It was mid-June and waiting for the impending NAS inspection any day now was like being on death row. Every day, I whizzed round the property to blitz and blast any specks of dust that had managed to form in the twelve-hour time frame that I’d been away, in my own house, trying to live, love and be happy with my family.
‘Life is like a mirror,’ Julian always said. ‘If you smile into it, it’ll smile back.’ So I did my damned best to follow that simple formula. And, apparently, sending out positive vibes had produced an effect.
‘Hey,’ he whispered as he came out of his study and into the kitchen where I was preparing dessert. ‘Chin up. I have good news.’
I looked up from my chestnut, chocolate and rosemary castagnaccio batter and he grinned.
‘I have a huge staying-home window in July – three weeks. Maybe we can avoid postponing the wedding.’
I gasped.
‘Really…? You mean get married in July?’
‘Let’s say mid-July. The earlier the better. It would leave us more time for the honeymoon.’
That would mean marrying this wonderful man, the love of my life, in four weeks? Where do I sign? But, hmm that also meant that Marcy would stay the four weeks until the wedding. But, on the other hand, it would also mean that she wouldn’t have to come back in September for what was the original wedding day. Which was a huge bonus in my book. I was already mentally paper-whiting out all those big black Marcy squares from my calendar that had practically blotted out the entire summer and making room for the big pink one. There was a God after all!
‘I’d love to! I do have to check with Paul, provided we do a small wedding. Would that be OK with you?’
‘Dum, dum, du-dum…’ he sang as I launched myself into his arms, getting batter all over his face and in his hair.
‘Oops, sorry.’
He grinned his sexy look, the one he only gave to me. ‘Time for a celebratory shower?’ he whispered, his lips caressing my ear, making my skin tingle.
*
When I called Paul, he was with Chef Alberto and having, it sounded, the time of his life. Good for him. I explained the situation. ‘Can we do it?’
‘If we work double time and hire someone with incredibly good taste and organizational skills to help, i.e., not your stepmother, I think so,’ he answered.
Good taste? Organized? Easy-peasy. ‘I have three someones.’
So I called my zia Maria in Boston to tell her the good news and actually felt her grin across the Atlantic Ocean.
‘That’s amazing news! I’m so happy for you! But… all three of us in the same building as Marcy? Are you sure, Erica?’
Good question. Was I really going to start World War Three with this ceremony, just when Julian and I had reached a sort of even keel and things seemed to be going better? Now, if you think I’m exaggerating, you need to know that every time Marcy encountered her sisters, there were fireworks. Although, my aunts were the least intrusive, the classiest and most upbeat people in the world. There was no problem they couldn’t face. And they were a laugh – a real pleasure to have around, always telling me stories about my real mom. As opposed to Marcy, who hadn’t been much help – or for some reason preferred not to be – with her vague memories and I don’t knows whenever I happened to ask her a question.
All I personally remember is that my grandmother, Nonna Silvia, had been my rock in the storm during my childhood, followed by my aunts in ranking. And when she died, my three aunts all did their best, leaving us wanting nothing in terms of affection and attention. Homework, advice, making us pretty dresses and good old sturdy support through our (mostly mine) growing pains. Judy, Vince and I adored them shamelessly.
All I had to do was convince them to leave Boston for a bit and be in the same country with Marcy. Which was a tall order.
‘Absolutely it’s a good idea,’ I answered. ‘I’ve got a plan.’
‘Oh?’ She sounded intrigued.
‘I’ve asked Dad to come down and take Marcy away until the wedding day. That way, you guys can come over and help Paul and me organize beforehand. The wedding is in four weeks. Can you do it?’
I knew I sounded crazy. No bride would act this quickly unless she was trying to bag her groom before he escaped. Which wasn’t all that far from the truth.
‘Four weeks?’ Zia Maria said. ‘We can organize a war in that time, don’t you worry.’
‘You might have to if Marcy doesn’t collaborate and buzz off.’
‘She doesn’t scare us. Plus, we get to spend some time together. We miss you and your family so much.’
I sighed in relief. Notice how she didn’t say you and the kids but also included Julian in the equation. Because they understood he was my family, too, and not just some guy I’d run off to Italy with on a whim, as Marcy claims. But it’s fair to say Marcy adores him for all the wrong reasons, while my aunts love him for making me happy.
‘We miss you too, Zia Maria.’
‘I’ll have Monica email you the flight details,’ she said, blew me kisses and hung up, most certainly to speed up her own chores in preparation for the big day.
