The three Cozzi cousins are at the head of the singles pack and seem none too pleased that Charles is giving Giada all his attention.
My sister has always exceeded the aesthetic standards of Belvedere; it’s lucky for her local contenders that she’s not looking for anything more than a change of scenery.
“He’s certainly grown out of the name Carletto,” observes Lucia. “He used to be long and lanky like a Panini figurine; now he looks more like a man.”
“‘Carletto’ is perfect. He may look different,” I say, stacking the paper cups, “but after chatting with him last night, I can assure you that his Labrador puppy personality is still intact. By the way, do you know who’s meeting him here? Buckle up ...” I pause briefly to create suspense.
But I don’t have time to finish the sentence before a strange buzz spreads through the crowd like a current of electricity.
“What’s going on?” asks Lucia. “Did two wives get into a brawl?”
Her question isn’t rhetorical. Two years ago it actually happened: Piera and Luciana got into a fight because one claimed that the other had cheated in the parish lottery. What some people won’t do for a rosary blessed by the pope.
I crane my neck over the counter to identify the cause of so much commotion.
Everyone is staring at an unmissable newcomer: In addition to his considerable stature, his clothing is not exactly ideal for a village festival involving a suds soccer tournament and a sausage-eating competition.
He’s wearing a shirt and tie with a clip and a perfectly tailored jacket and trousers.
“Oh, that man is prime marriage material,” muses Lucia.
“Michael,” I whisper.
“What?”
“That’s Michael.”
I haven’t seen him for fifteen years, but I know it’s him: I know from the way he combs his fingers through the soft brown curls that fall across his forehead. And those big eyes, shadowed by his knitted dark eyebrows, still retain the same sly spark that used to tell me when he’d cooked up a good scheme. “Michael D’Arcy is here.”
I stare at him in disbelief, my heart jumping into my throat. Can one single moment erase half a life?
“Mamma mia! That’s Maicolle?” Lucia exclaims. “He sure turned out all right. Enough man there to make three or four women happy.”
I turn to her, panicking. “What should I say to him?”
“What do you mean?”
“How should I greet him? How should I break the ice? Should I hug him? Or maybe a handshake is better?”
“I’m sure you’ll think of something—you’re never exactly at a loss for words. Find them quickly, though.”
“Why?”
Lucia nods toward the counter. “Because he’s here.”
I gulp, my heartbeat accelerating so much I can feel it in my ears. I inhale forcefully, trusting in the surge of oxygen to recover my faculties. I walk toward Michael with my lips stretched into an uncontrollable smile.
“Finally,” he says. Like Carletto, his Italian is still in good shape, even if his accent betrays years of no practice.
“Hi,” I whisper so quietly that I can barely hear myself. Where has my voice gone?
“What is there to drink here, apart from watered-down wine on tap?” He doesn’t look particularly happy; in fact he seems annoyed.
“Michael, how good to see you.”
He cocks his left eyebrow, scrutinizing me with a smug look. “Have we met?”
The answer sticks in my throat, not so much caught on his words but on his arrogant demeanor, as if I should feel honored to be in his presence.
