
“You give her enough chances for the both of us,” I want to say. And, “You don’t know.” Instead I keep my mouth shut.
“Well,” Papa says with a little sigh.
We walk to his car, which he’s parked quite a way up the drive, as though he didn’t want to wake me with the sound of the engine. I wish I’d put on the boots now; the roots and stones press into my feet.
“Do you want me to call the council?” Papa asks. “Mrs. . . .?”
“Fratelli,” I answer softly.
My work. The tiny cubicle with pinboard partitions around three sides, making a little fortress. I’ve been there for years—working earnestly; complaining about my boss, my colleagues, and the bureaucracy; going to the office Christmas parties; fighting off lecherous Darren Forthe like most of the other admin girls, bar Bertha Robinson who’s in her fifties and has a fine, dark mustache that seems to catch the light; poring over Christal’s wedding photos and Amy’s baby photos; pondering which skirt to wear with which shoes; dreading Mondays and celebrating Fridays. Now it all seems pointless.
“Yes, please,” I finally answer.
I realize I don’t care if they keep my job open for me or not, though I’ll have to figure out how to pay our rent at some point. Have to return to the city someday. Not now. It’s best not to think too far ahead, lest I notice the large and terrible Alex-shaped hole punched into every day.
“Okay, I’ll call,” Papa says gently. He gives me a firm kiss on my cheek and draws me into a long hug, pats my back. “I’ll be back soon, darling.”
“Thank you, Papa.”
* * *
I make myself a breakfast of fruit and a half container of yogurt, wish for honey, and top it with pine nuts. I get dressed in my jeans and sneakers and stare at The Swiss Family Robinson, drum my fingers on the little table and glance out the window. Then I slip the door key into my pocket and go out for a walk.
I avoid the path to the ocean, the thought of it causing my heart to race; instead I head in the opposite direction. It’s the way that Huia went, but there isn’t a clear path, just ferns and shrubs around knee height to negotiate. I amble along, not caring if I get lost, listening to birds singing both warnings and love songs.
Only a few weeks ago, Alex and I were working on our wedding vows. We’d left them to the last minute, after selecting flowers and napkins, after picking up the rings, after organizing where his aunt Elizabeth and uncle John would stay the night. The wedding had become a kind of job. I was sitting at the table with a pen and paper; Alex was slumped on the couch. I had to beg his attention while he watched end-of-season ice hockey on TV.
“We can go with the traditional version—love, honor, and obey—though I’m not sure about ‘obey.’ Do you think it’s a bit . . . old-fashioned?”
“Hmmm?”
“Obey, as in ‘love, honor, and obey’—is it outdated?”
“Nah, I like it. Bring me some chips?”
“Huh?”
“Chips. I need potato chips. Obeying should start now.” He threw his head back and laughed.
I frowned. “You’re not taking this seriously.”
I flicked through the papers on the table. I’d printed out several versions of vows I’d found online. I’d thought it would be an easy decision but there were so many options. Some more religious than others; some funny and lighthearted; some till-death-do-us-part serious. I plucked out a relatively nonoffensive version and scanned the words.
Alex lifted himself from the couch and walked behind me to the kitchen. I heard him open a packet of potato chips and then he was standing over me, his hand rustling in the bag. “Let’s have a look.”
He leaned over my shoulder and I smelled the salt on his fingers as he placed his hand on the table. His cheek was close to mine, his jaw working noisily. He read and then straightened.
“Well?” I said.
He shrugged. “Looks fine.” He headed to the couch and settled back to the game.
“You’ve got to help me,” I whined.
“They’re fine,” he said again, halfheartedly. “Just choose whichever one you like, Frankie. You know me; I’ll say whatever you want. It doesn’t matter.”
I stood and went to the couch, took a deep breath. Tried not to be too Italian. Too dramatic. “It does matter.”
It mattered because you have to mean what you say, especially in church. Though I’d said all sorts of things in church I might not have meant, made promises I hadn’t even thought about. No sex before marriage, for one.
