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“I had to see it, Signora.”

Her expression softens. “I miss my grandmother too.”

“That’s because they taught us how to be women. That’s an art we never master.”

“I don’t know about that,” she said. “It takes time.”

The snow begins to fall in large, soft flakes the size of coins. I’m cold, but I don’t feel it so much because I’m thinking of Grandma Cap, which fills my soul with the warmth of my memories. This is where she was born and grew up. It’s a gift to pull the thread from her life in Carrara to the present moment. This was the place she longed for all her life, though she made her home in Lake Como warm and cozy for us. Now I understand why she was so particular. We’d drive all the way down to Eden Farm in southern Jersey for fresh eggs when she planned to bake a cake. The Montinis raised chickens, so she only knew fresh eggs as a child. She wanted whatever she baked to taste like it had in Italy. And even more important, she wanted us to experience the taste, so we would carry Italy from her table into our lives. She kept a garden because there wasnever a doubt that the family would eat as long as she grew our vegetables. We would always have marinara as long as we grew our own tomatoes and canned them ourselves. She built her life, the life I observed from the start, from all she learned in Italy. This was her foundation. The old farmhouse might be in ruins, but to me, it’s a palazzo because she lived here.

Signora Strazza hands me a tissue.

I dab my eyes. “I’m sorry,signora.”

“She sees you. She knows you’re here.”

“I hope so.”

“We cry because we are lucky to have known them.”

“I should’ve brought her back here. We should have brought her home. But, as families do, we were busy growing up and going to school and trying to make something of ourselves, when the truth is, I would have learned everything I needed to know from her, right here, where it all started.”

“You can’t have both?”

“I’ll never know,” I tell her.

“The story of the Montinis in Carrara is simple. They were humble people.Contadini.”

“Peasants,” I say.

“That’s not a bad word in Italy.I contadinifilled the table and our stomachs. It was their hard work that sustained us. Every year, the Montinis did something special. During Holy Week, they made a particular cheese you could only get during Eastertide. It was fresh mozzarella with a paste of figs and other sweet things rolled inside. When you cut into them, the slices became lovely pinwheels. My mother would make an Easter platter with fresh fennel and the Montini pinwheels. It was a beautiful thing. Delicious too.”

“And then they went to America.”

“I didn’t hear about them beyond the stories my aunt sharedwhen I called her. That was typical. There were a few families that left our village and that was that. My parents would keep up with them for a while, letters went back and forth, and over time, the correspondence was more and more infrequent, and eventually, the letters stopped. The old world faded away. America must bemagnifico, because when our neighbors went there, they forgot Carrara.”

“I promise you. They did not forget Carrara.”

I take Signora Strazza’s arm to make the long walk back to the piazza. I turn back to look at the Montini farm in the snow; the fieldstone and mottled wood are covered in icy pearls through the haze of falling snow. Pearls. My treasure, my people, my home.

PART THREE

Love ItAway

19

An Italian Christmas

I stand on myterrace in my coat, mittens, and hat as the local dignitaries place a holiday wreath at the statue of the duchess in Piazza Alberica. It’s the week before Christmas, cold enough that I can see my breath in the air as the sun sets. The Tuscans are engaged in their version of the holiday rush, which is more of a saunter and stroll. A few locals stop to listen to thesindacodedicate the wreath, but most just nod at their mayor as they pass.

The holiday decorations in Carrara are elegant. The loggia is lit by a row of twinkling spheres of white lights that resemble crystal chandeliers. The locals decorate their doorways with swags woven from evergreen branches. There are no blow-up characters, musically timed to blinking lights or animatronics, and while I miss them, they don’t belong here in Italia Vecchia. A historic piazza requires little adornment when the passage of time whispers around every corner. Besides, Maria Beatrice’s stern expression doesn’t invite tinsel and lights. She wouldn’t approve and they wouldn’t dare.

The holiday decorations back home are a show, acarnevale spettacolare. If you stand still long enough in the month of December anywhere in New Jersey, someone will wrap you in strings of twinkling lights. New Jersey is where glitz was born. Our house is drenched in colored lights from Saint Lucy’s Day on December 13 through the Epiphany on January 8.

The day after Thanksgiving, Dad secures a large plastic Santa and sled to our roof by hanging himself out of our bedroom window, his feet hooked to the windowsill. Connie and I stand by to grab his feet, terrified he might slide off the roof and break his neck. He has placed Santa on the roof for so many years, he’s mastered the chore like an aerial stunt. In honor of my dad, I’ve placed the star of Bethlehem on the terrace in Carrara. I light it and take a seat at the café table. I’ve pulled out my phone to call my sister when there’s a knock at the door.

Signora Strazza leans against the doorframe catching her breath from the climb. “Would you like to go to Milan for Christmas? Angelo invited us.”

I think for a moment before answering. Angelo has been gone for a month and I haven’t heard from him, so I say, “I have big plans. I was going to read a book and eat chocolate.”