If I knew my aunts, they’d have me covered.
*
One of the biggest responsibilities of running a farm is taking care of the animals. Our vet visited on a regular basis and assured us we and our farmhands were doing everything right. But when Margo, Julian’s favorite mare, was nearing the end of her gestation period, she became listless, until one night she was downright moaning in pain. After the vet had been and gone, we didn’t have the heart to leave her all alone in her stall, so Julian and I spent the night with her, rubbing her huge belly. She was sleeping quietly enough, but every once in a while she would huff when the pain got to be too much and her suffering hurt my heart. Julian kept whispering soothing words to her, and I marveled at the fact that animals may not understand every single word you say to them, but they understand your tone and feel every ounce of your love for them. If she could make it through the night, the vet would return at dawn. Only a few more hours to go. If not, we’d have to rouse Marco and some of our neighbors to help.
‘Are you OK?’ I whispered to Julian in the dark so as not to stir Margo.
‘She should be alright,’ he whispered back, his voice raw from fatigue. We’d been there all evening with the kids who’d wanted to stay longer, but we’d drawn the line at their bedtime. It was going to be a long night. A night spent amidst doubts and fears of every nature. At dawn the vet arrived as promised, informing us that she would be okay. Julian and I went inside for our morning shower, trying to wash off the sense of helplessness, but I sensed that he was still very worried. The downfalls of not being able to protect everything you love. As a mother, I would know.
When Dad’s taxi pulled up a few days later, I cried. He hugged me fiercely, his own eyes moist.
‘How are you doing, princess?’ he said coolly, but I could read him like an open book.
‘Great,’ I said and laughed, unable to believe he was standing right before me in the flesh. ‘Just great.’
But he could read me too, apparently.
‘Not so great if you need the cavalry,’ he answered with a wink. ‘How is the old battleaxe? Still mad at me?’
I stopped. So that was it. They’d had a fight and she’d flown direct here, just to teach him a lesson. I nodded up to the stick figure sitting under the pergola eyeing us.
‘What the hell are you doing here? I told you I wanted to be alone!’ Marcy squeaked, making to collect her magazines and her Martini pitcher.
‘Still downing them like there’s no tomorrow, I see,’ he whispered under his breath, and I looked up at him. Poor Dad.
‘Come down, Marcy,’ he urged. ‘I’ve got a surprise just for you.’
‘Surprise? What surprise?’ Her eyes lit up as she jumped to her feet.
Now we were talking. And apparently, so were they. Finally.
Dad took his cue like a professional actor.
‘I’m taking you away, just you and me, to a luxury spa resort on the island of Elba. I missed you, sweetheart…’
To her credit, Marcy wasn’t quite sure. It was only when I started oohing and aahing about how lucky she was that she decided she’d won a battle – and he, brownie points.
Julian came down to give my dad a welcome hug and collect his suitcase, and I followed him inside, hoping whatever it was she’d done this time, she’d forgive him. Because that was the way it worked between them. She made the mistakes and he asked for forgiveness. I wondered if Dad was weak or simply a genius of a nature I’d never be able to understand.
‘They sound OK,’ Julian murmured as we climbed the stairs to Marcy’s bedroom.
I heaved a sigh. ‘For now. He’s taking her away for a bit. And when they get back, Marcy will have to be on her best behavior with her sisters. Even she can do it for a short period of time, I hope.’
Julian chuckled. ‘What happens when Marcy finds out they were here all the time she was away?’
‘She won’t, unless you or the kids blab, but I’ve trained them perfectly.’
‘I’m sure you have. But secrets always come to the fore, you know that.’
Did I ever. I shrugged, too happy and relieved to question my luck. ‘I like to live on the edge. Speaking of, let’s get back downstairs. And, oh! Please disregard any of her comments on me whatsoever.’
Julian grinned, wrapping an arm around me. ‘I won’t believe a bad word about you,’ he promised.
So we now had less than four weeks to prepare a wedding, two of which, if I was lucky, Marcy would be happy and out of my hair.
*
With my parents gone off on holiday, three days later the taxi bearing my aunts pulled up into our drive and they piled out as we all flew down the steps, Maddy and Warren in the lead. Soon, there was a jumble of arms and legs and kisses everywhere along with many Mamma mia, look how you’ve growns, to which Maddy curtsied and Warren stood ten feet tall, grinning shyly, not yet used to female attention.
