Bella Fortuna

by Rosanna Chiofalo

  “Salute!” Stefano taps my cup and laughs.

  “What is it? Was my toast silly?”

  “No, it was very nice. I was touched, actually. I’m just laughing because I couldn’t help thinking how will my toast come true when we are drinking wine out of paper cups instead of glasses? There must be some superstition to that.”

  “You sound like my mother. She is the queen of superstition. I should call her and see if she knows if it’s bad luck to toast out of paper cups.”

  Stefano is laughing so hard that he wipes tears from his eyes. “Your mother sounds like my mother. She is always screaming, ‘Quella puttana mi ha dato il malocchio!’ ”

  Now I’m laughing just as hard as Stefano. “Yes, the mighty malocchio, and there always seems to be a whore, or puttana, attached to it! My mother is obsessed with the malocchio. You’d think after forty years in America, she would’ve forgotten about it, but no. Everything that has gone wrong in our lives is always because of some curse that someone has cast on us.”

  “We should get them together and listen to them speak. It would be hysterical.”

  “Yes, I’m sure it would. Speaking of my mother, I must ask you a question.”

  “Oh no. This doesn’t sound too good, from the sound of your voice.”

  I can’t help it and start laughing. I have a hard time getting the question out.

  “You are killing me, Valentina!” Stefano is laughing, too.

  “I think we’re a little drunk already.”

  “If you don’t ask me the question soon, I am going to have to toss you into the canal.”

  I hold up my hand, imploring him to give me a few seconds. Taking a huge gulp of Prosecco, I let out a deep sigh. “Do all Calabresi. . .” I pause.

  “Oh no. You are about to attack my paesani and me. No wonder you are having such a hard time getting your question out.”

  “It’s not me. It’s something my mother thinks.” I fan my hand in front of my flushed face. The wine combined with our laughter and my anxiety over my impending question has made me very warm.

  “Do all Calabresi . . . wait, this will translate better in Italian. Voglio sapere perche i Calabresi hanno le teste dure?”

  Stefano erupts into laughter once more. “I should have known you were going to ask me about the infamous hard heads of the Calabresi.”

  “I’m sorry. That is all I’ve ever heard whenever my mother talks about Calabresi. She says they are the most stubborn people she’s met.”

  “She is right, and of course, there is a stereotype that Calabresi have teste dure. I don’t know where it originated. Mio padre aveva un capo tosto. You could not convince him to do anything he didn’t want to do. My poor mother! She never learned to stop wasting her time in persuading him to do anything other than what he wanted.”

  “Well, I think many Italians are stubborn. My mother should talk. She is one of the most stubborn people I know, and she’s Sicilian.”

  “So if we get married, your mother will not approve of her Calabrese son-in-law.”

  I’m stunned by what he’s just said. I smile shyly and glance down.

  “I’m just kidding, Valentina!” Stefano laughs, but his laughter doesn’t sound very convincing. Instead, I can tell he’s using it to mask his faux pas.

  “Of course!” I laugh back, reassuring him. “It’s so beautiful here. How can you live in such a gorgeous place and not be in wonder every day?”

  “Who says I’m not?”

  I lean back, enjoying the slow gliding of our gondola as it meanders lazily through the narrow passageways. The sky has turned a dusky, sapphire blue as the city’s shadows deepen and envelop us in a cocoon of darkness that feels very comforting. We both remain silent for some time, enjoying the tranquility of the ride and the serenity of the landscape. The chatting and laughter coming from the neighboring gondolas doesn’t disturb us.

  “Can you please pour more Prosecco for me?”

  I turn toward Stefano, who is peering intently at me. His stare remains unbroken for a moment longer before he reaches for the bottle of wine. He shifts his body over so that he is now sitting next to me. The narrow space of my seat forces our hips to rub against each other. The second bottle of Prosecco runs out as Stefano pours its last contents into my cup.

  “Grazie.”

  I try to hide my face behind the cup. He’s still staring at me, but now his face is inches away from mine. I can’t ignore the heat that is generating from his body being so close to mine.

  “I hope this doesn’t make you uncomfortable.”

