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Dad sighs and stops. “You guys go ahead,” he says.

Angelo and I take the turn onto my parents’ walkway. My mother has left the front door wide open. We can see the family gathering at the table inside.

Angelo places the half of the Parm wheel on the sidewalk and turns to me. “I can’t. I can’t go in there.”

“You said you didn’t mind the wait.”

Angelo hangs his head. He slides his hands up inside the sleevesof my coat, warming my arms up to my elbows. It might be the sexiest move any man ever made on any woman in all of history.

“There’s only one thing to do,” I tell him.

“Eat the shells? Iron the money? Play the card game?” Angelo sounds like he might cry.

“No.”

Angelo slides his hands out of my sleeves. I take his hand. “Run!”

26

A Year Later

I am up withthe sun as it rises in ribbons of hot pink and incandescent orange over the Montini farmhouse. The renovations are almost complete. How I will love my room with a different view.

This is Carrara off the piazza. I am close enough to the action to be a part of it and far enough away to be on my own. If Carrara were this woman, she’d be a sculpture by the great modern artist Jago. She would maintain her classic lines in a modern form sculpted of lustrous Calacatta marble from the mountain. The buttery light would play over her smooth skin, falling into shadow where she holds her secrets.

I open the window and breathe in the air from the pine, fir, and myrtle trees that hem the property.

I stuff a copy of Elsie de Wolfe’sThe House in Good Tasteinto the front pocket of my overalls. I sit down and take a moment to record the swell of what I am feeling, scrolling through the journal entries I’ve made over the last few months. This enterprise that oncewas a chore has become a habit. I have also learned there is wisdom in brevity. I write.

The Big Five:

1. Epiphany. I am as happy alone as I am in love.

2. I don’t have to please anyone to find my worth.

3. A job is not just a job; it’s a creative expression of the journey of the soul.

4. It’s not where you live; it’s how you live when you get there.

5. I am a person of the world, not just my small corner of it, and I own all she is.

I set thephone aside. Smokey sits next to me on the floor as I fill my bookshelves. I pullThe House in Good Tasteout of the chest pocket of my overalls and place it on the shelf. I run my hand over the cover; the line drawing of the facade of a house and simple title font speak to me. I have dog-eared the pages, underlined de Wolfe’s wisdom, and written notes in the margins. I could not have renovated the Montini farmhouse without her. I open the storage box of my books and lift out the volumes, one by one.

I add Viola di Grado next toItalian Waysby Tim Parks, the DVD of Pietro Castellitto’sThe Predators, Domenico Starnone’sThe House on Via Gemito, and Margaret Mazzantini’sDon’t Move. I place Melania Mazzucco’sVitaandThe Betrothedby Alessandro Manzoni next toBrowning’s Italyby Helen Archibald Clarke.Crossing the Alpsby Helen Barolini gets its own placement, front cover out, because Helen has never received enough recognition for her work.

Some of the books are in Italian, others translated to English. I float between languages like a jellyfish, and not very well. I hold words and images in Italian like gold leaf attaches to impressions in marble.A Room with a Viewtakes its place next to Barolini; in this way, it will never be lost. I will always find it.

“Giuseppina!”

I hear my mother call my name from the front yard. I go to the French doors that overlook the vista and open them. I step outside.

“Buongiorno, Ma.”

My family is gathered in the front yard below like the parishioners who cram into Saint Peter’s Square on Easter Sunday to see the pope and await his blessing.

“The balcony is a nice touch.” My brother shields his eyes and looks up as I lean over the railing. The front yard is neatly appointed with a pile of marble remnants of various shapes and sizes, the workmen’s neatly stacked tools, and some planks of wood to be taken away for the next job.

My mother and father stand together, looking up at me. Katie wrangles Rafferty. Joe buttons Mackenzie’s coat while juggling the new baby, Giuseppina, called Jo. Connie chides the girls to lower their voices as Alexa, Alicia, and Abby jump up and down hollering for me to come down. Aunt Lil’s sister, Carmel, and her niece, Marina, try to help with the kids, but their overloaded fanny packs get in the way.