by Prosecco
‘I thought we could show Antonio the shop today. He hasn’t seen anything yet. It could be a grand unveiling.’ Salvatore’s smile was hopeful, not cocky. He really wanted me there. And, of course, I wanted to see Antonio’s face, wanted to explain the new system to him, tell him which things we had sold already. I was proud of what we had accomplished, I wanted to be there.
‘Okay, just let me have a quick shower, and I’ll be right down.’
‘Here,’ Salvatore said, handing me a takeaway cup. ‘I brought you a coffee. Might be a bit on the warm—’
‘Perfect for drinking after a run, then! Thank you.’ I smiled, and sprinted up the stairs. Even looking at him made me feel uncomfortable and trembly. I had given myself away, and I had to make a decision. Kiss him again in the daylight, sober and in control, or pretend it was a drunken mistake?
I showered and towel-dried my hair quickly, pulling it into a thick side plait. Another light dress to show off my ever-increasing tan. I wanted to look like a local, rather than a tourist. I wanted people to talk to me in Italian, mistake me for part of the scenery.
I took a little extra time on my mascara, putting on powder to lower the redness on my nose. I paused, holding up a lipstick, before placing it back on the table.
I guess I’d made my decision.
I took a sip of my coffee and pounded down the stairs, reaching out a hand to Salvatore. ‘Okay, let’s go.’
His smile was blinding.
‘Okay, ciao.’
My aunt grinned at him, fluttering her fingertips as we left. Nikki looked a little less thrilled, more concerned. I mouthed, ‘It’s okay!’ but she still looked at me like she wasn’t sure what I was doing. That made two of us.
Salvatore still held my hand as we walked down to the water.
‘So, thanks for the coffee—’
He kissed me, pulling me close. It was dizzying, and took me a moment to recover, catch my breath.
‘You’re welcome,’ he grinned, kissing me again.
I remembered this feeling, from a lifetime ago. Those nervous butterflies, the fingertips reaching out, the sore lips and secret laughter. And yet there was something grown up about this nervousness. Something painfully real, where kisses met stories and history, not just two bored teenagers bonding over a half-can of cider. Uncharted territory.
‘So, are we meeting Antonio there?’ I asked.
He nodded against my lips. ‘We’ve got some time to make it look perfect.’
We didn’t spend that time making it look perfect. We spent that time with our hands all over each other, stealing kisses in between pretending to work.
‘Mamma mia!’ Suddenly, we heard Antonio in the doorway, and froze, scared to look. But he wasn’t looking at us. He was staring at the walls, freshly painted in a soft turquoise. His eyes were wide and his mouth was open. Salvatore and I disentangled ourselves.
‘Nonno, what do you think? You like it?’ The anxiety showed on Salvatore’s face.
Antonio’s eyes roved around the space, taking it in. He touched each object, squinting at the price tags on the smaller items, tilting his head at the small glass dishes lined up resolutely.
When he turned to us, he smiled, but his eyes were filled with tears.
‘Who will run this beautiful place now?’ He looked past us to the picture on the wall: a beautiful charcoal sketch of Maria, his wife, in her youth. Salvatore had found the picture in a drawer, and thought it deserved to be displayed.
‘You will, Nonno. And it will be profitable. Or, at least, busier.’
Antonio shook his head slowly. ‘This was Maria’s place, this was her love. I did this for her.’
‘And we did this for you,’ I said, ‘to show you it could be something new, but the same. It’s still hers, it’s just… a little less dusty.’
Antonio smiled, the crinkles in his suntanned skin crisping and releasing as he looked past us again.
‘Thank you. There has been a lot of work, yes?’ He looked at me. ‘And you, on holiday, you choose to work?’
‘It was fun.’ I shrugged, smiling at Salvatore, who nudged me with his elbow.
Antonio didn’t miss that, raising an eyebrow. ‘It is good to see you are friends now. Lots of smiles and laughter, working together? No fights?’
‘Not as many as expected.’ Salvatore laughed, glancing at me. I could feel myself blush, staring at the ground.
