Page 28 of Gelato at the Villa (Suitcase Sisters #2)
Do few things but do them well, simple joys are holy.
St. Francis of Assisi
I didn’t mind if Claire was in the kitchen amusing Rosie and Amelia with the tale of my encounter with the other Raphael. I just didn’t want to be the one to tell the story.
Leaning against the low stone wall that enclosed the back side of the villa, I gazed down at the pool.
Amelia stepped outside with a tablecloth over her arm and a basketful of votive candles.
I didn’t ask if she’d heard about the bell tower incident.
Knowing Claire, she might have held back, thinking my departure was due to self-consciousness.
A flash of insight came to me: I didn’t feel overwhelmed with embarrassment. The level of reluctance I felt over becoming the focus of a humiliating story seemed like a normal amount of hesitation. That was refreshing.
“Did you want to see the garden?” Amelia asked.
“Yes, please. I love gardens.”
Her expression lit up. “So that is your passion, is it?”
“Yes. I love to plant seeds and watch them grow.”
“Here.” Amelia handed the basket and tablecloth to me. “Would you mind leaving these on the table under the trellis? You go down those steps to the left.”
“Sure.” I took the pathway and the stairs carefully down to the terraced garden.
It was lower than the villa and pool, which was why I hadn’t discovered it sooner.
Unlike Paulina’s raised garden beds, Amelia’s plants grew out of the rich earth and provided a serendipitous preamble to the vineyard that stretched out beyond the small but efficiently used garden area.
At the top of the terraced garden was a patio covered by a breathtaking pergola. Thick columns held up the four corners, and curling up each column were eager wisteria vines that spread across the top and dripped down between the beams.
“Oh! Hallo! Or, ciao!” Rosie joined me with a stack of colorful blue and yellow plates.
“You can leave those on the table. Don’t we have the perfect evening for dining alfresco?
And isn’t this a dreamy spot? This has to be my favorite room in all the villa.
If we can call it a room. I think we can.
An outdoor dining room, you might say. We rarely have anything like this in England.
The weather, you know. But this is the very reason one comes to Tuscany, isn’t it? ”
Rosie smoothed the cloth over the table and put the plates on both sides while I stood, still mesmerized, under the fragrant canopy of purple blossoms. I drew in their heady scent and gazed at the uneven garden for a few more minutes before going down the next level of stone steps to properly introduce myself to the happy, healthy assortment of growing food.
I decided that when I got home, I was going to revive my garden.
It wasn’t too late in the year. I could still plant veg etables to harvest in the fall.
I’d have to do a lot of work to get the space back in shape, though.
When I took on more responsibilities at work, the first thing I’d relinquished was my garden.
Standing in Amelia’s garden and thinking back to how I’d felt in Paulina’s garden, I realized what a loss I had inflicted on myself when I gave up my time outside with my hands in the earth.
It had been a shallow year, and now I knew that was because I hadn’t left room in life for my passion.
I hadn’t pressed any seeds into the earth for the simple joy of watching them grow.
A line from the book about St. Francis came to me: “Simple joys are holy.”
That was it. I needed to reclaim and nurture the simple joy of gardening because for me, it was holy. My sweetest times of prayer and meditation always happened in my garden. I missed that time of communion. The challenge was going to be, when would I find time?
I knelt and lifted one of the green leaves in the strawberry patch. Underneath was a ripe, red berry. “Hello, you little beauty.”
Right then, a distinct thought rested on me. I was released to leave my job.
It seemed so clear. I could let go of the commitment. The realization went deep, just like the earlier impression that fear doesn’t come from God. The two seemed connected.
I remained in my kneeling position and thought about the wide world of options open to me if I wasn’t working. Gardening was only one of the benefits. Emma was at the top of my thoughts. I would be free to spend more time with my daughter, which was something I knew had been lacking.
I stood, went over to a bench at the end of the garden, and took in a fresh view of the garden, pergola, and side of the villa.
Pulling out my phone, I thought about what I was going to say in my text to Nathan.
To my surprise, he had texted me less than an hour earlier, and all he said was to check my email and he’d text me later.