‘Alright, everybody,’ Julian said, taking their suitcases, helped by the newly strengthened Warren. ‘Let’s get into the shade. You guys must be exhausted from your flight.’
My aunts fussed some more over the kids on the way up and I knew everything (well, almost everything) would be alright. At least the wedding plans would be going smoothly.
In the space of an hour, Paul and Zia Monica were on their PCs under the pergola and Zias Maria and Martina worked their magic on the phones, all around the same table, wheeling deals while Renata worked on the seating plan. There was nothing left for me to do but choose between options presented and feed my mini army some good old Italian goodies, so I rustled up some snacks.
‘Quanto? How much?’ Zia Maria shrieked over the phone at the poor guy from the printing company in Siena, making us all jump.
So much for poise and class.
‘Sei pazzo? No, grazie. Are you nuts? No thank you!’ She slammed the receiver down.
I’d never seen her do that before. Zia Maria was a concentrate of class and cool. She lifted her eyes and grinned.
‘That’s the first time I’ve ever heard an invitation costing as much as the dinner itself. Banditi! Boy, that felt good.’
Paul suddenly looked up at her, his face bright. ‘Honey, you want to come work for me? We’ll split the profits fifty-fifty!’ he offered, and Zia Maria blushed.
‘No, thank you. I have Le Tre Donne to get back to.’
‘And two sisters to boss around.’ Zia Monica mumbled through the pen in her teeth as she surfed the net. ‘You’d think she owns the restaurant all by herself.’ She looked up at me. ‘Are you sure you want calla lilies and not white roses, honey? Callas are expensive.’
‘Absolutely. I already did the white roses on my…’ I stopped, remembering that farce of my first marriage. Everything, from the dress to the cake to the meal, had been an absolute disaster and Marcy had only made it worse, as usual. But that was another story.
To fuel my miracle workers, I brought out another tray of food: focaccia, with tiny ham involtini parcels, sesame breadsticks, torta Cecina, which is a kind of savory pancake made with chickpea flour. And don’t forget the eggplant, mint and pine nut pockets, all washed down with lemon-mint iced tea. They jumped onto the tray like schoolkids at a picnic outing.
Without Marcy we were all serene and relaxed. Julian was out in the fields while Warren and Maddy were with Renata’s kids in the back garden. And it was pure heaven, like I’d always dreamed. I had my favorite people under my roof and in three weeks, Julian and I were finally getting married. I closed my eyes and breathed a contented sigh. Live, love and be happy. The rest we’d simply have to figure out as we went.
‘Good, huh?’ Paul sighed after a moment as we all savored the food mixed with the fragrant summer air.
‘Fantastic,’ Renata agreed, closing her eyes and letting the breeze caress her skin.
‘Peaceful,’ Zia Maria added, and we all giggled, knowing she didn’t need to explain why.
We polished off our food and sat there, all content in a typical tranquil Tuscan summer afternoon. Oh, if only Marcy had been different. She could have been a part of this all, I thought, wishing Emanuela, my real mom, had lived to see us grow up. She’d have loved the kids. And they’d have adored and looked up to her.
‘I just don’t understand why she won’t talk to me about my own mom,’ I said, following my own train of thought, and they all turned to me.
‘Oh, sweetie, forget about Marcy,’ Zia Martina said, her hand on my shoulder. ‘You know she’s Miss Drama Queen. And all your dad has to do is take her on vacation and he’s forgiven.’
‘What exactly did he do?’ I asked.
‘That’s the thing. The poor guy did nothing wrong.’
‘Except marry Marcy.’ Zia Monica giggled. ‘Ah, my heart goes out to him.’
‘She’s always been jealous of our friendship,’ Zia Maria explained. ‘Even when we were young. And of course the guys we dated were all, according to her, morti di fame, dirt-poor losers.’
Renata and Paul giggled. I couldn’t help myself and grinned. It was typical of Marcy, bringing someone else down when she felt she was nowhere near their level.
‘She’s always accused us of having an affair, all together, of course, with your poor father! Can you imagine that? And he puts up with her!’
It wasn’t the first time I’d heard it, so it didn’t bother me in the slightest. Dad was a lamb.
‘But why did she hate my real mom so much? Why won’t she tell me anything about her? What’s she hiding?’
‘Absolutely nothing,’ Zia Martina chimed. ‘She’s always been odd. And they never got along, you know that. We told you everything there is to know, cara, dear.’
I huffed. ‘I wish I knew more about the family’s past. I wish… I wish Nonna hadn’t left Tuscany in the first place.’
