Now it was closed indefinitely, until someone decided what to do. He leaned on the wall and watched Rese and Star chat, Star effusing and Rese soberly responding. Even knowing what he did about their backgrounds, it amazed him they’d maintained their friendship. He and Rico had their differences but came from the same streets, schools, and religion. He couldn’t find the connecting point for Star and Rese, unless it was that they’d both needed someone.
Rico batted his arm. “Handball?”
Lance shrugged, guessing the women might catch up for a while and knowing Rico talked easier in motion. There was a court at the park, but he and Rico went down and played against the wall with the closest thing to an old Spaldeen they could find these days. Back when the rest of the country was discovering Atari, he and Rico had still been out there with sawed-off broom handles for stickball, or chalk to make a game floor for skelly, or nothing but their hands and a ball.
Rico set up to serve. “Juan’s back.”
It had seemed strange at first when Rico called his father Juan, but the lack of relationship or even time spent under the same roof explained it. This was his family; this was his home. He had recognized that before third grade.
“When did he get out?” Lance returned the serve hard and high to win the rally.
Rico chased the ball down, then tossed it over lightly. “A week, two. Don’t really know.”
“Parole?”
“Only two conditions with that man. Locked up or paroled.”
Lance served. “Have you seen him?”
Though his parents’ home was less than two miles away, Rico shook his head. Interesting how judgmental Rico could be after their own close calls, when nothing but Tony’s influence had kept them from lockup. But Lance didn’t say so. They played hard for the next few minutes. With his sparrow’s build Rico was swift and cagey. Though not huge himself, Lance had him in strength and form.
They finished one game, and Rico held the ball. “So whatchu really doing?”
Lance stretched and fisted his hand. “Settling things with Nonna involves Rese. I wanted her here to—” Rico’s expression stopped him. “Wha-a-t?” He cocked his head. “I don’t need her approved. This isn’t Naples.”
“May as well be for your Neapolitan family.”
“Napolitano, Calabrese, Piemontese, and, as I have recently learned, one part pure American.” His great-great-grandfather Quillan Shepard without a lick of Italian.
“And you the dutiful son.”
“Tell that to Pop. He thinks I’m the screw-up.” He sighed. His purpose was to enlighten Nonna and get her agreement on their plans for the inn. While he hadn’t set foot on that property until three months ago, it had drawn him the moment he arrived. He loved this neighborhood, all the family and friends and traditions that made it special. But Nonna’s roots were in Sonoma, and it was there his restlessness had stilled.
How gently on my mind his presence rests,
as though belonging there.
It is my heart he traps and bests,
my hope that he lays bare.
T
he next time Marco comes, I am prepared. I didn’t know the first time how difficult it would be to resist, but I know it now, and when he suggests the gazebo, I tell him, “I prefer the porch.” I set the swing in motion until he steps close enough that it is either hit his kneecap or stop.
“May I?” Before I can answer he takes his place beside me. The swing protests with a soft creaking voice, but he pays no attention, saying only, “This is a swell spot too.”
Hibiscus and wild roses scent the air, with now a hint of his pomade, which he must use with a light touch because the hair is scarcely tamed by it. “Are you always this bold?”
“Don’t don the gloves if you can’t get in the ring.”
I raise my chin. “Is this a fight?”
“Just a form of speech, Antonia. Courting is serious business.”
I press back into the swing. “What makes you think we’re courting?”
He smiles. I turn away before it can have its full effect. I’ve dissected his smile in my dreams, considering the strong, white teeth, not so straight as to look fake, the full mauve lips that communicate a wry humor and ardor at once, and the shadow of beard scarcely chased away by the razor.
Papa saves me from comment by joining us on the porch. Now we will see Marco’s moxie. He stands and shakes Papa’s hand, and I sense a tension between them, but that is natural with suitors and fathers.
“I think if you’re going to spend time with my daughter, we should talk.”
Marco nods. I decide with whom I spend time, and a word from me now would be a knockout punch before the bell rings. But I watch them down the stairs, then strolling the drive to the Studebaker and past. Papa will like Marco’s owning a car. Having things makes a man responsible and respectable in Papa’s mind.
