by Leslie Pike
“She’s honest and a worker bee. She’ll find you exactly what you’re looking for.”
Nash pockets the card. “Do you have a sweater in case we’re still there in the evening?”
“I’ll grab one upstairs and meet you in the car.”
All the way over to the Santini home Max is talking, filling me in on his family members and their idiosyncrasies. I’d bet father and son have laughed about the stories before. More than once Nash puts a stop to it with a, “That’s private family business, Max,” and the boy switches gears. There’s a lovely dynamic between them and an ease that can’t be faked.
“So, do you have a favorite aunt and uncle?” I ask.
“I’ve only got one aunt. Auntie Lana. She’s real good. I like my uncles too. But all for different reasons. Want to hear?”
“Of course I do,” I say.
“Oh, this is going to be interesting,” says Nash.
“Nikos is the youngest brother and kinda wild. Sometimes when he visits he brings girls with him, but Grandma never likes them. I think it’s because they show their boobs too much. Grandpa likes them though.”
“Oh God,” says Nash.
Max’s laughter bubbles up and he’s enjoying making me laugh too. “He was a backup dancer for Brittney Spears. Now he dances for somebody else. When I get old enough I’m going to go to Las Vegas and see his show.”
“I think you’re more interested in seeing his girlfriend’s boobs,” Nash says.
“That sounds like fun. I mean the seeing your uncle part, not the boob thing,” I say.
Max finds my comment funniest of all.
“And Uncle Dion’s great. He works in the deli and gives me all kinds of samples when I come in with my friends.”
“Then there’s Uncle Robert. He’s Auntie Lana’s husband. They have three kids.”
“Are any of them your age?” I ask.
“Gregory’s thirteen and I’m almost ten. Maria and Boo are younger. And girls.”
“Speaking of girls, lately I’ve seen you two acting differently when some cute girl is around,” Nash says.
“Dad!”
“Just messing with you, son.”
“There’s nothing wrong with that, Max. Girls are fun,” I say.
“Oh, yes they are,” Nash says.
“Then we have Dad’s brother Christos who lives in San Francisco. He’s a lawyer. We don’t see him much, but I like him. He’s kinda quiet, but nice. He just broke up with a girl nobody liked.”
“That’s not true. We liked her,” Nash says unconvincingly.
“You did not! You said she was a gold digger.”
“Oh crap. This is what happens when you have a nine-year-old. They tell the truth. Max, don’t say that around anyone else. Farrah’s our friend, but it sounds bad.”
“Okay. And you can start saying I’m ten now. I’ve only got a month to go.”
“Noted.”
“I notice you all have Greek names. I’m surprised,” I say.
“My mother’s Greek. She and my father made a deal.”
“How many siblings do you have?”
“Just one more. Alexander. You’ll meet him today. He’s . . .”
“Let me tell!” yells Max. “He’s really cool. And he’s getting married. I’m going to be a groomsman.”
“Oh see, you’re going to have another aunt. Nice,” I say.
Max is waiting for my response because he comes right back with an, “Oh no I’m not!”
I turn and look him in the face.
“He’s gay! I’m going to have another uncle!” He shakes his finger at me and raises an eyebrow, mimicking what I did to his father. “False assumptions!”
“Touché my friend,” I answer, impressed by the boy’s ability to turn the tables.
Nash reaches a hand back and high fives his son in male solidarity.
CHAPTER FOUR
NASH
There are so many ways this could go wrong. Any one of my family members might corner Farrah and pump her for information, digging to find out if there’s more to the story than I’m telling.
Where did you meet?
How long have you been dating?
Nash has never brought a woman to our home since his wife. Want to see his baby pictures? Oh boy. But it hasn’t stopped me from bringing her. I spoke to my parents and made it clear she and I are just friends. I was certain to mention she’s leaving St. Helena in a matter of weeks, and to prove it I added the fact that her home has been listed. My mother’s response? “You like this girl, don’t you?”
