Lavender and Parsley

by Lisa K Nakamura

  I enter town, warmly greeting my neighbors as I walk the cobble-stoned streets. I enter the trattoria where I work, ready for the day’s activities. Mario, the owner, welcomes me with a huge smile, saying, “Buon giorno, mi amico! Let’s get this day started, eh?”

  On warm days, I drag out tables, chairs and umbrellas to the restaurant’s deck for al fresco dining. When the weather is too cold for this, I sweep out the fireplace in the dining room, stacking fresh logs ready to start a cozy fire. I mop the dining room floor, and then clean off the front steps. I water and prune the potted plants and flowers gracing the entryway. My last chore: to open the shutters and let the day’s sunshine saturate the room.

  By then, deliveries have arrived, ready and waiting for my attention. I find the motion of putting things in their proper place to be soothing. Next, I scrub potatoes, measure out flour and crack eggs for the gnocchi. I peel onions and carrots, mince garlic, and tear basil into fragrant shreds. I wash any dishes accumulating beside the sink. My busy body keeps my mind from dwelling too much on Elizabeth, but she’s there. She’s always there.

  Mario’s trattoria is a favorite with locals and tourists alike. Every day at lunch, the dining room fills quickly. Soon, the chatter of voices mixes with the aroma of tomatoes, wine and fresh bread. Mario comes out from the kitchen to greet his guests, playing the role of jovial Italian chef to perfection.

  At four in the afternoon, when Mario closes for the mid-day break, I help clean up the restaurant, finish the last tasks he assigns me, and then sit down for lunch. It’s always a delectable dish of pasta, a heavenly slice of bread, and in the summer, freshly sliced tomatoes enhanced with a drizzle of locally pressed virgin olive oil. Mario joins me, and we share a glass of wine in camaraderie.

  Two years ago, when I knocked on the backdoor of the restaurant and asked Mario for a job, he didn’t say a word. He just ushered me into the kitchen and gave me an apron. He never asked me why I volunteered to work in his kitchen, why I never cash the paychecks he diligently writes me each month. He knows that by being here working as she would have done, I am closer to Elizabeth. I hear her humming in my ear as I go about my tasks. I know she giggles when she sees my clumsy knife skills. I feel her joy, knowing I am working in our favorite restaurant, sharing with her what she did every day for so long.

  When I return home, I say hello to her. “Hello, my dear. I’m home. Did you have a good day?” She answers by gently making the light bulb sway in the front hall. I also feel Lou-Lou rub against my leg, even though my faithful feline friend has been gone for eight years. Claudia meows in protest, leaping onto the dining table, looking for her dinner.

  Maybe these are just imaginings of a lonely old man, but they give me comfort. I once told Elizabeth I used to see my parents’ ghosts after they passed. I think now my house has more shades than living creatures in it, which suits me just fine.

  The daylight is completely gone now, and I hear the owls and toads start their night chorus. I toddle off to bed, where Claudia find her spot and curls up on my pillow. As I close my eyes, I whisper to Elizabeth, “Visit me in my dreams tonight, Dear One.”

  I hear the soft keening of the wind as it rushes up the bluff to greet us. The light from the sun illuminates each strand of Elizabeth’s hair, turning some a warm brown and giving others a russet tinge. She is resting her head on my shoulder as we peer side-by-side over the bluff’s edge to the river wending its way below us. Behind us are the ancient buildings and twisted alleys of Toledo. She is silent, but I can feel her vibrant aura of peace and contentment.

  We stand there together, quietly. It could be minutes or it could be hours. This is an oft-recurring dream I have and each time, it always ends too quickly, always in the same way. She reaches over, tells me she’ll see me again and then disappears. I wake up each time joyful to have seen her, but also despairing it was only my dream.

  From a distance, I hear the ticking of the clock, and then the clang as the hour strikes five in the morning. I am loathe to leave this dream world, to leave her trapped in it, but as I stretch and push sleep away, I hear her say, “See, I may be dead, but I’m still here.”

