They walked together to where the dirt road split, one side rising, the other side gently sloping down to a small ravine near the irrigation lake and the vineyard. Eliana, wearing high heels, took careful steps over the rocks and dirt. Ross took her hand and she interlaced her fingers with his. He remembered how wonderful her hand had felt the first time he had held it, in Arezzo.
They walked a moment in silence over the spongy earth, she slightly ahead of him, pulling him toward something.
“Where are we going?”
“You’ll see.”
Twilight was falling fast. The music from the feast grew faint in the distance, replaced by the sound of their breathing and their feet over the rich black soil.
“It’s true what you said about the earth. The soil does smell different.”
“When I was pregnant with Alessio, my skin took on so many changes. It felt different. It even smelled different. I think it’s the same when the earth gives birth.”
Ross nodded again and agreed silently. They walked a little farther. She stopped where a low stone wall blocked their path. She brushed the wall a little with her hand, then put her back to it and pushed herself up onto it. Ross joined her. Their feet hanging a few inches above the ground, they both sat there looking out over the valley they had just traversed.
“Are you nervous, being here with me?” Ross asked.
“A little.” She pushed her hair back from her face. “It will be okay for a while.” She reached over and took his hand again, looked at it, ran her finger down his palm. “You have beautiful hands.”
“You think so?”
“I’ve thought so since I first met you. They’re artist’s hands.”
Ross still looked critically at his own hands.
“That was a compliment. Say ‘thank you.’ ”
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
The wind danced across the valley, stripped of her fruit and ready to wither and be reborn. It was quiet. Ross broke the silence. “So what did you want to show me?”
“That.” She pointed toward the distant valley. The sun was falling and the day’s last light spread out over the land, turning everything before them to gold.
Ross said softly, “Che meraviglia.”
“Sì,” she replied in a voice just stronger than a whisper. “I think this is where the first settlers must have been when they named this valley Rendola. It looks like where heaven might meet the earth. I come here alone sometimes. Whenever I need peace. I sit here and watch the sun set. Sometimes I pray.” Her words trailed off in silence.
Ross closed his eyes. The air was crisp, and there was no sound but the scattered evening song of birds.
“I’ve always wanted to share this with someone. Some things are too lovely not to be shared.”
Ross sat quietly thinking about her words; then he turned to her. “Like you.”
She turned and looked into his eyes. Then, as if filling a vacuum between them, they came together and kissed, deeply and without restraint. When they finally parted, she was breathless, her lips slightly open, her eyes unable to leave him.
Ross looked into her eyes with deep intensity. “I love you, Eliana. With all my heart, I love you.”
She closed her eyes as if to feel his words, like a warm breeze brushing over her. Then she leaned forward again and they kissed, softly at first, then with growing passion. They wrapped their arms around each other, grasping, clenching, entangling themselves. It was as if she was drinking from his mouth, from his soft lips, quenching a thirst that had built up for years. He slid from the wall, still in her embrace, but now standing in front of her and kissing her face. She tipped her head back so that he could kiss her neck, and her arms went around his head, pulling him into herself. Then suddenly she stiffened.
Ross looked up, breathing heavily. She looked troubled. “What?”
“Did you hear something?”
“No.”
“Wait.” She untangled herself from him and they were still. The valley was quiet except for the wind and their breathing. Ross leaned back from her. He saw her eyes light with comprehension.
“It’s Manuela. Wait here.”
Eliana slid from the wall. She took off her shoes; then carrying them in one hand and lifting her dress with the other, she ran back toward the winery. A minute later he heard Manuela’s voice echoing in the valley.
“Eliana! Eliana!”
Eliana was down the hill and up again as Ross watched her. Manuela suddenly appeared on the opposite hilltop. She ran toward Eliana, stopping at the ridge Eliana and Ross had just descended. Eliana shouted as she ran, “Che c’è, Manuela?”
“Alessio’s having an attack.”
In the pink glow of the fading twilight Ross could see the crowd emerge from the winery, congregated around Alessio. He could see everyone but Eliana, who had vanished in the midst of the crowd. He saw the crowd part as Luca’s miniature Fiat pulled up, and then he caught a brief glance of Eliana as she climbed into the back of the car with Alessio in her arms, and his helplessness made Ross feel sick to his stomach. He could see Maurizio and his wild gestures. He watched Luca’s car lurch forward and drive away.
The group milled about for a while; then a few couples left for home, though most just went back inside. Maurizio was the last to go. He glanced around the vineyard, like an elk suddenly stopped to smell for danger; then he turned and walked back inside. Ross sat on the ground next to the wall until the sky turned dark. And when all was dark around him, dark and cold, he walked back to his apartment alone.
CHAPTER 21
“Caro è quel miele che bisogna leccar sulle spine.” Dearly bought is the honey licked from a thorn.
—Italian Proverb
Eliana didn’t come home the next day and Ross worried about her. Tuesday he led three groups and didn’t return from Florence until after dark. When he opened his door, he found a folded square of paper lying on the tile floor of his foyer.