‘Two stubborn people working together… I didn’t think it would make something this beautiful.’ Antonio moved across, taking my hand and Salvatore’s, holding them firmly. ‘Thank you, this is a beautiful gift. But…’
‘But?’ I squawked. ‘No, no buts! This place is alive again, Antonio. Look at it!’
‘Yes.’ He nodded. ‘I agree. And it needs to be run by youth, it needs to stay alive. Not an old man lost in the past.’
I shook my head. ‘I don’t understand. I thought you’d be pleased…’
He placed a paw-like hand on my head, stroking my hair. It was a movement my father had done so many times, those nights after a bedtime story, or when I didn’t stop asking questions, and he had no more answers for me. Apparently, Antonio had the same move.
‘It is a beautiful gift, Mia. But it needs someone to run it. You have the knowledge and the passion, but you have places to be. Salvatore has the drive, and the business sense, but he will not stay, either. You will go, as is the way, and it will turn to dust in old hands.’ He clapped his hands together, as if wiping off dust. ‘So, we leave it. We sell it to someone who can make it magic again. I am an old man. I have no more time for magic.’
He smiled, squeezed our hands once more, clapped Salvatore on the back, and walked out of the shop without turning back.
We stood in silence for a moment, watching him retreat down the hill, walking slowly but steadily.
‘What the hell was that?’ I asked, turning to Salvatore. His eyes were wide with disbelief, staring at the open door.
‘I have no idea. I thought… I thought he’d be pleased. Excited, even.’
I closed my eyes briefly. ‘Do you think we ruined it for him? Took away his memories? We changed too much?’
He took my hand, stroking circles with his thumb. ‘It had to change. It couldn’t have stayed open another week. Now, we’ve sold some things to tourists, we’re ready to go online, there’s hope again… I don’t understand.’
‘Well, he’s right, isn’t he? We’re not going to be here to run it for him.’
Salvatore gave me a searching look. ‘Aren’t we?’
‘No. I’ve got to go back home. And you said you can’t stay here – eventually you’ll finish licking your wounds and start over somewhere else. You said it – we’re in between. It’s a shame you don’t have another family member who could run it.’
Salvatore looked upwards, as if wracking his brain for some distant cousin who specialized in antiques. ‘I suppose… I could stay?’
I smiled, shaking our intertwined hands. ‘And end up married to a girl you knew as a baby, and a daddy by the end of next year? That’s not what you want.’
He was lost, pressing his lips together. ‘Maybe it could be. Not now, but maybe.’
‘Sure.’ I rolled my eyes, and he wrapped his arms around me, his thumb stroking my neck.
‘Or maybe you could stay?’
There was a pause, as I let myself consider it, just for a moment, before I shook my head silently.
‘No? We could both stay for a while, then…’ He leaned his forehead against mine, thumb still stroking a pattern on my skin and suddenly I felt claustrophobic, his warmth overwhelming me.
‘Then, what? We’ll both figure out what the hell we’re meant to be doing with our lives? I need to go home!’
‘It didn’t sound like you had much worth going home to,’ he said, meeting my eyes as he stepped back.
I thought of my father, weak in his bed, his breath rattling, his skin pale and grey as he struggled to move. I imagined Mar
jorie bringing him crystals, and disgusting nettle tea, and grimacing under his weight as she helped him sit up.
And then I imagined that bed empty.
‘I don’t. I may even have nothing at all.’
‘Then—’
‘No. I’m going home, Salvatore.’
‘When?’
I took a breath. ‘When they tell me to.’
He looked at me in frustration, a scar I hadn’t noticed before visible above his eyebrow as he frowned. ‘I don’t know what that means.’
‘You don’t need to.’ I shook my head, and stepped forward, taking his hand. ‘Look, let’s just have a nice time, okay? We’ll work at the shop until three, and then we’ll go and have a drink, and maybe Antonio will have had a rethink. Maybe he’ll change his mind.’
I could tell from the set of Salvatore’s jaw that he knew Antonio would never change his mind – his thoughts were slow, certain and set in stone. And yet, he said nothing, simply plastered a smile on his face, and went to open the accounts book. I logged on to the computer and checked the social media pages, making a list of all the sites Salvatore needed to email to get the shop listed.