  I smile. I slip out of bed and shuffle into my slippers, heading into the kitchen where I put the kettle on. There, I smile to myself and tell her, “Thank you.”

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Darcy

  Vintage

  I pull open the blinds, letting the sun enter to warm the terra cotta floor. Claudia meows once, and then hops onto the windowsill to bask in the early morning rays. I reach down and rub her fluffy belly, rewarded by her love nip of my fingers.

  The sun chases away the night, the purple pockets in the landscape turning ochre and golden. The grape vines around our home are a riotous green with infant clusters of fruit sprouting everywhere. I need to prune the vines back today, an activity I add this to my mental list of daily chores.

  The vines were nearly barren when we bought this farm. Years of neglect had left the branches overgrown and under-pruned, suffocating under their own weight. Any fruit managing to form was sour and puny. Elizabeth took the pruning shears to the vines with a vengeance, practically beating them into submission. That first fall and winter, our fires crackled with an over-abundance of dead grape vines and dry branches.

  Elizabeth’s exertions paid off the following spring with vigorous but controlled grape canes. She let the vines struggle for water, and then carefully clipped away excess bunches of fruit and shading leaves. She even tried the bio-dynamic tradition of burying a cow horn filled with dung because she said it couldn’t hurt. Our harvest that year was of excellent quality, ready to become wine. Maybe that cow horn did its work.

  When the first blush of veraison, ripening, of the grapes appeared, Elizabeth would examine the clusters of fruit morning and night, reporting back to me each minuscule change in coloration. Her enthusiasm was contagious, and soon she had me walking along the vines with her at dusk. Wine glasses in hand, we would peer at our impending harvest, inspecting the clusters for readiness.

  Make our own wine we did, but calling the first few vintages unpalatable would be a kindness. Even when Elizabeth turned the results into vinegar, the liquid left much to be desired. With practice, we became better at it. Finally, in our fifth year of trying, we produced one precious barrel. We guarded it religiously, using it as our nightstand, it until we deemed it worthy to tap.

  The most important thing for Elizabeth in our little piece of Italy stands regally in one corner of our olive grove. It is a 2,000-year-old olive tree. Gnarled, twisted and weathered with wisdom, this tree cast its ancient spell on Elizabeth. On many a hot afternoon, I would find her sitting in the hammock under its sheltering arms, writing furiously in her notebook. She christened the tree Lilith, after Adam’s first wife who refused to be cowed by him.

  Lilith was not as fecund as our younger trees, but to make up for her limited harvest, the olives she did produce resulted in especially aromatic oil. We brined and preserved the younger trees’ fruit for eating. We reserved Lilith’s yield solely for the exquisite oil we squeezed from the olives.

  I still harvest the olives from Lilith and her daughters, although I am not as agile as I once was. I now enlist the help of Romio, a youth from the village, to help me shake the trees and carrying their fruit to the crushing vat.

  When I stand under Lilith, I smell the fruity greenness of her leaves and touch her rough bark with reverence. This tree has so much wisdom to share. I hope she will live a thousand more years. Sometimes on windless days, a cluster of olives will fall at my feet. When this happens, I know it’s Elizabeth, celebrating Lilith’s beauty and bounty with me.

  Chapter Forty

  Darcy

  Generations

  Today is Friday, mail day. I stop by the post office to collect the week’s mail. It’s usually not much; a few fliers for ristorantes in the area, my utility bill, maybe an occasional note from my accountant or lawyer.

  R
oberta, the friendly mail clerk, hands me two envelopes. The first is from the doctor in Florence I went to see last week. The second is a blue airmail envelope.

  I step into the neighboring bar and order my usual macchiato. As Antonio pulls the espresso shot, I make my way over to one of the tall tables, setting down the two envelopes .

  I open the letter from my doctor first. I am not expecting good news and, as anticipated, he has none to impart. The lump I’ve felt on my neck is malignant. He recommends I return immediately to discuss treatment options. I noticed the lump a year after Elizabeth died. I put off going to the doctor until now, not anxious to confirm my suspicions. I won’t be going in to discuss options with him. I have no intention of having my last years prolonged painfully by chemicals and radiation. I would rather enjoy the time fully, and then move on. The doctor writes that without treatment, he gives me six months or so to live. This makes me happy. Six more months until I can see Elizabeth again.

