by Dana Faletti
“Michel,” Tate murmured, her voice thick with regret, “I don’t want—”
“Shh, Tatiana.” He finally turned his eyes to her, sliding one strong arm around her body and wrapping her up with his. “I know.”
She buried her face in his chest and allowed herself to release the storm of grief that had hovered over her since her phone call to Nathan.
“Cousine,” Michel said quietly. “Tomorrow, I will take you to the airport, but tonight you stay here. With me.”
“My flight leaves—”
“At eight,” he said, finishing her sentence. “It is always the same from Reggio to Rome.”
Tate sighed, refusing to count out the hours they had left together.
“We go to Valanidi to eat tonight with my grandfather and Zia Mimma’s family. Then you get your luggage, and we come back to Saline.”
“Okay.”
“Look,” Michel said and pointed across the water. “Etna is awake.”
Tate slowly shifted her eyes toward the steaming volcano. She felt like daring it to spew and spurt hot lava. No measure of fire could burn her now. She was already ash, about to be blown away on the next breeze home, where she was sure the embers of her heart would cool and chill and turn to ice.
As the sea breeze wafted over her tired skin, Tate remembered the little bronze key she’d slipped into the pocket of her shorts that morning.
“He gave me this,” she told Michel, holding the key out for him to see. He took it from her and ran his fingers along its bumpy ridges.
“Who gave this? What is it for?”
“Signore Nigro,” she told him, deeply aware of the rock that hung heavily in her chest. “He and my grandmother were lovers. Years ago, he sent this key to her in America. Wrote to her and told her that she would always have the key to his heart and that he wanted her to have the key to his home as well.”
“The home in Trunca? With the overgrown garden in front?”
“No,” she said, reaching her hand out to rub her thumb over his. “This is the key to a villa he owns further up the mountain. He gave me a picture as well.” She shook her head and handed the crinkled photo to Michel. “My grandmother had the same photograph in her house, framed and hanging on the dining room wall for all to see.”
Tate watched as Michel studied the photo, then let her gaze seep into the blue of the sea.
“I remember asking her about it when I was a young child. I wanted to know why she had a picture of a house hanging on the wall,” she said. “She told me it was her favorite place in the world, talked about long walks and cool nights around a fire. She said it was a happy place.”
“But—” Michel started.
“She was never there.” Tate finished his sentence as she gathered a handful of pebbles. “Pietro built this villa long after my Nana left for America.” She looked down at the smooth stones at her feet and chose the largest, hurling it into the water. She imagined the stone sinking through the clear water and settling on the bottom. Nana had chosen to throw away the greatest love of her life and to live inside memories, some real and some that only ever existed inside a photograph. She’d kept her secret desire hidden, and yet in one brazen move had hung evidence of it on the most public wall of her home.
Tate wondered if Nana had hung the photo before or after her grandfather’s death.
“Why did Pietro give this to you?” Michel’s voice snagged her from her thoughts.
“He put the villa in my grandmother’s name years ago, hoping she would return to him someday.” Tate paused, remembering the sadness that had crept into Pietro Nigro’s eyes when she’d told him of her father’s death. “Signore Nigro helped raise my father for two years. He loved him like a son. He told me he wants the daughter of Domenico to have the villa now, for it to be a part of my Nana’s family.”
Michel smiled. “Now you own a home here, cousine. You must return.”
Tate said nothing and instead stared at Mount Etna. Thinking about returning meant thinking about leaving, and she didn’t want to entertain either thought.
Michel handed the key back to her and pushed himself up from the pebbly ground. Tate observed the tiny indentations that would color the palms of his hands pink.
“Andiamo a Valanidi?” He held a hand out to help her up.
As the two ascended the uneven rocky pathway that led them away from the beach, Tate turned her gaze once more to the sea. Memories flashed like a still life montage behind her eyes. A pair of carefree children climbing a castle of rocks. Chubby fingers offering her a sunflower of sorts. Two lovers, laughing in the salty face of fate as they jumped into the sea.
