Read Online Summer in Tuscany by Elizabeth Adler - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Elizabeth Adler
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picture-postcard-Tuscan-village time again.
Amalia looked back to see where we were, waiting for Nonna to catch her breath.
Nonna’s face was pale, but then she smiled, a smile so joyous and contagious, I suddenly saw where I had gotten that bubbly, happy personality, the one I’d had when I was young, the one that seemed to have gotten worn down with time. The one that had finally disappeared forever when Cash Drummond disappeared from my life.
“Ecco, bambini,” Nonna said, throwing her arms so wide, Livvie and I had to dodge to keep from being whacked in the head. “ Now I am home.” And she walked right up to the very last house, pulled aside the bead curtain, and called out, “Is anyone there?”
Amalia thrust us out of the way and yelled at the top of her lungs, “Giuseppe, Maria, come meet Sophia Maria Lorenza Corsini Jericho, here all the way from New York to visit her old home before she dies. She used to live in this very house. She’s a friend of my mamma’s.”
Giuseppe—about twenty-five years old, in blue jeans, with black hair curling out of his white tank top and a wide white smile—appeared in the doorway carrying a bambina wearing only a diaper and a red bow in her hair. And behind him was Maria, young, dark-haired, and olive-skinned, her pretty face showing surprise and pleasure as she welcomed my mother into her home, embracing her as though she had known her all her life.
Nonna stood silently, looking around at her old home. Everything had changed. Where there used to be a hard dirt floor and an open fireplace for cooking and simple wooden chairs to sit on, now there were ceramic tile and a stove and upholstered furniture. But somehow it was still the same: the same feeling, the same memories.
Word had already spread, and familiar faces, grown older, were crowding in the doorway. Everyone remembered the Corsini family; everyone wanted to meet Sophia’s daughter and her granddaughter and hear about her life in New York. Checkered cloths were already being flung over the tables outside, more chairs dragged up, and wine bottles opened. Olives and bread were brought out and cheeses and tomatoes and biscotti and more wine. Livvie was holding the bambina, and tinny music blasted from a radio. All of a sudden there was a party going on.
We were all sitting around watching the sun set over Bella Piacere, and Nonna, who had discarded the Mafia widow look along with the sunglasses, was holding her old friend Renata Posoli’s hand and catching up on about fifty years’ worth of news.
I caught a tender smile lurking in Livvie’s eyes as she watched her grandmother, and I knew, despite my previous doubts, that coming to Bella Piacere had been absolutely the right thing to do. Sophia Maria Lorenza Corsini Jericho was home again.
Chapter Fifteen
It was late when we returned to the albergo . Lights were on in the square and in the church, and in the grocery store window, illuminating the dusty bottles of wine and crates of melons and shiny red peppers. The MOTTO sign over the single-pump garage with the dark little workshop in the back glowed neon green. Next to it, the smoky Bar Galileo, with faded ads for grappas and beers stuck all over its window, was doing good business. From inside came the crackle of the TV with a soccer game turned up loud and the roars of the patrons as Juventus scored again. The gelateria opposite attracted evening strollers and small children with its sign saying granita fatta a casa, homemade ices, and gnarled old men played bocce on the dusty court overhung with umbrella pines, urged loudly on to victory by the idlers outside the bar.
The lone figure of a priest in a black robe and wide-brimmed hat waited on one of the little metal chairs outside the albergo . He was plump, with a pink face, round wire glasses, and an anxious expression. He stood as we approached.
“ Signora Jericho?” He offered his hand. “I heard you had arrived. I am Don Vincenzo
Amalia looked back to see where we were, waiting for Nonna to catch her breath.
Nonna’s face was pale, but then she smiled, a smile so joyous and contagious, I suddenly saw where I had gotten that bubbly, happy personality, the one I’d had when I was young, the one that seemed to have gotten worn down with time. The one that had finally disappeared forever when Cash Drummond disappeared from my life.
“Ecco, bambini,” Nonna said, throwing her arms so wide, Livvie and I had to dodge to keep from being whacked in the head. “ Now I am home.” And she walked right up to the very last house, pulled aside the bead curtain, and called out, “Is anyone there?”
Amalia thrust us out of the way and yelled at the top of her lungs, “Giuseppe, Maria, come meet Sophia Maria Lorenza Corsini Jericho, here all the way from New York to visit her old home before she dies. She used to live in this very house. She’s a friend of my mamma’s.”
Giuseppe—about twenty-five years old, in blue jeans, with black hair curling out of his white tank top and a wide white smile—appeared in the doorway carrying a bambina wearing only a diaper and a red bow in her hair. And behind him was Maria, young, dark-haired, and olive-skinned, her pretty face showing surprise and pleasure as she welcomed my mother into her home, embracing her as though she had known her all her life.
Nonna stood silently, looking around at her old home. Everything had changed. Where there used to be a hard dirt floor and an open fireplace for cooking and simple wooden chairs to sit on, now there were ceramic tile and a stove and upholstered furniture. But somehow it was still the same: the same feeling, the same memories.
Word had already spread, and familiar faces, grown older, were crowding in the doorway. Everyone remembered the Corsini family; everyone wanted to meet Sophia’s daughter and her granddaughter and hear about her life in New York. Checkered cloths were already being flung over the tables outside, more chairs dragged up, and wine bottles opened. Olives and bread were brought out and cheeses and tomatoes and biscotti and more wine. Livvie was holding the bambina, and tinny music blasted from a radio. All of a sudden there was a party going on.
We were all sitting around watching the sun set over Bella Piacere, and Nonna, who had discarded the Mafia widow look along with the sunglasses, was holding her old friend Renata Posoli’s hand and catching up on about fifty years’ worth of news.
I caught a tender smile lurking in Livvie’s eyes as she watched her grandmother, and I knew, despite my previous doubts, that coming to Bella Piacere had been absolutely the right thing to do. Sophia Maria Lorenza Corsini Jericho was home again.
Chapter Fifteen
It was late when we returned to the albergo . Lights were on in the square and in the church, and in the grocery store window, illuminating the dusty bottles of wine and crates of melons and shiny red peppers. The MOTTO sign over the single-pump garage with the dark little workshop in the back glowed neon green. Next to it, the smoky Bar Galileo, with faded ads for grappas and beers stuck all over its window, was doing good business. From inside came the crackle of the TV with a soccer game turned up loud and the roars of the patrons as Juventus scored again. The gelateria opposite attracted evening strollers and small children with its sign saying granita fatta a casa, homemade ices, and gnarled old men played bocce on the dusty court overhung with umbrella pines, urged loudly on to victory by the idlers outside the bar.
The lone figure of a priest in a black robe and wide-brimmed hat waited on one of the little metal chairs outside the albergo . He was plump, with a pink face, round wire glasses, and an anxious expression. He stood as we approached.
“ Signora Jericho?” He offered his hand. “I heard you had arrived. I am Don Vincenzo
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