Dear Ross,
Alessio and I got back from the hospital early this afternoon. If you have time tonight I’ll be up late painting. Maurizio is out for the evening so just come on in.
Con affetto, Eliana
He put the note in his pocket. From his doorway he could see the light from Eliana’s studio. He crossed the courtyard and let himself into her home.
Eliana looked up as he entered her studio. “Hi.”
“Hi. Got your note.”
She looked tired, he thought. And there was an unfamiliar look in her eyes. He noticed that his unfinished portrait leaned up against the wall and she was working on something new. He sat down in his chair, though he knew her request had nothing to do with his portrait.
“Did everything go well at the hospital?”
“Yes,” she said softly, then added sarcastically, “Just another race for life.”
Her hand pushed the pencil against the canvas. He noticed her eyes were suddenly moist.
“Eliana?”
She didn’t reply.
“Eliana?”
She exhaled. “I’m fine, Ross.”
“No, no, you’re not.”
She sighed, put her pencil down. She ran her hand through her hair. “No, I’m a mess.” There was a long pause. “We need to talk.”
“About . . . ?”
“About it. You know, the elephant in the room.”
“The elephant?”
“The one that we trip over, squeeze around and try to pretend isn’t there.”
Ross didn’t answer her right away, wondering where she was. “Why don’t I go first?”
She looked down at the floor for a moment; then her eyes leveled on him. Her face showed her weariness.
“I left America not knowing if I could ever love again. But I can. To me it’s a miracle. You’re a miracle. I think you are the most beautiful, kind and loving woman I have ever met. You’re all I think about.”
She closed her eyes.
??
?You have become my meridian, Eliana. I measure my time by when I’m with you or when I was last with you or when I will be with you again. I love you more than anyone or anything in this world. And I want you. That I am sure of.”
He looked at her carefully, hoping his words would evoke some response. Her eyes did not open immediately, and when they did they were only more wet. She tried to respond, but was overcome by emotion. Then she tried and failed a second time. Only in looking away from him could she speak. “But I’m married, Ross.”
Her words hung in the air.
“Eliana, this isn’t news.”
She raised her hand to her eyes. “I can’t do this anymore. I can’t lie in bed every night thinking about you, wishing you were with me. It’s wrong. I try to tell myself that it’s not, but I’m lying. I made a promise to love and honor and obey Maurizio for better or for worse.”
Ross’s throat felt dry. “Maurizio doesn’t deserve you.”
“It’s not about Maurizio,” she said forcefully, then, in a weaker voice, “and it’s not about you.”
“Then who is it about?”
“It’s about God. It’s about promises I’ve made. I’m such a hypocrite. A couple weeks ago I told you how Maurizio cheats on me and how awful it is; then the next thing I know I’m kissing you.” She looked at him with love in her eyes. “Ross, you make me feel beautiful and alive, and so loved, but then there’s this guilt that paints gray over everything. I try to pretend it isn’t there, I try to rationalize my behavior, but the truth is I am tired of feeling guilty and bad all the time. I feel like I’m spending all my energy rationalizing my actions. I keep telling myself this is the last time I’ll do this, the last time I’ll hold your hand, or want you . . . then I see you and it all goes out the window. I can’t stop myself from being with you . . .”
Neither spoke for several minutes. Ross looked up. His forehead was wrinkled; his voice came low and deliberate. “Are you saying that you want me to leave?”
“Ross, this has nothing to do with what I want. What I want is to be with you. I’m just afraid of where this is leading.”
“And where is that?”
“You know where. We both do. When we kissed, I knew I had gotten in too deep. I kept telling myself that I could walk this line. That I could keep my marriage vows but still find love. But that line gets thinner and hazier every day. I’m afraid that I would do anything you ask.”
“I would never ask anything of you that would hurt you.”
“Really? And how about Alessio?”
Ross gazed at her silently. “Do you think that what we did had something to do with Alessio’s attack?”
She turned away from him. Ross suddenly understood. “You do. You think God was punishing you.”
“Maybe He was.”
“Maybe He wasn’t. What kind of God is that?” Ross’s voice turned bitter. “Don’t kiss another man or I’ll kill the boy. That’s not a God, that’s a thug.”
“It’s not for kissing you.”
“Then what was it for?”
“For falling in love with you. For loving you more than my husband. For all the thoughts I have of you that won’t go away.”
Ross lowered his head into his hands to think. “You make me sound like a sickness.”
His voice turned softer, his head rose. “I didn’t come to Italy to steal another man’s wife. It’s against everything I believe in, Eliana. If Maurizio was a good husband, if he was even trying to be, I would have already been out of here. I would have left in the night and I would ache every time I thought of you for the rest of my life, but I would do it for you and Alessio and your family.” He looked intensely into her eyes. “You deserve to be loved, Eliana. Everyone deserves love. Everyone needs love. And what I’ve learned of this world is that those who need it the most are usually those who feel the least worthy of it. And so they bend and stretch to please and miss the entire point that conditional love isn’t love at all. Conditional love is a means of manipulation and control.” His voice was direct. “At some point you need to choose love for yourself.”
