An urge to run out of this vineyard screaming thumps my awareness as I listen to the string quartet. Musical notes dancing through the crisp Italian air paired with bursting love in the newly married couple’s hope-filled eyes must have that effect on all happily married fellow musicians. There’s nothing wrong with me…or my marriage. Nope.
Look, I want my cousin’s marriage to be the most fulfilling, best decision she ever made. I’m talking about a white picket fence, 2.5 kids, if she wants them, and all that jazz. It’s not her fault the timing of her wedding isn’t perfect for this point in my life or that I can’t forget the way life used to be when I was beginning as a wife. Ten years later, I’m somewhere far from that picturesque stereotype. Now, Christian’s and my anniversary is around the corner, and the impending date pops into my thoughts more than expected.
But it isn’t the time to delve into those reflections right now, especially since he’s squeezing my hand and giving me a grin—contact that’s unusual these days. I’ll take it. I’ll take anything.
Returning his smile, I say, “Gorgeous wedding, huh?” The thin lining of tulle under my knee-length black dress itches more than the offbeat darkness I can’t put my finger on or shake. Ugh, let me be free—if only my enclosed, sticky thighs.
“Yeah, they couldn’t ask for a better day.” Christian looks around, prompting me to take in the moment for its beauty.
First of all, there’s his beauty. That glowing tan skin, those small but powerful umber-brown eyes. Oh, how they suck me in like the day I met him.
He catches my glimpse, and I curve my lips upward then swivel my head to take in another scene of beauty—the rolling hills of vines filled with grapes spread out before us, AKA the epitome of romance. Listening to the deep sound of the cellist’s smooth strokes frosts the cake in the trio of contentment. I wish I could eat this place and return to it anytime I need escape.
You’d think I could stay in this zone, but as I sip the pinot noir in my glass and savor its hint of cherry, an ounce of envy enters my soul with the thought that people still love to play their instruments. And I mean love. Those performers look like they’re having the times of their lives. For them, it must be a simple relationship, a simplicity I know nothing about anymore.
Is this tulle ever going to stop itching?! I shimmy my hips and unscrunch my nose. Refocus, Toni. This isn’t a place for anything but joy. It’s a wedding!
Continuing to scan the view, the dry yet silky wine slides down my throat as a wave of calm embraces my body. Being outside has this effect on me, where I can get out of my head. How could it not when there’s no restriction on space? Oh, to be as light as the notes in my glass, embraced by their clear view of nature. Wine’s original home always feels like mine as well.
Directing my gaze on Rocca di Montalino, the fortress on top of the highest hill, the varying sizes of its rectangular windows gleam in the sunlight. The beige stucco walls and red tile roof set against the green land and blue sky spark flowing melodies in my mind. Imagine all the starts of marriages that house has overlooked down below, when couples think it’s only up from here…
“Toni,” my dad calls out from behind.
Saved by the bell, or…the dad.
“Yeah, Dad?” I let go of Christian’s hand and turn around to see an accordion strapped to his chest. I’m not sure what’s wider, the bellows on the extended instrument or his smile.
I laugh. “Um, Dad, whatcha doin’?”
“You can’t have a wedding in Stradella without an accordion,” he answers.
“What was I thinking?” I slap my forehead.
“Your Great-Uncle Roberto brought his dad’s here today, since it’s tradition.”
“Well, let’s hear something,” Christian requests, angling his head.
Dad whispers in response, “Not during aperitivo, Christian. Maybe I can play ‘La Tarantella’ after dinner.” Dad’s deep brown eyes light up as he fingers the motion on the keyboard while staring into the distance.
I grip his broad shoulder and say, “One bit of good luck from the song and a bonus when you play it for them. Double the pleasure.”
“That’s right.” Just as Dad, right on time, adds, “You need to visit the famous accordion museum,” my sense of smell alerts me to the salame d’oca to my left.
“One sec,” I tell him while grabbing a slice of this region’s famous spicy goose meat from the waiter’s tray.
“Don’t you think you need a napkin, Toni?” Christian asks.
“I’m good,” I say, throwing the chunk of meat in my mouth.
He should know his wife by now. A wife that doesn’t worry about napkins or getting her hands dirty. I know when I need to restrict myself, but this isn’t one of those times. Is anyone paying attention to my eating habits besides him? Doubtful. Now, if I was at work or shaking hands or something, I’d be more mindful. Give me a little credit, hubs.
“Toni,” Dad says while continuing to grace the keys of the accordion strapped to him with one hand while pushing away a lone straight strand of thinning light-brown hair with the other brawny hand. “If the inventor of the modern-day accordion hadn’t stopped here in his travels and decided to fix his broken accordion back in the 1800s, we wouldn’t have Grandpa’s, made right here in the factory.”
I’ve heard this story, oh, only five hundred times in my life, especially when we visit the city of our family’s roots, but its lightness is a welcomed guest. “I know, Dad. Mariano Dallapé changed the world, and he deserves all the praise. We’ll see if we can make it there before leaving for Milan tomorrow.” I dip my head and quickly lick my fingers from the greasy salame, then look at Christian for confirmation of the possibility.
He half nods but looks away and takes a deep breath before returning eye contact. “Can you please stop embarrassing me?” he mutters through gritted teeth.
Whoa, he’s in one of those moods. Is it the salame? The proposed schedule detour? I can hardly keep track, and I can’t get pulled into this right now. Well, I can at least try not to get sucked into his pit.
But what I won’t try is to be someone I’m not. He didn’t marry someone different than who he sees now, so what’s with the attitude? I guess I should’ve noticed his shift years ago, but I thought it’d be temporary. Nobody thinks the man they love can make you feel like gum stuck on the bottom of a shoe at all, let alone for years.
The quartet’s performance ceases, and I move on too, though still not escaping flashes of being reminded of the career I’ve come to resent. No philharmonic wants me to play with them. I guess I have to get used to the fact that my cello and I will never be a part of the cool club.
Out of the corner of my eye, I notice a savior. “Olives,” I blurt out. “Be back.” Distraction is key when in denial about life choices.
As I wander over to the staff member carrying my prize, I carefully weave between boisterous guests talking, singing, laughing, eating, and drinking with intense joy. There’s no louder setting than an Italian wedding. Swirling my wine on the journey, the sweetness of the grapes grown right here in the Oltrepò Pavese wine region wafts into my nostrils. Ah, that’s the good stuff—the stuff that’ll make me forget about what lurks at home in Los Angeles and let me enjoy the present.
Grabbing assorted Mediterranean olives on toothpicks from a muted vine-painted bowl, I feel a tap on my shoulder.
“You don’t get any for your sister and mom?” Flora’s hands are on her hips as she exaggerates annoyance through crinkled eyes.
“Yeah, what’s the deal?” Mom chimes in to help her daughter tease me.
Seeing their faces works as well as the wine does for my own mood. “I only have so many hands, you know?” I retort as I hold up each filled hand and smile.
“Likely story, sis.” Flora smiles in return.
“Seems like antipasti is starting, so let’s sit down at our table. Come, come.” Mom leads the way with her gathering hand gesture.
Dad and Christian are already seated when we reach our spots, along with Uncle Roberto and more loving family members. I don’t know if it’s the wine, the food, or my typically battling thoughts succumbing to my heart’s desire to enjoy every second of this needed vacation, but I sense an unfamiliar slowness wash over me as I sink into my chair. Is the Italian way of living finally taking over Italian American me, shooting through my DNA straight to this instant? Is there still hope to achieve la bella vita?
I’d love that, but in reality, it’s probably the effect of the wine, which’ll leave my system in the familiar tune of dreams escaping me over the last decade.