  The blue envelope has no return address. Antonio places my coffee in front of me while I carefully pry this envelope open. This letter is from Laura, Emily’s daughter.

  I use only snail mail now. After Elizabeth died, I cut off much of my contact with the rest of the world. I no longer have a computer or email. I have an antiquated landline that transmits static better than actual conversations. I am almost a hermit, shedding my attachments to the present world. I give scant attention to the bits and pieces of the outside world trickling in.

  I unfold the single page. It is hand-written, in exuberantly loopy cursive style. It reads:

  “Dear Uncle Peter,

  I hope this finds you well! I am writing to ask you if I can come and stay with you for a few months. Mom and I are arguing so much lately and I really need to get away! I hope this is okay with you. Since you don’t have email or a phone, I’m going to guess I’ll be on your doorstep before you have time to answer this.

  I’ll see you soon!

  Love,

  Laura

  P.S. I just talked with Denise and she’s coming with me!

  Laura Whitmore is Emily’s daughter. She’s twenty-years-old and is as rebellious as her mother once was. The last I heard from my sister, Laura was determined to join a rock-and-roll band, much to Emily’s dismay.

  Denise Bingley is Jane Murasaki Bingley’s daughter. She and Laura are only two months apart in age. Jane would like her daughter to use her intelligence and go to business school, but Denise has other things in mind. She wants to be a fashion designer.

  I again check the date of the letter. It was sent a week ago, which means the two girls are already on their way. What am I going to do with two young ladies on a small farm in the middle of the Tuscan countryside? I sigh inwardly, and then hear a faint ripple of laughter. It’s Elizabeth, taking delight my predicament.

  I head home, walking up the winding path through fields and vineyards. As I ascend the last few meters to the house, I see two young ladies sprawled indecorously beneath Lilith, their numerous suitcases cluttering the front steps.

  “Uncle Peter!” they exclaim, as they jump up and run towards me. Before I know what’s happening, I am being embraced by a cloud of vanilla and rose perfume and a tangle of arms.

  I pull back to look at each one of them. Laura is the spitting image of my mother. She’s tall, blonde, just like her mother. Even with her hair partially shaved on one side of her head, along with a death skull tattooed across the back of her neck, she radiates Anne William’s serene beauty.

  My breath catches as I look at Denise. She looks so much like Elizabeth. Yes, there are traces of Charles in her smile and in the constellation of freckles on her nose. She has Jane’s height, but her eyes, her hair and the impish arch of her eyebrows, those are all Elizabeth’s. If Elizabeth and I had ever had a living child, I know she would have looked like Denise. I wonder for a moment if the our two unborn babies have been mysteriously reincarnated as Denise.

  I stutter for a second, catch my breath, and then say, “Welcome to Villa Lavanda.” I open the front door and lead them into my simple house.

  The first and only time I’ve seen my nieces was when they were infants. All I know of them is what I’ve gleaned from letters, along with the annual holiday photograph their parents would send to us. I’ve never really spent time around children; I find myself unsure as how to proceed.

  Fortunately, Laura takes over. ”Look, Denise! A ladder!”

  “Be careful,” I caution them as they scamper up.

  “Uncle Peter, is this where Auntie Lizzy would write?” asks Denise.

  “Yes, that is your aunt’s study. She loved it there. See that picture? Your grandfather David Murasaki painted it when he was a teenager. It’s a landscape showing the beach near your great-grandfather’s farm on Bainbridge Island.

  “The futon over there on the chair was sewn by your grandmother, Karen Murasaki. Mr. Teddy was your aunt’s childhood toy.”

  “Can we sleep up here, please, oh, please, oh, please?” begs Laura.

  I hesitate for a moment, and then think that Elizabeth would love to have her alcove filled once again with their bright energy. “Of course, as long as you help me build a sturdier ladder to get up here. Deal?”