‘You know,’ Zia Martina said as if she’d had a brainstorm, ‘we were thinking about riding out to San Gimignano to see if we can find our old home.’
I felt my eyes pop open. ‘The casolare? Nonna’s agriturismo that she sold to make the money to go to America?’
Zia Monica grinned. ‘Think you can tear yourself away from wedding planning for a couple of hours?’
Zia Maria nodded excitedly. ‘I’m sure I can find it. It has an amazing view of the town.’
‘Wow, that’s so exciting. Go, go, go!’ Renata said. ‘Paul and I’ll hold the fort.’
‘Are you sure?’ I asked. ‘We’re expecting a few follow-up calls.’
Renata and Paul both shot me a look.
‘Go already, before we change our minds,’ Renata said, shooing us away.
So the five of us climbed into my blue Fiat 500L and I punched San Gimignano into the satnav with Zia Maria, who was the eldest and thus remembered best, sitting up front with me. We took off, over auburn hill and luscious green dale, past majestic cypress trees that seemed to guard the landscape since the beginning of time, me in search of my origins and my aunts in search of their past.
I could almost see my nonna Silvia come alive from the faded sepia pictures with her long hair pinned up as was the fashion, rocking it in a stylish dress with a red-lipsticked half-grin, half-scorn as she defied the camera to judge her. Silvia had never cared what others thought of her. And that was what had made her the coolest grandmother in the world.
‘Are we there yet?’ Zia Monica wanted to know after twenty minutes.
We were so high up that puffy white clouds wafted past us and in the distance I could see several towns dotting the green land, an intricacy of white and terracotta knotted in small bundles scattered here and there haphazardly. Here in Tuscany, although every corner was unique, it was easy to get lost in the fairy-tale landscape of the cypress trees and hills that abounded, so much that you could get lost, thinking you were in one place rather than the other.
‘Just a few more minutes. It’s on a hill covered with cypress trees,’ Zia Maria said.
‘Hello? Have you looked around you? Every hill is covered with cypress trees,’ Zia Monica pointed out. ‘How are you going to find it?’
Zia Maria smiled smugly. ‘I have my landmarks. Go down this hill into the village and come out the other side, Erica.’
Following Zia Maria’s directions past the town, then up again over a hill that seemed never-ending, Zia Martina, the second eldest, chipped in with a ‘Yes, yes, down this road. I remember now. Look, that’s it! That’s Tenuta Bettarini, our old farm!’
I instinctively braked and we stared at the property nestled at the top of the highest hill overlooking an immense reddish-brown valley, dappled with several minor and greener hillocks. It jumped out at us, like straight out of a fairy tale. A thick white mist swept around the base of the Bettarinis’ hill like a cat’s furry tail.
And I stared in stunned silence. It was impossible. It couldn’t be. We might have come a different way, but my satnav confirmed it. I stared at the computer screen and then out beyond the windshield to the B & B that had tried to shut us down. The bloody Cascianis. What the…?
And to think that I’d always promised myself that if I ever set foot on my grandmother’s land, I’d run rings around the place, embrace the high stone walls and cry, ‘I’m home! I’m home! I’m finally home!’
But nothing could be further from the truth. Because the reality was that Nonna’s farmhouse, the place I’d dreamed of all my life, was now the bane of my life.
‘Erica? You OK?’ Zia Maria asked.
‘That…’ I stammered. ‘T-that’s Tasting friggin’ Tuscany…’
‘What, you mean your rival company?’ Zia Monica gasped. ‘The ones who tried to shut you down? Erica…?’
I pulled myself together. ‘The very ones.’
I’d kept my promise to Julian that I wouldn’t interfere with the snail-like course of justice anymore, but family history and fate had brought me here once again. What was I to do? Wasn’t this a sign or what?
‘Let’s go down,’ I croaked, shifting into neutral and rolling down the hill. This was unreal. How could my family’s ancestral home be the very B & B that was trying to ruin us? And yet there it was. Dazed, we all stared in stunned silence.
‘It’s changed so much. Now, it looks like… your place,’ Zia Monica said, and I nodded, still slack-jawed as I drove through the open gates and parked.
As we walked round the property walls, Zia Maria craned her neck and softly exclaimed, ‘Look – the courtyard!’ and ‘Look – the tobacco tower! It looks completely different.’
‘Are you sure this is Nonna’s farmhouse? Most casali look very similar…’ I asked hopefully.