  “What makes me uncomfortable?” I play dumb.

  “My staring at you so much.”

  “Oh. I hadn’t noticed.”

  I take a sip of my wine and glance at the Bridge of Sighs, which we’re now approaching. Of course, he knows I’m lying. But what am I supposed to say, “Yes, I’ve noticed you undressing me with your eyes, making love to me with your eyes, and it makes me go crazy every time I catch you doing it”?

  “I’m sorry. I can’t help myself, and I don’t always realize I’m staring until my attention is broken. It’s just . . .” Stefano pauses. “I know I keep saying this, but you truly are gorgeous.”

  I blush and manage to murmur a barely audible “Thank you.”

  “It’s true. I’m not just saying that to butter you all over or however that American expression goes.”

  I gently say, “It’s butter you up.”

  “Yes.” He gives a dismissive wave of his hand. “I am sincere when I say you are one of the most attractive women I have ever laid eyes on. When I first saw you in front of the Basilica tonight, you completely took my breath away.”

  “Thank you, Stefano.”

  “I am making you uneasy. I’m sorry. I just can’t help myself. I can tell you are not comfortable around me sometimes. And I don’t want that. I want you to always feel relaxed when you’re with me.”

  “It’s okay, Stefano. You’re Italian. I know Italians can’t help themselves when it comes to women. And I do feel comfortable around you. So stop worrying.”

  I pat his hand to reassure him. Big mistake. He quickly latches on to my fingers, stroking the back of my hand with his thumb in slow circles, letting the edge of his fingernails lightly graze my skin. The waves that little motion sends throughout my body are like tidal waves, and I am hopelessly drowning. My body temperature has escalated sharply so that I’m absolutely hot now, but I’m not sure if it’s from the wine or his caresses. Suddenly, I hear a voice in the back of my head screaming, “Get away, this is dangerous!” But I can’t move. It feels too good.

  I look up at Stefano. He lowers his head and kisses me. I want to die a thousand times. No, make that a million times. My body melts completely as I take in his lingering kisses. His lush lips tug gently on mine. First, he nibbles my lower lip, then my top lip. I part my lips, but he teases me for a little while until he finally covers my mouth fully with his, and our tongues wrap around each other. He then alternates between the soft kisses he started out with and the deeper thrusts of his tongue.

  I’ve lost track of time when we finally stop kissing. Sneaking a peek at my wristwatch, I realize with a tinge of sadness that our gondola ride will be over soon. Stefano resumes stroking my hand. I need more Prosecco, but I remember it’s all gone. Panic rises in me. I have to tell him. I can’t lead him on anymore. I can’t be the coquettish vixen I set out to be tonight. Who am I kidding? I’m Valentina DeLuca—a down-to-earth Queens girl who makes dresses and daydreams a bit too much. I’m a nice girl who doesn’t like to break the rules and actually likes hanging out with her mother. This is the real Valentina.

  And then it suddenly dawns on me. I wasn’t glamorous enough for Michael. Mr. Manhattanite . . . Mr. Up-and-Coming Smith Barney Man who never said the wrong thing or was caught looking bad one day of his life. He must’ve realized it. He must’ve realized I was his complete opposite and knew there was no way marriage could work out between such oppos
ites. Fighting back the tears my revelation has brought on, I’m only more determined now to dissuade Stefano. I swallow hard.

  “Look, Stefano, although I’ve only known you for a few days, I can tell you’re a nice person. And that’s why I have to be honest with you. I’m not ready to get involved with anyone right now, not even for the last two weeks that I’ll be in Venice. I’m sorry if I gave you the wrong idea.”

  For once, I can’t read Stefano’s face. Then he says, “No, I’m the one who should be apologizing. I have come on too strong. I’m sorry.”

  “Stefano, you have been a gentleman, but I can see where this is going, and I just can’t. I’m sorry.”

  “It’s that man you left behind in New York. The reason why you came to Venice.”

  I nod my head.

  “What was the matter with this fool to have hurt you the way he did?”

  “It’s a long story.”

  “You don’t have to tell me, Valentina.”

