“What did you think?”
“I think one should refrain from judgment until they are in the passenger seat.”
“Fair enough.” I cracked up.
He shut my door, and for a second, it felt as if I was breathing in memories. The scent of my Nonna drifted past my nose—a floral smell with a touch of citrus—along with my perfume and maybe a touch of beignets from the last time we’d had them together.
I smiled, remembering how Nonna had wiped my shirt, complaining how I should’ve known better than to wear black when we had them. I should’ve known better, but at the time, I didn’t care. I was with my grandmother, making memories—a memory like the one I was currently cherishing. My husband opened the passenger-side door, and as easily as he had set me in the seat, took his.
Right away, she started up. I looked at him.
He shrugged. “I made sure all was right with her before she made her trip over the ocean.”
“I love you, Rocco Fausti.” I leaned over and kissed his lips, resting my head against his after. “Have I told you that lately?”
“Tell me again.”
“I love you, Rocco Fausti.” I breathed out. “My husband.”
We sat that way for…however long…until a donkey brayed somewhere in the distance. I grinned and so did he. Then he kissed me and nodded toward the wheel.
“Eager to get somewhere?” I put her in reverse and backed out of the garage with ease.
Rocco pointed in the direction he wanted me to go. “Follow the road until you can no longer. I will give you directions from there.”
“That sounds ominous.” I grinned.
He turned the radio on, and the last song Nonna and I were listening to played: “Glory of Love” by Peter Cetera.
Rocco nodded. “The Karate Kid.”
“You know the movie?”
“You sound surprised,Amora.”
“You caught that, huh?”
“Caught it and am holding it.”
I laughed even harder, then sighed. I shrugged. “Didn’t seem like you’d enjoy American movies.”
He lifted his hand, making a so-so gesture. “I cannot claim to love them. I prefer the drama of the opera; however, Romeo is a cinephile. He has quite the collection of movies.”
“Ahh,” I breathed out. “This is why he calls Scarlett ‘Sissy.’ I remember now. He knew a few lines fromUrban Cowboy.”
“Sì.”
“What?” I grinned. Couldn’t stop. The look on my husband’s face was one I’d never seen before. It was like he was disappointed or…something.
He waved a dismissive hand. “He is ridiculous at times.” His face scrunched after he said it, like he was rememberingsomething his younger brother did that fell under the heading “ridiculous.”
I wasn’t sure what it was, but I exploded with laughter. “Romeo will be Romeo.” I laughed even harder, and after a second, my husband’s face softened, and he started laughing too.
I almost flew down the hill when he brought up our time on the island, and how shocked Romeo was when he had thrown a nut toward Juliette’s open mouth for her to catch, and instead of gettinghis wife, he got Rocco on the forehead. The entire table had grown quiet. When Rocco had played along, opening his mouth for his brother to try again, I thought the entire table might be frozen in shock—even in the extreme heat.
The memory made me sigh, and we talked the entire way to Piedmont, which Rocco called Piemonte, about four hours from Tuscany. He directed me the entire time, and I found it…rather challenging to drive in Italy. It was much different than driving in the states. And even then, I didn’t do much of it. If I could walk it, I did, since New Orleans is a condensed area.
Rocco seemed impressed with my driving skills, though, even if I scared myself a times. Maybe that was what it took to hang with Italians on the road. An immense amount of bravery, or as Nonna sometimes called it, foolishness without brakes. I definitely wasn’t going as fast as Rocco usually did, so even if Piemonte was only four or so hours away from Tuscany, it took me much longer.