‘Sweetheart, we grew up here. And look! See?’
We followed her hand as she pointed to a vaulted archway, so similar to ours, only this one was inscribed with the lettering: Bettarini, 1789.
‘Oh my God,’ Zia Martina cried. ‘Yes, I remember!’
And then I thought about my nonna and whether or not her spirit had wafted back here, to the place she loved so much but had been compelled to leave for her family’s well-being, just as I’d left Boston for my children. Was she, in effect, still here? If I closed my eyes, I could almost see her, walking around on the dusty gravel in her pretty dress, her hem just the right length, her heels just the right height, her hair long and wavy as had been the style.
I wondered if she still lingered. Also, if I could cheekily ask her for a little intervention-cum- upgrade of her ghostly presence on the premises. You know, a few screams in the night, objects being thrown around in broad daylight and some rattling of chains…
‘No, it can’t be!’ Zia Maria cried and took off like a shot.
In unison, we followed her round the back, where she halted with a skid, just like a little girl, right before an enormous oak tree.
‘What? What is it?’ Monica wheezed as we caught up.
But Maria paid no attention, running round the tree, caressing it, her eyes narrowed until she shouted, ‘Look! Oh my God, look!’
We scanned the tree trunk. It had a heart circling two letters: M and G.
‘Who’s that?’ I asked, and Zia Maria blushed.
‘Maria… and Giovanni.’
My eyes popped out of my head. ‘You had a Giovanni?’
She blushed an even deeper red as Martina and Monica nodded in unison.
‘He was gorgeous,’ Martina swooned.
My aunt had a secret love? Who knew? ‘What happened to him?’
She sighed and shook her head. ‘He moved to Argentina with his parents when I was a girl. I still miss him…’
‘Oh, Zia Maria,’ I moaned in sympathy. God knew I’d had my share of unhappy loves, but to think of my aunts as women who had loved and lost like me… that made me feel even closer to them.
Monica turned. ‘Wait – there must be Martina’s around here somewhere.’
Zia Martina shrugged. ‘I can’t even remember the boy’s name. We were so young when we moved to the States.’
‘And I was the baby.’ Zia Monica sighed. ‘No Italian love for me. Oh, well…’
‘What are you talking about – you’ve still got Father Frank lusting after you, haven’t you?’ I said, but Martina’s face told me the subject was taboo, so I dropped it like a hot potato.
‘Oh my God! Look at this,’ Zia Maria cried, her fingers touching an incision in the tree. ‘This is new – it’s still green!’
We all moved in closer for a better look: E+E=E circled by a heart. I looked up at them blankly.
‘Emanuela plus Edoardo… equals Erica,’ Maria sighed, swiping at both eyes. ‘He said he was going to come here and do that one day.’
‘And now he’s done it,’ Zia Monica whispered. ‘The poor man. He’ll never get over losing your mother, Erica.’
I stared at the simple mathematical equation that was meant to be my family. It was too beautiful to be true. The testimony of my dad’s love for both my mother and me. All this time Dad had held a candle for my real mom. And harbored a special place in his heart for me. All this time and for years I hadn’t known. And somewhere deep inside me rose a wave of sympathy for Marcy for never having the chance of being first in his heart.
You couldn’t beat the sweet memory of your first love. My mom and Marcy had been practically identical on the outside – I’d seen it in the pictures Nonna Silvia had left me. But on the inside, they were worlds apart. And this hatred Marcy had felt for her twin that was my mom had somehow transferred onto me, like a cheap decal that you scrub and scrub but simply won’t come off, as if I’d personally done something wrong to her.
‘Why?’ Why, oh why couldn’t she just forget the past and love me as her own?
‘Because she’ll never forgive your mother for having you,’ Zia Maria explained simply. ‘You were what got in her way. And then she had to raise you as her own if she was going to have any chance of him marrying her. You were her only shot.’
‘And her only burden,’ I whispered. ‘Do I really remind you of her – my mom?’
Zia Maria chuckled. ‘Oh, yes – tremendously! You have the same eyes and the same stubborn streak. Your mother was the most similar to Nonna Silvia. They’d die rather than admit they were hurting. Rather fail than ask for help. Remind you of anyone?’
‘Yeah,’ I sighed. ‘It sure does.’
‘I wouldn’t worry about Marcy too much. She’s always been a bit unstable,’ Maria said softly.
But deep down, I knew there was more to it. Something bothering her tremendously. Something no one else knew.