Eliana closed her eyes. “And God?”
Ross stood. He walked to her. “If your God only loves you conditionally, then He isn’t much of a God.”
She covered her eyes, though tears still escaped beneath her hands, rolling down her cheeks to her chin. She began to tremble. “It was so close at the hospital. The steroids didn’t work. You know how when you’re so afraid you’ll promise God anything?”
Ross’s brow furrowed. “What did you promise?”
She began to cry harder.
“Eliana, what did you promise?”
“I promised that I wouldn’t break up this family.”
Ross lowered his head and groaned. “Oh, Eliana.” Then he looked at her, his eyes moist. “You can’t break something that’s already broken. Your marriage contract was broken the first time Maurizio cheated on you. Ethics 101, one party violates the contract, the contract is null and void.” His voice suddenly lost its force. “Please don’t make me go.”
For several minutes neither said anything. Then Eliana took his hand. “I need some time alone to think. I can’t be with you for a while.”
Ross felt a tremendous fear rise within him and with it the familiar walls he had relied on for so many years. He was retreating, he knew it, and though he feared it, he feared it not nearly as much as the possibility of losing her. He rubbed his hand across his face. “How long do you want me to go away for?”
“Maybe a week.” Her voice was apologetic.
He took a deep breath then slowly exhaled. “I’ll be waiting for your verdict.” He walked to the door.
Seeing him this way filled her with pain. “Where will you go?”
He shrugged. “I’ll know when I get there. I’m good at going nowhere.” Then he looked at her; his eyes were honest and clear. “I love you, Eliana. Nothing will ever change that.”
Then he walked out of the room. She heard him descend the stairs, heard her front door shut. The door echoed as if the home was empty: as empty as her heart. She looked at the unfinished portrait on the floor. She went to it; she touched his face. It had been a long time since anyone had told her that he loved her. It might never come again. Is this really what life exacted of her? To live without love. It seemed too great a price for any woman. A life without love seemed not only pointless, it seemed more than she could bear.
CHAPTER 22
“Gatto scottato dall’acque calda, ha paura della fredda.” The scalded cat fears cold water.
—Italian Proverb
“Oftentimes, too often, the most vital of life’s decisions are not made by deliberation, but rather by momentum. This is a mistake. It is like waiting to reach the ground before deciding when to open your parachute.”
—Ross Story’s diary
The sun had hours earlier fallen into the Tyrrhenian Sea and was displaced by a rising moon as the train squealed into the Pisa station, waking Ross from his thoughts. It was an odd, painful predicament to be in—to be hurting over the prospect of losing someone who was never his. Anna’s question of the other day still dangled before him. Where are you going with this? Eliana had somehow changed everything. He had been a fool to get close to someone he could never have.
Ross called Francesca from the train and apologetically told her that he would be gone for a while.
She sensed his anxiety and replied kindly, “Don’t concern yourself, my friend. Everything will be okay here. Just hurry back.”
Ross thanked her. As he hung up he wondered if he’d ever see her again.
Ross really didn’t know where he was going, as his only thought had been to leave Florence. At the train station he had noticed that there was a direct train traveling from Pisa to Switzerland. He had wanted to see the Chagall stained-glass windows of the Fraumunster Church in Zurich, and though it was as good a destination as any, he changed his mind. The idea of leaving Italy made him feel dark ins
ide. It had been hard enough leaving Rendola.
He walked to a nearby café, where he watched soccer and drank cappuccinos and grappas with the old men until closing time. Only then, when the prospect of sleeping in the street seemed a reality, did he ask for suggestions on a good place to spend the night. The old men at the café told Ross of a small hotel and bar that was inexpensive and known for good food. Ross paid his bill then went off to find the hotel.
Hotel Fedora was only a few blocks from the train station, in the direction of Pisa’s famed leaning tower. Ross walked into the hotel and laid his pack on the tile floor near the front door. It was quiet inside, dim and dingy. The room was lit by electric wall sconces, and the paint on the wall behind them was peeling in places. A thirty-something woman sat at a check-in counter watching television. She glanced up at his entrance. The woman was voluptuous; dressed in all-black, formfitting clothing. Her blouse was tight with a plunging neckline. Her raven black hair was thick and curled, as untamed as a bramble. She had a naturally blushed look to her face, which made her cheeks glow as if she were inebriated. She had large eyes, dark and pretty and kind. She reminded Ross of a young Susan Sarandon translated into Italian.
“Hello, sir,” she said with a thick accent.
“Hello.”
“Would you need a room?”
“Yes, please.”
“For how, uh”—she paused to think—“very days?”
“I’m not certain. Two, three days. Maybe longer.”
“Three days?”
“Yes. Do you have a room available for that long?”
“Yes, I have. It is fifty thousands lire for day. That is . . . one hundreds and fifty thousands lire.”
Ross pulled two one-hundred-thousand-lire bills from his wallet. He set the money on the counter. She took the bills then counted back his change in English, setting the bills on the counter.