I don’t need a car because I never want to go far enough that I can’t hear the breeze in the vines, the sparrows in the orchard, the whisper of the pale, thin olive leaves. I know the stars that watch over our land, that turn my window into a diamond-studded swatch of black velvet. The smell of the mist at night, the damp earth in the morning. Marco Michelli’s car means nothing to me.
It is the dark espresso brown of his eyes, the timbre of his voice.
It is the very
vanita
with which he approaches me. He is a man who knows what he wants, not a baby who wants me to tell him what he needs. And no matter how I try to resist, that excites me. This is not the old country; it is not the old times, but if Papa feels better having his talks with Marco, that’s all right with me. I can tease later, when Marco is fatted on Papa’s acceptance and not expecting it. I know how to savor the moment.
————
Star’s childlike frame quivered as she described singing in the subway tunnel with Rico playing Chaz’s steel drum. With her iridescent eye shadow and cherry-flavored lip gloss strong enough to scent the whole apartment, she looked twelve trying to be twenty. Though two months younger, Rese always felt like a big sister. No blood connected them, but Star expected the petting, the comfort, the freedom of a younger sibling.
She gave only what she wanted, everything on her terms. But Rese was glad she was there. Even flighty and erratic, Star was the only constant in her life—except for God.
“When all others fail, He will never fail you.”
One time the presence had been so real, it consumed her thoughts and made her fight to stay alive. But that was years ago, and she had only recently chosen to believe it. So far it felt like a decision and nothing more.
“The drum makes these vibrations you can hear forever.” Star made a windy sound with her voice. “And then I sing just like it. No words, just harmonious vibrations echoing in the cement tunnels. It is so synergistic.”
Harmonious vibrations. Synergistic.
“And people give us money for it, stopping to listen or just dropping it in as they walk by.” Star imitated the carefree disbursal of wealth. “It’s crazy.”
“I thought Rico had an agent. Why are you singing in the subway?”
Star tossed her spirals. “The agent’s dragging his feet without Lance. He wanted the whole package, Rico’s drum, Lance’s lyrics, Chaz and the bazillion instruments he plays.”
Would Rico push again to get Lance back in the band? The subway thing didn’t sound like Lance’s music, but …
“Rico’s going to record us in the tunnel. He told the agent we’ve got that Enya sound and thinks the guy might go for it.”
“What about your painting?”
“Are you kidding? This is New York. I can do anything.” She was even starting to sound like them. It was the most positive she’d seemed in a long time.
Rese leaned back. From what she’d seen out the window, they were a long way from Lincoln Center, but if the agent liked their new sound … Star had loved to play Rock Star as a kid, but Rese hadn’t realized she really could sing until that time in the attic when she took Lance’s mic. “That’s great.” She smiled.
Why could Star float so easily from one thing to the next? Because she wasn’t a rock. She didn’t have to be strong and solid for someone else to cling to. Rese got up and walked to the front window that looked out over the urban street. Lance had seemed so cosmopolitan with the diamond in his ear and European chef credentials.
Star came over and stroked her arm. “‘How like a winter hath my absence been from thee.’ ”
Right. Next thing, Star would be on Broadway. Why not? This was New York. Star could do anything.
“It’s only been a few weeks,” she said. Though right now it seemed like a lifetime since Star had left the villa with Chaz and Rico for the Bronx in the maroon van that held their sound equipment. And it had been only hours since Rese boarded the plane with Lance, but already she wished for the villa, the garden between it and the carriage house, the fragrant herb beds and flowering pots, almond and olive trees where Baxter loved to sniff or toss himself down in the shade and loll on his side, tail wagging. She missed the bright open rooms with floor-to-ceiling windows and warm, gleaming woodwork, her own carvings adorning it.
The inn was her business, her project, but also her home. Strangers slept and ate and left. They didn’t kiss her cheeks and pepper her with questions. Besides, it was Lance’s job to answer their questions— if she could ever get him back to work.
Rese frowned. Lance had said he wanted to discuss the inn with his grandmother, to show the old woman what he’d found and tell her what they planned. But it was obvious he had other intentions as well. He wanted his family to accept her.
