The night air trembled with the cries of an accordion. The slap of a tambourine. The quivering strings of a mandolin. Numerous loud Italian voices singing and clapping to the tempo of theTarantella.
Dancers were creating an eddy in the middle of theal frescodance floor. They shuffled their feet in amazing steps, one around the other, sometimes with their hands connected, sometimes not, but feet always keeping the fast pace.
Deep autumn had brought cooler nights, and the outdoor lights strung from one side of the yard to another were surrounded by a fine mist that had risen from the ground like ghosts to cling to the warmth radiating from the bursts of light in the darkness.
In the distance, a harvest moon hung in the sky.
The air was robust with the smell of chianti, garlic, the yeasty smell of fresh pasta and baked bread, the more earthy smells of artichokes and mushrooms, and the strongest scent of them all, olive oil.
Glistening in the cool night air, highlighted by the effervescent glow, were tables full of our oily harvest in glass bottles.
This was our celebration. Our way of offering appreciation to those hands that came to help in our harvest and share in our blessings. It was also a way to give thanks to the land for all it had offered up, in hopes that next year our bounty would be just as stellar.
Olive oil, that liquid gold, was big in this area. The closest thing to life blood for food. It was close to sacrilege to even mention the “b” word in certain company.Butter. Earlier, two old men had gotten into a verbal tiff over this issue, which surpassed words and went straight into physical when one decided to break bread with the other—over his head. Italians were passionate people.
Among other things, passion seemed to be heady in the air.
Some of the younger guests were eyeing each other from opposite sides of the dance floor. After they’d had enough of standing on the sidelines, they would jump into the eddy, adding to it by going a few steps with someone new.
It wasn’t just the new at love either.
If the young ones were striking a match to start a new fire, the old ones were rekindling what was already on the stove. Using one of the oldest romance languages, dancing, men charmed their women with moves that had been tucked away for a while.
Bringing the glass of whiskey closer to my face, I scanned the crowd over the rim before I took a deep drink. I knew where my own woman was, but to satisfy my own wicked thoughts, I had to check every few seconds.
Standing on the edge of the floor, her hands swished the bottom of her dress, her body moving to the tempo, just not as quickly. Tonight, she reminded me of a fairy that came from the woods. Her hair blazed auburn in the glow of the lights and fog. Her lips were a bright cherry, and those mesmerizing eyes were a green that came straight from a rainforest.
If she were to run through the woods, she’d disappear in the dress she wore and melt back into nature. The sleeves were long and flowing, making a bell shape. The color was dark green, and gold flowers decorated the fabric. A strip of material that looked like a belt but wasn’t accentuated her small waist and plump breasts. The hem of the dress fell right below her calves, and her feet were bare. Shoes were discarded at the table where she had sat with Mia.
She stood close to one of the outside heaters she insisted that we rent. Orange and crimson flames licked the air with fiery tongues and sucked the life out of the fog. The hills behind her seemed to roll on forever, nothing but darkened shapes in the night, hiding sleeping giants in their folds.
Breathing out in a heavy cloud, I could smell the whiskey on my breath. I could feel it in every ounce of my blood.
Rocco came to stand next to Scarlett. His tall, wide form almost towered over her as he said something to her. She looked up at him, her mouth forming the wordgrazieas she took the offered glass of chianti.
She lifted it up to his glass, and they clinked.
She took a tentative sip at first, her eyes almost rolling back, and then downed it without making it obvious. She hadn’t had a drink in quite some time.
Tonight, I knew she’d dabble. With Mia fed and tucked into bed, we both would.
Earlier, Mia had beenooohhhingandahhingso much that I thought she had forgotten all her other words. Gelato. It was her new favorite. When the spoon ceased to get close to her mouth, she screamed and cried. The dancing and music had entertained her for a while, but then she started to fuss again—“ato,” she kept begging.
She’d never beg for anything if I was still in the world, so I gave her more and we pretended to share. She knocked out with a dreamy look on her face. Close to the one her mother wore, watching all the dancers go round for round, red wine cursing through her veins.
Another glass found its way into her hands, and after she finished half, Rocco took it from her, eliciting a narrow gaze. She went to reach for it, but he smiled, handing it to a passing woman. The woman handed it to another, and then she took a crown made from myrtles from her arm, placing it on Scarlett’s head.
It wasn’t significant to the harvesting, I didn’t think, but the women seemed to enjoy wearing them.
Rocco straightened the crown on her head and then laughed as he pulled her onto the dance floor, one hand pressed to her head so she wouldn’t lose her myrtles. People shouted at them as they replaced the previous two dancers. More people had come to stand around; they had been waiting for her to join in the celebration.
She was magic.
I watched as she cast her spell on the entire party, downing more whiskey as she did. No one was immune to her enchantments, least of all me.
Rocco put his arms up, she took one, and they both twirled around in a circle. Just as quickly as he twirled her out, another man took his place, followed by another. A line started to form. My brothers, Donato, Guido, even Vincenzo, always led it—their silent body language claimed a dance with her whenever they wanted it, over men who had no place in her life.
“Cazzate,” I muttered into my glass, finishing the amber with a hard swig.