My father assured me he understood my concerns and would do nothing to embarrass me in front of my friend. Then he asked if she was Italian and if she liked Italian music, because he had a song in mind he could sing especially for us.
I’ve only got to block the advance of one of my siblings today. Dion and Christos won’t be here, but Alexander will be pressing for details. His intentions are good. He just wants everyone to feel the love like he does. I’m leaving it to my sister and her husband, Robert, my best bets for good behavior, to rein in the group.
Thank God Nikos is in Vegas. He’s the wild card who likes busting his brother’s chops. I love the little asshole though. All of us used to call him that when we were kids. He used his status as the baby of the family to weasel out of whatever trouble he was in. He was a master at blaming one of us for things he was guilty of. Now it’s become an inside family joke. I was sure to tell Farrah in case she heard one of us asking after the little asshole.
In the end, I decided to let things play out. All I want is for my family to see I have a social life. Then they can relax and stop asking me when I’m going to get a real girlfriend. And it’ll be good for Farrah to be around a big, noisy, happy family. I’m doing it for them. Yeah, that’s sounds believable.
“Welcome to the Santini sandbox.”
“It’s lovely here,” she says as we drive onto the entrance of the property marked by lemon trees in oversized Italian urns. “We’re so close to downtown, but it feels like the country.”
Gravel crackles under the tires and announces our arrival. I take a left onto the stone circular driveway and park the SUV in front of the house. The clear afternoon sky shows off the two-story home.
“I love Mediterranean houses,” Farrah says.
Max jumps out of the car and runs to the door. It swings open before he knocks. My mother and father are there waiting for the big reveal as if they’ve been hiding in the foyer all morning. Shit! Come on! I complain silently. But it’s hard to hold a grudge against these two. When Max and I needed them most they were our greatest allies. I’ll never forget how they surrounded us with love.
They’ve still got the cool they had in their thirties, when I was a kid. My mother in a long, flowing turquoise skirt and black sleeveless top, with her stacked colored bracelets; my father with a thick head of salt and pepper hair and his Italian wristbands. He’s wearing a close fitting black T-shirt that shows off his hard-earned guns. Sixty-five never looked so good.
“Maximilian!” I hear my father say. Their beloved grandson gets kisses on both cheeks.
While I have her alone for the first time today, I make sure Farrah knows my intentions.
“Look at me.”
She turns and a wicked little smile shows up in response to mine.
“Before we get out of the car, I’m going to pretend like we’re having a casual conversation, because my parents are watching us, no doubt.”
“I’m intrigued. What are we really talking about?”
“The fact that I’m not finished kissing you. Sometime today I’m going to find a private spot for us. I don’t care how difficult it is to get you alone. I’m gonna do it,” I say with a fake smile plastered on my face for my parent’s benefit.
“I have no objections. Please make sure that happens.” Her expression mimics mine.
“And I’d be lying, Farrah, if I said I didn’t want more. I can’t get yo
u out of my mind.”
The look on her face reassures me I’m not completely alone in my desires.
“We don’t have any time to waste. I want you too,” she says.
We start laughing because our expressions don’t match the heat that’s passing between us. I reach across the seat and take her hand.
“Just touching you is sexier to me than you can imagine.” I nod my head in fake agreement of our fake conversation. “If it wasn’t that I’d have to get out of the car with a giant erection, I’d put your hand on me right now.”
She ignores my concerns. Her hand slips from my grasp and reaches out. It settles on my lap. I feel her fingers lightly trace the outline of my dick. Oh, fuck me. I want to close my eyes so badly and beg her not to stop. Instead a frustrated groan escapes my lips. Defeated lust put to sound. With her other hand, she waves a friendly hello to my mother and father.
“Ohhh, you’re a naughty girl. This is great news.” I laugh.
And then I see it. Max has run into the house and my father’s coming down the stairs.
“Oh shit!” I say.