“Good-bye, Saline,” Tate whispered as she straddled Michel’s Vespa for one last ride up the mountain.
* * *
“Tayeet!” Olivia kissed both of Tate’s cheeks and held her in an embrace for several moments. Tate inhaled the sweet, musky scent of her. “This is not good-bye, bella. This is only alla prossima volta, until next time.”
“Maybe you’ll come visit me in America,” she told her beautiful cousin with the endless curves and bouncing curls.
“Ah, God willing, I would like that,” she said and kissed Tate’s cheek once more before heading to help clear the table.
Tate leaned into the lemon tree, sipping her espresso and watching the scene unfold around her. Zia Mimma and her granddaughters had prepared an amazing farewell feast; tonight was yet another celebration. But Tate was realizing something about Italy. Here, every moment was a celebration.
If only she could hijack the joyfulness of the people, the place, and carry it home with her.
If only she never had to leave.
Zio stood from his chair and limped over to where Tate stood against the tree.
“So, you had the pleasure of meeting Pietro Nigro.”
So now we’re going to talk about this? “Yes, I did.”
“He is a good man.”
Tate nodded slowly, her mind conjuring the image of the bronze key that was buried in her purse. “I think he is, Zio.”
“You know, Tatiana, some stories cannot be told. They must be discovered, experienced, lived.”
Tate turned her eyes to his deep black ones and stared into them, trying to convey her understanding.
Zio set a thick cigar between his chapped lips, his mouth bending around it into a small smile before he collapsed into laughter, slapping his thigh and pulling Tate into an embrace that felt like sunshine.
“I love you, Zio,” she told him, her voice quaking with tears she could no longer hold in.
“Ah, bella, of course I love you too,” he said into her cheek, the bitter smell of cigar and whiskey on his breath. “There is always a place for you here. You know that, Tatiana. You are family, and for us, there is nothing else, right?”
Before she could answer, an arm linked itself through hers, whisking her away from Zio and onto the makeshift dance floor that the patio had become. Ludovico and his accordion colored the night with folk music as Giuliana swept Tate into the tarantella. The evening continued with her cousins and their friends all dancing and singing, some drunk on wine, others drunk on joy.
When the music slowed, Michel approached her. His fingers laced themselves into hers, and she let herself lean into him, knowing that this would be their last dance together, at least for a very long time. His lips rested on the patch of curls that fell across her forehead, the breath from his nostrils skimming lazily across her skin.
She closed her eyes, not wanting to remember what the world looked like the moment before she had to say good-bye.
Chapter 40
Tate
They spoke little that night. His silent kisses tripped across her skin, leaving a trail of warmth wherever they touched down. She wished his lips could paint the path they traveled. That way she could remember the very shape they held when they landed upon her flesh.
She never wanted to forget the soft silkiness of his curls dripping over her face a
s his body moved fluidly over hers. Their lovemaking was slow and quiet, the pulse of heat between them as electric as always but somehow muted, stifled by the mere knowledge of tomorrow.
Sometime before dawn, after their bodies had come together and apart over and again, Michel pressed his face into Tate’s neck, his teeth grazing her ear.
“Calabrisella mia,” he said. “You will always be mine, cousine.”
Instead of giving into the torrent of grief that wanted to flow from her eyes, she rolled over onto him, straddling his body with her own. He steadied her, his hands at her ribs, his thumbs drawing lazy circles over her hard nipples.
“Always,” she whispered, lowering herself onto him and shuddering as he slipped inside, filling her with everything she’d never known she needed until she found him. And as she felt him grow inside of her for what she knew would be the very last time, she lost herself. Riding the swell of her emotions into an oblivion of lust and ecstasy, she arched her back and closed her eyes. Just as the first fingers of dawn began to creep through the heavily curtained windows, their bodies climaxed together in a burst of bliss and agony.