An email from my boss was buried in my inbox. It had been opened, which is what I had asked Nathan to do while I was gone in case anything pressing came through. The short letter had been composed for patients and wasn’t specifically for me. The news, however, greatly affected me.
I read the email twice and tried to phone Nathan, even though I knew the rates would be high and he probably wouldn’t pick up. My call went to his voicemail, and I kept my message short.
“I saw the email. Wow. So, his last day of practice is June 15. Strange way for him to tell me. But you know what? Fifteen minutes ago I knew that I should leave my job. I just knew. Okay, well, lots to talk about when I get home. I love you so much. Kiss Emma for me and tell her to kiss you for me.”
I gazed up at the sky and said, “Thank You.” The peace that rested on me in that moment felt like an old friend. An old friend who had not only come back to town but also moved in right next door to me.
I didn’t have a chance to tell Claire about my “is that odd or is that God?” news before we gathered around the table under the wisteria at the twilight hour.
Gio stood at the head of the table and indicated that the five of us should join hands, which we did.
I was closest to Gio. When my hand slipped into his, I felt his calluses and thought of how he’d earned each one of them making the dream of this beautiful place come true as he and Amelia transformed the villa.
Gio then lifted his voice in what had to be a prayer. Even though it was in Italian, the humility and deep gratitude in the tone of his voice came through as he gave thanks to God. Pure gratitude is recognizable in any language.
Gio ended his prayer by singing. The moment felt achingly beautiful. His rich voice rolled over us like the hills that spread out into the fading distance.
Amelia started our meal by having us pass our plates so she could serve generous portions of her nonna’s best chicken dish.
The recipe incorporated sun-dried tomatoes and spinach along with, I’m sure, a dash of extra virgin olive oil.
She pointed out the pesto I’d made, which was in a bowl at the center of a plate of ciabatta.
Claire’s Alfredo sauce was featured in a large bowl of fresh, hot tagliatelle, and the garden-fresh green beans were sautéed perfectly and sprinkled with breadcrumbs and Parmesan cheese.
We ate slowly under the twinkle lights that lined the pergola and with the glow of the votives that ran the length of the table. No need to rush. Everything tasted delicious, hot or cooled.
Amelia translated Gio’s words for Rosie and us. He had lots to say about the food and his love for his wife.
Claire asked questions about the renovations they had made to the villa, and both Amelia and Gio told us stories of crumbling walls, broken water pipes, and people in the community, like Raphael, who helped out.
“I love that we can now share this beautiful place with people from around the world,” Amelia said first in English and then in Italian.
Gio pointed at us and said something.
“He loves this too,” Amelia translated. “He loves gathering around the table. It’s his passion to see people coming together for a feast.”
“Our hostess in Venice said that you don’t get old at the table,” Claire said. “I feel that way tonight.”
“It felt that way when Gio and I first met at a dinner.” Amelia smiled at her husband.
Gio said something more.
Amelia nodded. “He says we are telling the story of the feast written about in the last chapters of the world’s most important book.”
I put the clues together and said, “The wedding feast of the Lamb?”
“Yes.” Amelia’s expression lit up. “Exactly.”
“Sì, sì.” Gio started talking rapidly.
“My romantic husband sees moments like this, around the table, as an enactment of a holy event that is yet to come. The wedding feast of the Lamb. On that day the Bridegroom will be united with His bride. In a way, we are acting it out every time we gather at the table.”
I felt a shiver tickle the back of my neck.
“I think I lost something in the translation,” Claire said.
“You know how Jesus refers to Himself as the Bridegroom,” Amelia said.
Claire didn’t reply.
“Well, at the end of the Bible, in the book of Revelation, is a description of His beautiful bride coming to Him and the great wedding feast.”
Claire gave her a wary look. “If you’re saying what I think you’re saying and the ‘bride’ is somehow a representation of Christians or anything that has to do with the church, I have a hard time believing ‘she’ is going to be beautiful by the time she gets to the feast. I mean, she is not exactly attractive from where I’m looking at her. That’s just my experience.”