Farrah’s hand retreats faster than my erection.
“Give me your sweater!”
She tosses it and I position it in front of me casually. It’s not good enough but I think my shirt will hide the evidence when I stand.
“Let’s get out before you do any more damage,” I tease, taking one final look at her extraordinary mouth.
I exit the car and walk around to open her side. I hide my condition behind the car door. She stands and faces the two happy campers who fool no one. They couldn’t pretend to be blasé about this introduction if they were offered a million dollars.
“Welcome, Farrah!” says my father with open arms for emphasis.
My mother steps down three of the front steps to greet her guest half way. She wraps her arms around her and gives her a kiss on the cheek. Farrah’s a little thrown by the familiarity I think, but handles herself well with a big smile and return kiss.
“Thank you for having me, Mrs. Santini.”
“No Mr. or Mrs. nonsense. We’re Sophia and Valentino,” she says.
I pretend I’m getting something from the back seat just to buy me some hard on withdrawal time. Then I follow the three musketeers inside. It’s good being back home. It’s a dramatic visual effect looking through the center of house and out to the wide veranda. Views from the great room overlook the rolling hills of St. Helena’s vineyards and the Mayacama Mountains. Over the years, they’ve made this property into their own personal resort. Bought in the 1970’s when homes and land were affordable, it’s been improved right along with the family’s fortunes.
My dad gets busy making Farrah a limoncello while my mother takes her by the arm and leads her outside. I know the rest of the family lies in wait.
“People! I want you to meet our special guest, Farrah!” my mother announces.
But nobody gets a chance to make her acquaintance because Fluffy spotted her first. In a matter of seconds my dog is up from his reclining position under the towering Oak tree, and he’s barreling toward her. He looks like he’s going to mow her down, but I know better. He’s going to stand on his hind legs and put his paws over her shoulders in a gesture of canine friendship. It’s not easy for even me to handle his strength; he’s gonna knock her over like a feather. When I see the terror on her face I try to beat the locomotive coming her way. In a split second the last trace of my hard on retreats.
“Fluffy! No, no boy!! Max, get the dog!” I yell.
Farrah’s eyes tell the story. They’re wide and fixed. I throw my body in front of hers at the last moment. Fluffy puts on his brakes, but I’ve ruined his perfect timing. He slams into me, nearly knocking me off my feet. We’re both shocked. He looks at me like ‘What the fuck, man?’
“Oh, he’s friendly, Farrah. Just a little overbearing when he likes you.” My mother attempts to explain away my dog’s shit show.
Fluffy rights himself then goes around me to sniff the object of his affection. Farrah’s pale.
“I’m okay. Really I’m okay,” she says trying to tuck herself under my arm.
Max comes over and takes the dog by his collar. “I’ll watch him.”
I put an arm around her and can feel her trembling. “It’s all right. He was never going to hurt you. But I should have had them put him in the house.”
Farrah looks up at all the eyes watching and offers an explanation.
“I know I look like a coward, but I was bitten as a child. I guess it still haunts me. Sorry, everyone.”
Then she gets the Italian treatment. Every person there chimes in with their two cents. They’re all speaking at once, comforting words, their experiences with a biting dog, suggestions on how to conquer her fear. It’s funny because, without knowing too many details, I see the difference in our experiences. We’re multitaskers who can hold multiple conversations at once. I’m sure the three people who made up her family politely took turns talking and every word was heard. With us she’s not sure what to say or who to say it to first. Finally, Lana comes over and introduces herself, and the anxiety passes.
“I need a drink,” I say.
My father hands us both our limoncello and we join the party, sitting between Alexander and his Joseph on one side and Lana and baby Boo on the other.
“I’m so happy to see Nash has a new friend. You’re a living doll,” Alexander says.
“Adorable!” Joseph adds.
Farrah grins at their comments and turns a little red. “I’m glad to be his friend. And Max’s too.”
