The Last Promise (35 page)

A moment later Alessio took her hand. “Can we sit down?”

With her free hand Eliana wiped the tears from her eyes. “Yes, sweetheart.”

They found their seats, and Eliana took a picture book out of her carry-on for Alessio. When he was content, she sat back and closed her eyes. As the train rumbled away from Florence, her mind reeled through two thousand days in Italy, weaving between languages and cultures, firsts and lasts, images of Maurizio and Anna and then Villa Rendola—her maternal hills spotted with trellises. She saw Alessio growing and changing. And she knew that she too had changed, and she wondered if she could ever totally fit back into American life. She wondered if this was how a soldier felt coming back from a crusade filled with stories and thoughts no one but his comrades could ever know or understand. But through her mind’s wanderings her thoughts always came back to Ross, as if he had been the punctuation of her story, and it made her want to cry. And his words haunted her.
Remember, Eliana, love doesn’t give second chances.

—Italian Proverb

 

 

 

 

 

I
don’t know how long I’d been sitting there, baking beneath the Tuscan sun, engrossed in Eliana’s tale. At least an hour. When she finished talking, it was lunchtime and there were a few vacant lounges around us, though I didn’t remember seeing anyone leave.

In the telling of her story Eliana had changed to me. Now, somehow, she had become larger than life, reminding me that the best stories aren’t always in books.

“Do you believe that?” I asked. “That love doesn’t give second chances.”

“I did for a while.”

“So what happened next?”

“I went back to Utah to get on with my life.
A fresh start.
But it was hard. I had changed so much.” She laughed. “Everyone called me Ellen, and I would look around to see who they were talking to. They say you can’t go home again. They’re right. But it’s not home that changes.”

“And Alessio, how did he cope with the move?”

“It was also hard for him at first. I hadn’t realized that his grandmother was a stranger to him, and it took him a while to warm up to her. But you know how adaptable children are. We also discovered that he had fewer allergies in America, so we had less problems with his asthma.”

“You found a job?”

“I started selling my paintings. It was that or leave Alessio with a baby-sitter. I was surprised at how well it went. I never had to go out and find a
real
job.”

“I’d like to see your work sometime.”

She smiled. “I’m always looking for clients. Do you ever get up to Park City?”

“All the time. My kids ski there.”

“The Linton Gallery on Main Street has some of my landscapes.”

All of my questions had been leading up to this one.

“And Ross?”

“Ross,” she repeated. “I thought about him every day. I thought that leaving Italy would make it easier somehow. But I was wrong.” She smiled. “My broken heart followed me clear across the Atlantic and found me in Vernal, Utah. I have to admit that I was getting pretty tired of hurting. It was like being sick and wondering when you’re going to get better.”

“I know the feeling,” I said. “But life goes on.”

She smiled. “Yeah, it goes on. But never the way you expect it to. It was about six months after I returned to America that everything changed.”

Doris Webb sat on a vinyl chair on the concrete front porch of her home. Her needles darted and bobbed in ritualistic motion like two cabaret dancers, indifferent to the occasional pangs of her arthritis. She was happy, and this was reflected in the yarn she had chosen for the blanket she knit: bright yellows and greens and oranges.

It was a small home, with painted wood side panels, identical in architecture to the rest on the street. Like the rest, it had been built in the economic boom of postwar America when entire neighborhoods sprang up overnight in the once pastoral ridges of cow pasture.

Doris had known the home when it was young. She and Ed had bought it new, when they were just newlyweds, their entire lives open before them like a blank diary.

She had lived a life there. It was there that they had raised their one child—their daughter, Ellen. It was that same porch where Ellen had received her first kiss, the night of her junior prom, from Mike Dunlop, a cowboy Ed had never liked. He had flashed the porch light on and off until they quit, while Doris sat in front of the television set watching Johnny Carson, shaking her head and telling him to leave the young people alone.

Only four years later Ed’s wake had been there, in the front room, and neighbors crossed that porch to pay their respects. He had died in the home and wanted his viewing there as well. When it was over, she and Ellen had sat and cried together on the porch until they had nothing left inside to cry out. The neighbors had cried too. And they brought hot bread and pies and potato casseroles with cornflake topping.

There had been other tears shed on that porch. She had stood on the porch and cried the day Ellen left for college, driven to Salt Lake City by her cousin who knew his way around the big city. Then she cried again when Ellen and her baby grandson, Alessio, left for Italy to live. Then too her good neighbors came to her aid, bringing fresh-baked bread and casseroles. That’s how things were done in Vernal.

The home had aluminum window canopies, once bright green but sun-faded to an olive hue. It had wrought-iron railings set in the concrete of the porch, painted white, chipped in places and rusted at the bottom. An oxidized chain-link fence surrounded the yard, with grass intertwined and tall at its base where the lawn mower didn’t reach and the weed eater had failed to bring it down. An apple tree grew in front, its boughs heavy with sour green apples, and some newly fallen fruit peeking up from the grass like bird eggs in a nest.

Yes, there had been a lot of living in that home. Someday she too would be gone. The house would be sold, to a young couple. They would come. They would tear out the harvest gold shag carpets and refinish the hardwood floors protected beneath. Walls would be painted again, this time with paints that had food names: oatmeal, vanilla or cranberry. New appliances would be bought, cappuccino makers and refrigerators with water and ice in the door. The cycle would start anew with somebody else.

But not yet. Doris’s daughter was back. Her grandson was back. And she had a blanket to finish.