  “Deal!” they shout in unison.

  They race their way back downstairs, heading for the kitchen. When Laura asks where the fridge is, I point out a small cabinet hidden beside the sink. She looks surprised to see how tiny it is, and then gasps when she opens it. I keep almost nothing in the fridge except for a few chunks of cheese, a block of butter, and a pint of cream for Claudia.

  “Are you young ladies hungry?”

  “Of course, Uncle Peter! We’re always hungry!”

  “Then, I suggest we stop at the alimentari, grocery store, for supplies, and from there, head over to Mario’s for dinner. Would you like to do this?”

  They happily agree, and we make a raucous party as we walk back down into town. They latch their arms through mine, and I feel my loneliness ebbing away.

  When we enter Mario’s, he comes over to greet me. I introduce my nieces to him, and he urges us to sit at the best table by the window. A parade of food soon makes its way to our table. Panzanella, bread salad, rich with tomatoes and balsamic vinegar; thin slices of house-cured guanciale, cured pork jowl; fresh trout smothered with butter, basil and garlic; parppadelle con cinghialle, noodles with wild boar ragout; chewy bread adorned with thin slices of herb-aged lardo, lard. Laura and Denise quickly become favorites of Mario, as they devour everything he puts in front of them, exclaiming how delicious everything is.

  Dessert appears and they almost swoon. Fluffy tiramisu, decadently rich gelati and sorbetti, along with crescents of pisctacchio biscotti finish our dinner perfectly. Mario will not take payment from me. “Mi amico, you have worked for me for years, never taking a paycheck. I am so glad to see you with your family, to see you so happy again! Basta!”

  I thank Mario, assuring him I will be in the kitchen tomorrow morning. As we make our way back up the hill, the sun has disappeared, making the sky fade to a rich cobalt blue.

  I pour three glasses of wine for us, and we sit under Lilith, citronella candles keeping hungry insects at bay.

  “So, why are you two here, really?” I ask.

  Laura starts. “You know Mum can sing, it was her thing. But she’s been pushing me to be more practical. She wants me to go to an Ivy League college, to earn a fancy degree in law or something. All I want to do is sing. I’ve been in this band for two years and now have the chance to tour with them. I told Mum about this, and she went batshit crazy!”

  “Ah,” I intone. “I see. You’re angry at her for denying you the very thing she once wanted to do, to sing professionally.”

  “It’s not fair! I have this awesome voice because of her, and yet she won’t let me use it!”

  “And you, Denise?”

  “Dad and Mom are always just so happy. I’ve no complaints there. But Mom wants me to go to
college, to study business. They want me to take over their wine business when they retire. I just don’t want to do that. I want to design clothes. I want make clothes for women, beautiful clothes to make them feel powerful. I don’t know why I need to study business for that!”

  As I listen to Denise, I am struck by again by how much she resembles Elizabeth in her appearance and temperament.

  “So, why did you come here, precisely?”

  “Because you’re the farthest away we could escape from our parents. Plus, we figured they would trust you. They wouldn’t freak out and send out a search party if we were living with you.”

  “I see. All right. You can stay here for three months only. I expect you both to help keep this house clean, to obey my curfews. No entertaining here, no drugs, no pets; Claudia wouldn’t like it. You will help in the garden, with the harvest and wine making. Also with the cooking and laundry. Is this a deal?”

  Laura and Denise look at each other, grin, and then say enthusiastically, “Yes, sir, Uncle Peter!”

  As the deep blue night settles around us on the hillside, I can hear them whispering together up in the loft. Gradually their voices grow fainter, and then eventually are quiet. Finally, the only sound is that of deep breathing.

  Below, I turn again in bed. I quiet myself so she can talk to me.

  “Peter, aren’t they marvelous? Denise is especially like me. Watching her and Laura together is like looking back at Jane and me. Oh, I’m so glad you’re letting them stay with you.”

  “Elizabeth, it’s only for three months. Then, they have to go back to Seattle and settle their differences with their parents and figure out the next steps in their life paths. Besides, the doctor thinks I have less than a year left.”