I give my brother the look and try to shut him the hell up. But my supposedly private signal only encourages him.
“Don’t give me that look. I didn’t say anything I’m not supposed to.” He turns to Farrah. “We all got the memo,” he laughs.
Son of a bitch. I’m glad when Lana speaks up. “Are you two going to the 4th of July picnic next weekend?”
“Are we?” I throw it to Farrah and she doesn’t skip a beat.
“I think so. Sounds fun. Where is it again?”
Awesome girl.
“It’s at the park. Have you ever been? This is like the third year they’ve had it there,” Robert says bouncing four-year-old Melanie on his knee.
“No. I’ve been under the radar for a few years.”
I see the expressions on the faces. They’re dying to ask for details, but for once they all use restraint.
“There’s all kinds of food trucks and games for the kids. Different businesses will have booths. Paws and Claws have treats for the pets, the Sweet and Savory usually have goodies for sale. That kind of thing. And then there’s fireworks of course,” Alexander says.
“Dancing. That’s the best part,” Lana adds. She touches Robert’s hand.
I see Farrah’s face light up when she hears about the dancing. It’s good news to me because I can hold her close. I’m comfortable with dancing and if she is too it could be a great night.
“There’s dance platforms built all over the park. The music’s piped in. My wife makes sure the Santini’s find one all for themselves,” my father says.
The rest of the afternoon flows with conversation and laughter, both of which are never lacking in this family. Late in the day we have our meal at the long wooden table standing center stage under the loggia. It holds the entire family, the plates of antipasto, Moussaka, ham, and bottles of wine. My mother takes pride in her presentation of a meal. She’s an artist at creating a great looking table.
As always, the children are included, and their presence and what they have to say is respected as much as any adult guest. They’re part of the party too. We dance, they dance. We tell family stories, they do too. It’s had a lasting effect.
Right from the start the children feel valued and a healthy self-worth is born. There’s not a child raised in this family who has trouble speaking up for themselves, even in the company of adults. I tried to raise Max that way
by myself, but the steady influence here was one of the things I weighed when I decided to move back to St. Helena.
After our meal, we have coffee and my father entertains the table. I knew he would and it was beautiful. In Italian and English, he sings “The Prayer”. And when he says he hopes each soul finds another to love, its aimed at Farrah and me. He just can’t help himself. As soon as the serenade is over, Max and Gregory take off to go exploring. I wait a few minutes then I make my move.
“Come with me. I’ll show you my mother’s garden.” I stand and extend a hand to Farrah and know she’ll go along with my pretense.
“I’ll come too! We just planted some fantastic new . . .” my father starts to say.
He’s rewarded with an elbow to his side by my mother, who’s thinking clearer.
“Oh. No, I think I’ll stay here. Joseph, Alexander, come help me with the dessert.”
Smooth save, Dad. We get away from the table as quickly as I can lead her. I know exactly where to go.
“Follow me. Down this path,” I say.
The spot isn’t far, but it’s accessed through a route you wouldn’t easily find. My mother has kept the kids away from her herbs and flowers that surround the private getaway. She reads and does yoga under a vine-covered arbor. It’s her shady escape with a wide comfortable chaise. That’s where I’m taking Farrah. We wind through the flowering summer bushes, the olive trees and then around the herb plantings. It takes less than two minutes, tops.
“It’s the Secret Garden,” Farrah says.
“Here it is.”
I take her hand and lead her under the flower-covered arbor. Purple Morning Glories wind around the beams of the structure and every so often a butterfly or bird appears. The scent is intoxicating. Before we make it to the chaise she’s in my arms. My fingers braid through her hair and I’m kissing her, tenderly, then with passion. Nobody does kissing half as good as she does. I could write a book on it already. My hand slides around the back of her waist and down. I press her against me. Yes. Right there.
And that’s when I hear my mother’s voice.
“Nash, Farrah! Can you hear me?! Yoo-hoo!!”