A few tourists came in, and Salvatore was relaxed, friendly, letting them wander and roam, exclaim in delight over the trinkets and hidden gems. I was a little more forthright, and the English and American tourists enjoyed it, hmming and nodding as I told them where on the island something was found, what era it was from, what it meant. They lapped up the more typical items – all the more interesting for being mixed in with the miscellany of island life. They bought Murano glass pendants, and copper cups that I described as ‘in the ancient style, but excellent for Moscow Mules’. They thanked us and thanked us, commenting on what a treasure trove and a wonderful find the shop was. How all the other shops sold clothes and tourist items, and here was something real and authentic. It felt like everything we’d meant it to be, like we’d won, we’d proven ourselves right, that our hard work was justified. And yet, Antonio’s sadness and disappointment clouded every interaction. Salvatore was upset, beaten and sad. With each purchase, each item entered into the till, I became more frustrated. We had built something, and it was going to die with no one to champion it. And yet, it couldn’t be me.
Salvatore walked up behind me at the desk when we reached the afternoon, kissing my neck. ‘It’s five o’clock. Let’s get a drink.’
‘We made three hundred euros today. Three hundred! This place hasn’t made three hundred euros in a month!’ I growled, slamming the accounts book and standing up. ‘Why is he being like this?’
Salvatore just smiled, gesturing for me to walk ahead as he flipped the sign and locked the door. I traced my fingertips over the gilded letters on the window. ‘He’s sad, and he’s old, and he misses his wife. He’s allowed.’
‘No! He’s not! We did this, and it worked! He came every day to a shop that didn’t make money, that was dusty and impossible, and now he has a beautiful shop full of the treasures his wife chose, and he doesn’t want it any more?’ Salvatore offered his arm as we walked down the stone steps towards the harbour, and I took it automatically, stroking his skin with my fingers, almost absentmindedly. It was a comfort, to hold on to him, to keep him here so I didn’t have to think about home.
‘It’s easier to cling to something that fails, than destroy something that’s living.’
‘Ugh! Philosophy! Stop it!’ I yelped. ‘That’s bullshit. That’s fear.’
‘Of course it’s fear. It’s natural. He’s an old man. He wants a quiet life.’ Salvatore shrugged, nodding to some of the locals as they hiked up the hill.
‘He didn’t. He didn’t when I first got here. He wanted a vibrant, busy life.’
‘No, he wanted to be close to her, to Maria.’ Salvatore stopped, looking at me. ‘I think we took her away from him. That shop isn’t hers any more, it’s ours. It’s us trying to be them.’
I wanted to stay angry and irritable, annoyed at Antonio’s ungratefulness. But instead, I felt deeply ashamed.
‘Don’t say that. Don’t say I just took away the last parts of a man’s soulmate.’
Salvatore shrugged, ruefully. ‘We didn’t mean to. He’ll be fine. He’ll wake up tomorrow and decide it was a good thing.’
‘Yes, I’m sure every man mourning his wife decides the last parts of her being gone for good is an excellent thing.’
We had reached one of the first restaurants in the square, the umbrellas out with the seats scattered beneath. A table at the edge was free, and Salvatore pulled out my chair for me, before sitting himself.
‘Stop being such a drama queen. We did something good. He knew what we were doing, he just didn’t know how he’d feel about it until it happened.’ He nodded at the waiter who came over, before turning back to me. ‘Aperol spritz?’
I nodded, thinking of my dad again. The waiter departed, and I looked at the man next to me, somehow not understanding the situation. He looked even more beautiful now, in the fading light, his sunglasses on, looking out at the light reflecting off the water. We could see Enzo’s boat in the harbour, and the latest collection of scuba-diving students following him along the stones. There was his friend, Alphonse, who didn’t even take off his scuba gear, only sticking the flippers in his bag as he jumped on his bicycle and cycled off.
Sitting in the fading sun, drinking an Aperol spritz in the harbour. Just like I’d promised.
‘You don’t know what it’s like to lose someone, do you?’
I had said it, and knew I couldn’t take it back.
‘My grandmother died, you know that.’
