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“Are you sure about all this?” I am not used to being pampered.

“My pleasure.” He leans down so only I can hear. “When you’ve lost everything, the least the universe can do is provide first class.” He turns to go.

“Mr. Angelini? Thank you.” I am nothing but grateful to this kind stranger.

“Please. Call me Louie.”

I reel back. “I don’t believe it.”

“Let me guess, your father’s name?”

“No. My best friend.”

Louie Angelini smiles. “Everybody knows a Louie. Is this your first trip to Italy?”

“Can you tell?”

“Prepare to be transformed.” Louie chuckles and walks away.

If only, I hope. Have I built up Italy in my imagination too much? That’s putting an awful lot of pressure on a country to become home to a woman who is without one. But I remember who came before me. The Caps and the Barattas did all right when the worst things happened to them. They were made of something indestructible, and maybe I will find out that I am too.

The flight attendant with the white smile appears and offers me a glass of champagne the color of a silk stocking. I thank her, wrap the comforter around me, and lean back in the chair.

“Cent’anni.” I raise the glass to no one and sip. I have an angel looking out for me, or maybe all the good-hearted, imperfect guys in this world just happen to be named Louie.

PART TWO

Sing ItAway

11

Sweet Home Carrara

Conor Kerrigan andI sing “Flowers” at the top of our lungs with the windows down as we drive through the hills of Tuscany. Miley Cyrus sings in our key (or we sing in hers), which delights both of us. An auspicious welcome on my journey! I have pushed the passenger seat as far back as it will go to match the driver’s side in Conor Kerrigan’s compact powder-blue Fiat. Conor is over six feet tall, so he needs as much leg room as he can get.

Conor is a robust American of Irish descent, with thick sandy hair (needs a trim), observant hazel eyes, and a warm smile. His nose is straight and in proportion to his strong jawline, the Italian American ideal. (This is the model nose that my Spedini cousins ask for when they go to Dr. Salgado to get theirs “fixed.”) No FaceTime image could capture the scale of this man, his presence. Conor is a bit like Italy in that way; you must meet him in person to fully appreciate the magnificence.

Everything changes at the starting point. The air, the light, and my mood are new to me as the road to Carrara twists throughTuscan forests dotted with squat, full chestnut trees with thick trunks. The rows of trees hem the base of the mountain like ruffles of green silk taffeta on a ball gown. The scent in the air is cool cedar and sweet lemon, pungent earth and possibility.

“You’re falling in love, Jess.”

“Am I?”

“Good thing I put in for your two-year work visa at the embassy. I think you might be a keeper.”

“Pull over!” I holler.

Conor drives off the road onto the shoulder, brakes to a stop, turns, and looks at me. “You don’t have to stay two years; that’s just an option.”

“This is not about the visa, though I am eternally grateful. The chestnuts are down!” I announce as I pull a ziplock bag from my purse. “This will only take a minute.” My mother was right. Travel with empty plastic bags becauseyou never know.

“You’re serious.”

I climb out of the car. “Be right back.” I follow a footpath into the forest.

“You’re not going into the woods alone.” Conor gets out of the car. “I can’t lose you on the first day.”

The floor of the dark forest is carpeted with ripe chestnuts; their shiny black shells glint in the sunlight through the branches. I am careful to tiptoe through the snarl of sticks and leaves without smashing the yield.