Doris set down her needles and waved as Eliana’s car sidled up to the curb and stopped. As Eliana took the keys from the ignition, Alessio slumped down in his seat, his frown returning. “Why can’t I come with you?”

“Because I said so. And stop whining. In eight blocks you’ve filled this car with more whine than Chianti produces in a year.”

“That’s dumb, Mom.”

“So is your whining.”

“Why do I have to stay?”

“Because I said so, Mr. Ferrini. You have school tomorrow. And mommies sometimes need time for themselves. Besides, you hate art shows. Remember last time all you wanted to do was go home? And
Nonna
—” She corrected herself. “
Grandma
would be very sad if you didn’t stay with her. She’s missed you.”

He didn’t smile. “I don’t even know her very well.” “Which is precisely why you should stay.”

Alessio made a face.

“Oh, stop that. You and Grandma will have a ball. I promise. By the time I get back, you won’t even want to go home.”

“I doubt that.”

“Come on, son.” She climbed out of the car.

Doris shouted from the porch. “Hi, Ellen.”

“Hi, Mom.”

“Where’s my little Alessio?”

“He’s in the car.” She raised her finger to her head, her hand shaped like a gun. Doris only smiled. She had been a mother once. Still was.

Eliana opened the trunk and took out a small suitcase and a backpack. Then she opened Alessio’s door, giving him the eye. “You be good, or I’m not bringing you back that new Nintendo game you wanted.” She dropped his backpack in his arms.

“All right.” He climbed out of the car, the frown still stitched to his face.

“There’s my Alessio.”

“Hi, Grandma.”

Doris just smiled. When they reached the porch, she greeted them both with a hug. “Come on inside, you two.” They stepped in.

Eliana breathed in deeply. “It smells good.”

“They had a sale on apricots at Smith’s and I was making some fruit leather.”

“That brings back memories.”

“Alessio, I have a Nintendo game in the family room. You’re going to have to set it up for me.”

“Okay.”

“It’s right there past the kitchen.”

He ran off.

“I don’t want him playing Nintendo the whole time I’m gone.”

Doris just smiled. “Don’t worry, we’ve got plenty to do. So how’s everything at your duplex? All moved in?”

“Yes. It’s nice.”

“You know, you could have just moved in here with us. Alessio would have more room out back to play.”

“I know, Mom. And I appreciate it. It’s just . . .”

Doris waved her hand, dismissing Eliana’s need to explain. “I know, dear. I was young once too. You can’t go back. Besides, having your old mother around would just cramp your style.”

Eliana laughed. “What style?”

“Everyone at church has been asking about you.”

Eliana picked up a thin sheet of apricot leather. It was still warm. She pulled a strip from it and ate it. “I love this stuff. So what is everyone asking about?”

“You know, the usual stuff. How are you doing . . . what are you up to . . . when are you going to get married again . . . the usual.”

She groaned. “I figured.”

“You know Michael Sanford’s available.”

“The one with six kids? He got a divorce?”

“No, his wife died of cancer last year. He’s a good man, Michael. Good dad. Not a bad-looking man either.”

“Six kids?” She raised her hands.
“Piano, piano.”

“Piano?”

“It means slowly, Mom.”

Doris looked at Eliana thoughtfully and it made Eliana uncomfortable. Her mother could always read her, in the same way she always knew what the weather was going to do better than the weatherman, something Eliana never understood as a child and still didn’t.

“You miss him, don’t you?”

“For the rest of my life.”

She sighed. “Oh, Ellen. I miss your father too. I sometimes find myself baking something I don’t even like, just because he liked it. It’s the only promise of love, I suppose.”

“What promise? Torment?”

She smiled sympathetically. “Maybe.”

“I sometimes wonder if it was worth it. I know, it’s better to have loved and lost and all that . . . but that kind of thinking doesn’t help much on cold nights. Sometimes I just ache. Why did I have to fall so hard?”

Her mother smiled. “I don’t know, sweetie. But life has taught me to never regret having loved somebody. To lose love is a misfortune. But not to have loved, that is tragedy.”

“Now you’re sounding like an Italian.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment.” She hugged her daughter. “It’s so good having you back home, Ellen.”

“It’s good to be back.” She sighed. “Well, I better get going. Let’s go over everything.” Eliana took a folded sheet from her pocket and handed it to her mother. “I’ve written everything down here. Alessio needs to be to school by eight-thirty. He’s at Meadow Moore.”

Doris nodded. “I know where that is.”

“His clothes are in his bag. His inhalers are in his bag. And there’s also a spare one in his backpack. You have my cell phone number and here’s the gallery’s number in Park City. It’s the Linton Gallery. It’s long distance from here so you’ll have to dial a one. And, if there’s an emergency—”

Her mother stopped her. “I’ve practiced using the inhalers. And the hospital is only two blocks away. I’ve already talked to Sylvia over in emergency; everything’s fine. Her son has asthma too. So do Marge’s son and grandson, next door. They’ve all agreed to help. We could practically open an asthma clinic in this neighborhood. Now, just go on and have a good time. Everything’s going to be just fine.”

“All right, Mom.” She called out, “Alessio!”

Alessio ran into the room.

Eliana stooped down and kissed him. “I’m going now. Now, you be a good boy and do what Grandma says. I’ll call you tonight.”

“When will you be home?”

“Tomorrow night.”

Doris put her arm around Alessio. “We’ll be okay, Eliana. Alessio just needs to spend more time with his
nonna
. Now, what do you say to making some sugar cookies? I have some Halloween shapes, like bats and ghosts.”

“We could do that.”