He didn’t know what he was asking. He hadn’t lived with a woman whose behavior was unpredictable and destructive, whose disease genetically predisposed future generations. Lance thought he wanted a future with her. He didn’t realize she might have no future. As bad as Star’s past was, she could make what she liked of the rest of her life. Rese had been lied to and almost killed, but what happened next might be worse than that.
Lance wanted his family to accept what they didn’t know. Of course, she didn’t know it, either, wouldn’t know until she started having psychotic episodes. Why did she automatically assume she would? That her unemotional self-control, her lack of social skills were symptomatic?
Lance and Rico came in, pearled with sweat and laughing. Lance caught her looking. “All settled in?”
“I guess so.” She had unpacked her things into the dresser that was mostly empty since Star didn’t bother using it. Several of the drawers held the clothes Lance had left behind when he went to Sonoma on his Harley with only his backpack. Would he bring the rest back with him? Or had Rico convinced him to stay?
He said, “I’ll just shower. Then we’ll have an hour or so to walk around before the vultures descend.”
Rese imagined the scene all too vividly. Ever since her mother made them the focal point of the neighborhood, taking her up to the roof to dance, igniting the neighbor’s rosebush, and other things Rese didn’t want to remember, she’d controlled the sort of attention she received. “Wouldn’t you rather hop a plane back to Sonoma?”
He smiled. “I’ll be just a minute.”
When Lance came out smelling fresh and a little musky from his aftershave, she badly wished them at the inn, where she could wield a chisel, or better yet a saw and sander. She needed to get physical with a piece of hardwood.
Lance slipped his keys into his jeans pocket. “Ready?”
“Do I need Mace?”
“Not if you’re with me.”
She’d expected him to scoff.
“If we were touring Rico’s street, I’d arm us both, but this is Little Italy. You’ll be fine as long as you can say
ciao
and eat fish on Friday.”
She shook her head. “No way I’m passing for Italian.”
He grinned. “You don’t have to.”
The knots in her neck loosened as he took her down the streets, dated and colorful with signs and awnings printed with the names of the shops. The stores themselves were tiny, some selling only one thing, like the D’Auria Brothers pork store with sausages that were mixed and dried right there hanging from the ceiling. Sweet or hot. That was the choice. And the two brothers who ran it had taken over from their father, who opened in 1938.
Her chest clutched at the thought that she had sold her father’s renovation business, especially since Brad said the new owners were not living up to Dad’s standards, to her own. That business with her dad and hero, Vernon Barrett, had been her life until his accident. Now she had an inn—and a new partner.
She had known what to expect from Dad. No one in the world had been more predictable, more grounded in routine. But even he had surprised her. Lance was a live wire, a short waiting to happen. What should she expect from him? Nothing. She would depend on herself. That was the Rese Barrett she knew; not the stranger wearing earrings and looking too much like her mother.
She returned her focus to the neighborhood Lance wanted her to see. Addeo and Sons sold bread and biscotti. DeLillo’s had mini cheesecakes, a rolled cream-filled pastry called cannoli, little cakes and tarts. Egiddio’s Pastry was hardly more than a long glass counter of cookies, but nibbling the cookie Lance handed her, she could see why.
“
Ciao,
Lance.” Two gray-haired men waved from the sidewalk outside the fish market, beside a portable counter with clams and lemon wedges to buy and eat. They eyed her openly. “Aren’t you going to introduce us?”
“The less she knows about you two the better.” But Lance turned to her. “Rese, this is Joe and Mario. Gentlemen, Rese Barrett.”
Rese shook hands.
Mario squeezed hers. “You settle on this girl,
paesano
. She’sa best one yet.”
For a minute she thought he would kiss her, but he let go, and she breathed her relief. Stepping back, she caught sight of something moving— a barrel crawling with she-crabs, according to the label. “They’re alive.”
“Sure,” Mario said. “Taste better that way.”
She hoped they didn’t eat them alive, but didn’t ask. She’d been time-warped and body-snatched into another country, another century.