‘I mean a parent. I mean someone suddenly being gone, and it being a physical ache to lose them. Like a limb is gone and has been replaced with a weight on your chest every time you think about them.’
‘Are you talking about your mother?’ He reached for my hand, and it was so saccharine I wanted to move away, but I didn’t.
‘No, I’m not.’
I wasn’t. I was thinking about my father. I was trying to remember what his favourite chocolate bar was, and what the song he always sang in the shower was. I listed the brand of cigars he loved and the beer he always chose at the shop and wondered when was the last time he’d jumped in a pool and done a cannonball, like he had when I was younger. I conjured the sound of his voice as he read me stories, always making the three bears into grouchy, moany old men. And I felt the intense weight of his legacy, and that I would be the only person to remember these things, to hold them close and keep them alive.
‘Where’ve you gone?’
‘Nowhere.’ I sighed. ‘I’m still here.’
Salvatore nodded. ‘You know, some moments I feel like I know you, and the next you’re like a stranger.’
I bristled, pulling my hand away from him and rubbing an invisible mark on my wrist. ‘I don’t know anything about you either, really.’
He shrugged. ‘So ask me something.’
There was a challenge in his question, and I wasn’t going to back down.
‘Beer or wine?’
‘Wine,’ he said. That shrug again.
‘Chocolate or sweets?’
‘Chocolate.’ He rolled his eyes.
Fine. If that’s how he was going to be.
‘Home, or away?’
Salvatore grinned at that one, pointing at me. ‘That’s a good one. And you already know I don’t have an answer to that.’
‘That’s because this “getting to know you” stuff is bullshit.’ I took a sip of my drink. ‘You don’t find out who someone is by asking them about pointless things. You find out who they are by how they act, what they do. Who they love.’
His eyes met mine. ‘And what do you know of me?’
‘I know you love your family, and your island and your heritage, but you want more. And that’s okay,’ I said. ‘I know you are loyal, and gruff, and grouchy and kind and straightforward. And I know you’re a wine snob who clearly never had to survive on a �
�4 bottle of wine from Lidl as a student.’
He visibly winced, but his handsome face shone as he smiled and replaced his hand over mine. ‘A lot of compliments in between the insults,’ Salvatore laughed. I smiled, but didn’t say anything. He could not do the same with me. I had given him nothing of myself. He had no story from me, beyond a dead mother and a bucketload of sass. I was safe.
‘I know you are blunt, and passionate, and private.’ His thumb caressed my palm. ‘I know you say what you mean, and mean what you say, that you love history, and are searching for connections with the past. I know you spent your holiday making a stubborn old man happy, and now you’re worrying you’ve destroyed everything he loved.’
I nodded slowly. Safe, nothing uncomfortable. No vulnerability. I think I preferred when we were butting heads – there was less danger there. There wasn’t this feeling of nakedness, like I was waiting for all my secrets to be laid in front of me, to give explanations for my brokenness.
‘A lot of compliments in with those insults, too.’ I grinned at him, watching as he brought my hand up to his lips.
A summer fling. A distraction from mourning and crying and waiting. We had finished our project – we had fixed up the shop, and whatever would happen with it now was nothing to do with me.
And I had run out of distractions.
‘Shall we go somewhere?’ I asked, waiting for the recognition in his eyes.
‘Want to walk?’ He called the waiter over and paid the bill, and when we stood, I didn’t just slip my hand into his, I slipped my arm around his waist and nuzzled into him.
It had been a long time, but I hoped it was clear, how I pressed my chest against his, my arms around his neck, pulling him to me.
‘Woah, Mia. We’ve got an audience,’ he laughed against my lips.
‘Does it matter? I’m gone soon anyway, and so are you. Give them some entertainment.’
He stilled against me, pulling away. But he took my hand, so I guessed he wasn’t too mad.
We walked along the water’s edge, watching as the light dimmed, and then illuminated again in the reflections, yellow and bold.
‘I don’t know what you want from me,’ he said.
‘Yes, you do. I’ve made it very clear. I mean what I say, and I say what I mean, right?’ I pulled him to me again, and this time, obscured by the rocks of the beach, he didn’t pull away.