An hour later, Tate stood in the doorway of Michel’s bungalow, her carry-on bag slung over her shoulder, red-rimmed eyes betraying the regret that lined her belly.
“You have to go,” Michel said as he approached the doorway. He pushed a curl off her face and leaned to kiss her forehead. “It is the honorable thing. I know this.”
“I don’t want to be honorable.”
Michel’s eyes bled into hers, his controlled sadness flowing over her, making it hard to swallow, impossible to breathe.
“You do, though, Tatiana. Just by coming all the way here to fulfill Nana Maria’s dying wish, you show it. You may not want to be honorable in this moment, but it is what you are.”
Tate lowered her eyes to the small square tiles below her feet and shrugged. She pushed the door open with her foot and started outside.
“Wait,” Michel said, grabbing the door before it could slam shut. “I have something for you.”
Michel took her hand in his. He opened her fingers one by one, staring deeply into her eyes as he pressed something cool and smooth inside her palm.
“Did you make this?” Tate asked him as she fingered the string of delicately carved wooden beads.
“Yes, I did…a long time ago.”
Suddenly, what she thought was the truth crashed into her. “You made this for your wife.”
“No, not for Lilliane. For Amelie. When she was a baby, I made this necklace for her.” He stared off toward the beach and Tate studied him, sure that his daughter’s face was behind his eyes.
Folding herself into him and closing her hand around the precious gift, she whispered, “Thank you, Michel.”
He let his chin drop onto the top of her head and, sighing, tucked his arms around her. “Ah, cousine…how I love you.”
“And I love you, Michel.” She choked on the words as a sob caught in her throat.
* * *
The airport was abuzz with family. Zio was there with her luggage. Zia Mimma and the girls each approached Tate with kisses and gifts. Little did she know she would be leaving Italy with so much gold.
“Thank you for the earrings, Giuliana. They’re beautiful.”
“You are beautiful, Tatiana,” Giuliana said, her big, innocent smile bathing Tate with good wishes. “You must telephone when you arrive in Pittsburgh, okay?”
“Yes, Tayeet,” Olivia said, sneaking around her sister for a hug from Tate. She slipped something into Tate’s jacket pocket and stood back. “Don’t forget to call.”
Tate placed an open palm on Olivia’s warm, sun-bronzed cheek. “You are a joy, Olivia,” she told her, staring into her cousin’s devilish eyes. “You’d better come to America. We have all sorts of mischief to make together.”
Olivia laughed heartily and wiped tears from her eyes. She placed a hand over her heart. “I promise.”
“Come, Tatiana.” Zio’s deep voice echoed from across the gate. “I want to buy you a coffee before you go.”
Tate headed toward her great-uncle, a man whose stature was small and quiet but whose heart was big and loud and surprising.
He took her by the elbow and led her to the coffee bar.
“Due cappuccins, prego,” he told the barista. Two cappuccinos.
“I thought you only liked espresso, black,” she said.
He shrugged and handed her the warm, foamy coffee.
“Grazie,” she said, taking a sip of creamy bitterness. She waited for Zio to say something, but he didn’t. He finished his cappuccino and smiled at her with watery eyes.
“Andiamo, Tatiana,” he said. “It is time to go.”
He placed a hand on her shoulder and walked beside her to the security gate. The others followed, with Michel at the very end of the group, next to Ludovico, who’d joined the family to say good-bye to their American cousin.
Tate’s heart wanted to jump right out of her chest. It flapped and flopped as she tried desperately to ignore it, to do what she had to do without falling over and dying. She reached inside her jacket pocket to touch the three items that were too special to pack inside her luggage. The sunflower stone reminded her of the possibilities of the unexpected. Michel’s wooden beads whispered that even when someone you love is out of reach, your feelings for them never fade. Love, in all of its broken incarnations, could always inspire beauty, even from the grave.
And the old-fashioned bronze key to Pietro’s villa.
The key promised Tate that she would always have a place within these mountains, among these people who had become the greatest loves of her life.