  “I should tell you some of it. Maybe then you’ll understand better why it’s so hard for me to get involved with anyone so soon.”

  Stefano leans over and places his index finger on my lips.

  “Shhh. Now is not the time. I can tell you’re not ready to open up to me yet. It’s not important. Americans often feel compelled to let it all out when sometimes silence is better. Let’s just agree to be good friends and enjoy each other’s company while you’re here in Venice. And I promise, I will stop telling you how beautiful you are and stop staring at you.”

  His tenderness amazes me. There is more to Stefano Lambrusca than his overwhelming magnetism. The air between us is fraught now with heaviness. I want to salvage what we have left of our night together. After all, Venice is a place intended for happiness. So as I always do when a situation gets too awkward, I resort to humor.

  “So you’re really going to stop staring at me and telling me what a hot goddess I am? You must not know a lot about women, Stefano—or at least American women. We can’t hear enough how beautiful we are.”

  Stefano looks up at me, returning the smile I am giving him. But there is something else in his eyes. He is thanking me without uttering the words . . . thanking me for trying to make him feel comfortable. My heart starts to ache a little. But it’s not the cravings of desire that I’ve been feeling for him. It’s much more. I want to protect him from being hurt. It’s crazy. I only met this man a few days ago, but I can’t help feeling protective suddenly over him.

  “You make me laugh a lot. I don’t find that often in women. Ahhh!” Stefano slaps his forehead. “There I go again. Let me shut up before I stick my foot in my mouth. I got that right, didn’t I?”

  I laugh. “Yes, you got that right.”

  “So have I completely scared you off? I hope you will still take one of my walking tours at night. You won’t regret it. And I promise I’ll keep my hands—and mouth—to myself.”

  I laugh. “I wouldn’t miss it for the world. I have to admit I am spoiled by your tours. No other tour I’ve taken has been as interesting as yours. So I guess I will have to suffer a few more stares from you so that I can take more of your tours.”

  “I guess you will.” Stefano winks at me.

  I can’t help but think of Michael and his trademark winks. My anger starts to swell. Why shouldn’t I let myself fall in love again? He was the one who ended our engagement. Why am I being loyal to his memory? Just because Michael broke my heart doesn’t mean every man I meet will do the same. Why am I letting Michael make me miserable—again? I have been enjoying myself with Stefano. Why can’t I just have fun for once and stop being the good girl? I should give this man a chance, even if it’s just for a couple of weeks.

  The temptation to revert to the saucy siren of earlier in the night returns, but I quell it by reminding myself once again who the real Valentina DeLuca is.

  21

  The Redeemer

  My third and last week in Venice has arrived. The city is abuzz as it prepares for the Feast of the Redentore, or “Redeemer,” which is held every year on the third Sunday in July. My plane is scheduled to depart for New York the day after the feast. Stefano keeps telling me how lucky I am that I will be here for the festa.

  Dating back to the sixteenth century when a church was erected on Giudecca Island in thanks for delivering the city from a devastating epidemic, the Feast of the Redentore has been celebrated every year since. Thousands of lights are hung from the piazzas and terraces of homes. Over one thousand boats and gondolas are also elaborately decorated as they congregate on St. Mark’s Basin. The feast reaches its pinnacle at midnight when fireworks are launched from pontoons that stretch from St. Mark’s Basin and the Giudecca Canal. Venice receives at least thirty thousand visitors to witness the lavish celebration. Every Venetian I talk to assures me it is a breathtaking sight that I will never forget.

  Since the night of my gondola ride with Stefano, we have spent every day together. He’s tried to keep his distance. And I’ve tried to keep mine. But our paths keep crossing just as they had on my first few days in Venice. We’ve finally both given up and just started making plans to see each other every day for the rest of my time here. I look forward to the time we spend together every day, and I feel our friendship deepening. And though Stefano has promised to keep his hands and mouth to himself, neither of us can fight the overwhelming attraction we feel for each other. Before we part ways, we always end up in each other’s arms, kissing as madly as we did that night on the gondola.