I softened my tone. “Is there anything you don’t want to say?”
He shrugged again. “I don’t know. I mean . . . do you really want to know?”
“Yes.”
“Okay. All that forever stuff . . . it just seems so . . .”
“So . . .?”
“It’s not realistic, is it? Forever. What does that even mean?”
“Forever? Forever means you’ll love me forever,” I said.
He glanced at me, then put his hand back into the bag, popped chips into his mouth. He swallowed before answering. “Isn’t it actually impossible? Who can promise forever?”
“I can promise forever.” I felt my throat tightening. “You can’t promise forever?”
I tried to keep my voice even. I had other things to get done before the wedding, a thousand things. Aunty Connie hadn’t finished stitching the beading on the bodice of my dress and I couldn’t ask anyone else to do it or she’d be offended. Mrs. Gardner was asking, again, about the food, wondering whether it was a little too exotic for the guests she’d invited. And I hadn’t heard from Bella at all. A sister was supposed to help with this stuff. A sister was supposed to be forever. Forever, like a husband. I tried not to start crying.
Alex frowned, unconcerned. “It’s not about me. It’s the concept. Forever. Who can promise that?”
The lump in my throat seemed to expand till I felt like I couldn’t swallow. Tears pricked at my eyes. “Bedda Matri,” I swore under my breath, sounding like one of the aunties, wishing the tears away.
Alex looked at me with alarm. “Oh, Frankie, I didn’t mean . . .” He sat up and pulled me to him.
I was angry at the falling tears. The wedding was much more work than I’d expected. The girls at work had warned me, but I hadn’t believed them. How could it be, when in their photos they’d all looked so beautiful, so radiant, so happy? Besides, I was organized; it would be different for me. My wedding would be a piece of cake.
Unbidden tears continued to pour out of me. I swore at them again. Alex was shushing and cradling me.
“We’ll go with those vows. It’s okay. I didn’t mean to upset you. Hey, don’t cry.”
I tried to
stop but the tears just keep coming.
Alex brushed them away with his thumb. “Don’t cry, baby.”
I sniffed, drew in a deep breath. The roar of the hockey crowd distracted us for a moment; we watched as the puck flew into the goal and the players swooped around the ice raising their sticks, grasping each other in clumsy, padded embraces.
Alex pulled me close and whispered, “I’m sorry. We can have whichever vows you like, okay? Whatever you want.” He planted a kiss on my forehead.
“But you don’t want . . . forever. . . .”
“Don’t listen to me. I’m no good with this stuff. You know that. You choose, Frankie, I’ll say whatever you want. Forever and ever and ever and ever, amen.” He looked into my face and winked. “Love you.” He kissed me.
I wiped my face and pulled away from him a little. I wasn’t going to be “that girl,” the needy one, the whining one. I just wanted the day to be here right now. To be standing in my dress, to have Alex looking at me like he was now. To be saying “I do” and becoming Mrs. Gardner.
“Whatever you want, babe, truly,” he said again.
We both looked back to the game. I broke my pre-wedding diet and took a handful of chips. The grease and crunch of them, salt rough against my tongue, was somehow soothing. I curled up against Alex’s shoulder and he wrapped his arm around me. I would be Mrs. soon enough. I’d waited for this and nothing was going to spoil it. I changed the subject.
“When we get married I’ll be a Gardner.”
“Too right, babe.”
“People won’t know I’m Italian,” I murmured.
Alex nodded, but his eyes were following the puck. “That’s good, right? You always say people judge you when they see your name.”
“I guess.”
“You can be American.”
“Yeah.”
The opposing team scored a goal. Alex smacked the side of the couch and I reached for more chips.
I pause, blinking, coming back to the present. The memory leaves me feeling a little sick. I almost hope to feel a ghost arm around me, but there’s nothing other than the breeze.
* * *
Season of Salt and Honey Page 5