When they neared the security checkpoint, Tate turned around to face the group of people who’d been strangers to her only days ago.
Giuliana and Nattina, their bright, hopeful eyes wishing her a joyful farewell, their faces two portraits of graciousness.
Zia Mimma, her chubby wrinkles trained expectantly on Tate, her head tilted to the side. She waved to Tate once and began to wring her hands together repeatedly.
Olivia, crying openly, her swollen eyes watching Tate’s every move. She nodded at Tate and wiped her cheeks.
Zio. Standing almost next to her. Leaning into his good leg. He took his glasses from his face, wiped his eyes with a handkerchief, and shook his head. Palms up, he took both of her hands in his and squeezed them. Saying nothing, he stared into Tate’s sad eyes and beamed at her through his own tears.
Tate wasn’t sure she could take much more, but she knew she had to see Michel’s face, to part the sea of people, to find him once more.
Michel stood alone, Ludovico having left his side. Leaning against a wooden beam, he stared at her through squinted eyes. A cloud of unreality seemed to hover in front of him, separating him from everything and everyone else in the space as he watched her go. Hands in his pockets, his beautiful lips closed in a flat line across his face, and he was still.
Tate swallowed, the despair in her throat too profound to release through tears or screams or any physical act. She edged backward around the corner toward security, never breaking eye contact with the man she loved, the man she had to leave, until he was gone from view.
Until they were all gone.
Epilogue
Five Years Later
“Tate, honey,” Nathan said as his cold hands dusted her bare arm. “Don’t forget to reapply the forty-five to your chest every once in a while. I know the bottle says waterproof, but I don’t trust it.” He grabbed his beach towel and tossed it over his shoulder.
Tate smiled up at her husband in his clunky flip-flops and long swim trunks, his hair wet and messy from riding the waves. “I’m on top of it, hon.” She yawned, stretching her long, tanned arms to the sky. Standing up, she dusted the sand from her hands and placed her arms around Nathan’s neck. “How was the water?”
“Watch your hands,” he said, backing away and out of her embrace. “They’re a
ll sandy, and I just rinsed off.”
“This is Gulf of Mexico sand, babe. It’s like powder.”
“Still, I hate having it all over me.”
Tate just grinned and shook her head as she watched Nathan pick grains of sand from his skin. Even dripping with sandy saltwater, he was the epitome of dry and uptight.
But, she reminded herself, he did love her. In the only way he knew how and as much as he was capable of loving anyone. She understood this now, and the knowledge helped her to swallow the old bitterness and breathe easy.
“I have some work to do,” Nathan said. “Is the laptop in the bedroom?”
“Yeah, but I think my brother may have been using it to check baseball scores, so you can ask him. Just try to be quiet. I think your mom was trying to nap.”
“She shouldn’t be napping in the middle of the afternoon,” he said.
Tate shrugged and watched as her husband turned and began walking toward the condo, the same one they’d rented for the past three years during the week of July Fourth. The first time they’d vacationed in Gulf Shores, Alabama, was celebratory. Nathan’s lymphoma had been cured for all intents and purposes, and the family felt it was a great time to come together and revel in the blessing of good health. Since then, they’d come every summer. They caravanned down, Tate’s brother and his wife with their two children following Nathan, Tate, and his parents in their minivan. The twenty-hour drive was doable with a couple of good walkie-talkies and a variety of car games to play.
Tate glanced at her phone: 12:45 p.m. Time for lunch, but she had no desire to leave the beach. She could sit here forever and stare out at the calming blue. The current here was nonexistent, but the sounds and smells of sea were just present enough to carry her to beautiful places in her memory. She curled her toes into the soft sand, wishing she had a pebble or two to toss into the water.
Staring out at the horizon, Tate sighed deeply. She knew what lay beyond it—beyond this life she had chosen for herself. Above the white noise of crying gulls and whistling sea breeze, music played in her memory. Singing voices, deep and raspy, some laughing, others somber and patriotic. Some shouting above the din.