  Tonight, Stefano and I decide to walk around the sestiere of Dorsoduro after having our cena, or supper. Though I eat a generous salad of tomatoes, onions, and olives with chunky pieces of crusty bread and blocks of salty ricotta cheese, I still have enough room for gelato. We’re eating gelato topped with lots of panna and taking one of our long leisurely strolls, which have become a daily custom for us, when we walk by the church of Santa Maria della Salute. Though I have seen the church from San Marco and whenever I take a vaporetto down the Grand Canal, it’s been easy for me to look away. But now that I’m standing mere feet away from the church where my wedding to Michael was supposed to take place, I can’t ignore it.

  “Valentina, you must see the interior of this church. If you loved Hadrian’s Pantheon in Rome as much as you’ve told me you did, you will love Santa Maria della Salute even more.”

  “Maybe some other time, Stefano.”

  “What? This is your last week in Venice. You might not have a chance to come back. And in the past two weeks that I’ve known you, when have you passed up an opportunity to see any of the architectural sites I’ve insisted upon?”

  “I’m getting overwhelmed with all the buildings I’ve seen. I need a break. Let’s just keep walking.”

  Stefano scrutinizes me closely but follows me as I walk away. I keep my gaze looking forward. It’s no use. I’ve seen enough of the church for the images of what could have been to start playing out in my mind: I arrive at the church in a white gondola decorated with ribbons and roses. My sisters carry my dress’s train as we walk up the piazza to the church’s steps. My dress. My perfect dress that I’ve tried so hard not to think of since my engagement ended. I don’t know what I’m sadder at: my not being able to wear the dress or all the work that I put into it. It had been very much a labor of love. Every ounce of energy I had went into the creation of that gown. The design is no doubt in my mind the best I’ve ever come up with. The dress is perfect. I can find no flaw in it—even the shorter front hem that Michael detested so much is right.

  In moments like this when Venice reminds me of my wedding that never happened, I begin to think Connie was right. Maybe I shouldn’t have come here.

  “Valentina, what is it?”

  The tears stream down my face. I break free of Stefano’s hold and walk farther away, not wanting him to see me cry.

  I finally told him a few days ago about my canceled wedding that was supposed to take place here in Venice. He was amazed by m
y strength, as he put it, to decide to still come here. After that day, I’ve felt closer to Stefano. He seems even more affectionate toward me too, hugging me a lot and quietly observing me as if he’s trying to understand more fully the hell I’ve been through.

  “Is that where it was supposed to take place?”

  Stefano is behind me but is giving me my space. He is whispering even though no one is standing near us.

  “Why are you so perceptive?”

  I turn around and force a smile, hoping my joking will stop my tears. But they keep swimming down my face.

  “Oh, Valentina.” He comes over and takes me in his arms. “You are so brave. So very brave.”

  I sob silently into his chest. Then I realize with horror that I’m probably ruining his silk V-neck shirt with my mascara-stained tears. He doesn’t seem to care, and I just can’t stop crying. So I let myself lean fully into him. He smells so good. And his arms feel so good. Stefano props his head against mine as he strokes my hair with one hand and rubs the small of my back with the other.

  I look up at his face. His eyes hold a hunger like none I’ve seen before. I part my lips, hoping he’ll take the cue, and boy, does he ever. He starts slowly, planting soft kisses all over my mouth as he cradles my face with both of his hands. Then he slips his tongue into my mouth. I slide my arms over his shoulders and around his neck. A very low growl escapes his lips as he entwines his tongue with mine. His hands slide down my back, cupping my bottom tightly against his pelvis. I gasp when I feel his hardness pressing against my abdomen, but the sigh is muffled by our unbreakable kiss. We continue to kiss for what seems like an eternity. Someone whistles at us, reminding us we’re standing in a piazza with plenty of gawkers staring at us.

  “Forza!” A gondolieri yells out to Stefano, making a lewd gesture with his hand.

  “Ignore him.” Stefano laughs. I try to laugh with him, but my tendency to easily blush wins over.

  “I’m sorry, Valentina. I hope you don’t think I was taking advantage of your being upset.”