Cecilia blinks, clearly thrown by the quick change of subject.
“They like cookie,i tuoi bambini[LVI]?”
“Oh—yes. They love them.”
Nonna pushes herself upright and motions for Cecilia to follow.
Cecilia stands, laughing, and glances back at me before following Nonna into the kitchen. I trail after them but stop in the doorway, leaning against the frame to watch.
Nonna moves busily around the space, pulling ingredients from cupboards and drawers. When she finally lays everything out on the table, she announces:
“Alexanderpreferito[LVII]... your bambini will like too.”
She slips an apron over Cecilia’s head, and soon they are deep in the sacred ritual of mixing dough forbiscotti al limone[LVIII].
I don’t move from the doorway. It’s impossible not to be entranced by the way Nonna finds a language without words... and how patiently Cecilia answers it, following every gesture and look. The kitchen is filled with flour, laughter and loud Italian instructions. When it’s time to roll the dough into little balls, Nonna scolds me, telling me to wash my hands and stop standing there like a useless decoration.
Cecilia tries to hold it in, but the moment I translate, she laughs out loud.
As I pass her on my way to the sink, I lean down and press a soft kiss to her forehead.
About half an hour later, we’re walking toward where I parked the car, laughing like we’ve carried the kitchen’s warmth out with us.
“You’ve always talked about your Nonna,” Cecilia says. “I felt like I already knew her. But nothing compares to the real thing. She’s an incredible woman.”
The way she looks at me makes answering impossible.
I don’t stop to think as my hands come up to her face, holding her there, and I kiss her. She moans into my mouth as I press her body against the car. What begins gentle, almost shy, becomes hungry and needy in a heartbeat.
My tongue brushes hers as I deepen the kiss. One hand slips into her hair. The other tightens on her waist, drawing her closer until there’s no space left at all. Her gasp goes straight through me, and just as quickly reminds me that if this goes any further, I won’t be able to stop.
We break apart, our foreheads touching, her eyes fixed on mine. I run my thumb along her cheek, my voice rough as I say, “We should go to the village.Now.”
Cecilia laughs. I give her one last kiss before opening her door, then walk around to the driver’s side. Adjusting my pants does little to hide the erection straining the fabric.
I take a breath before turning the key. The drive passes with easy conversation and low music in the background. But the tension between us feels like a presence of its own.
I park along the curb. The second we step out, there’s music and laughter everywhere. But the best part is the smell of fried food and sugar coming from the stalls.
Like they do in every celebration, there are colorful flags strung between lampposts. Wooden tables bowing beneath the weight of fruit, cheeses, wine, and cured meats. People flow between artisan stalls and carnival games. Somewhere nearby, an accordion plays a fast-paced melody while someone else belts out a loud, joyous Tuscan song without the faintest concern for pitch.
Cecilia walks beside me, her arm tucked into mine. I can feel her excitement as she looks around, her curious eyes taking in everything.
Then my family sees us and, as always, there is no escape.
Before I can even think to protest, hands reach for her, pulling her from me. My aunts and cousins sweep her into the middle of the street with frantic hand gestures, laughing as they show her how to dance, as if this weren’t her first celebration with us, but her hundredth.
I just stand there, unable to look away.
She moves like someone who has decided not to care who is watching, laughter rising freely from her chest. She follows the steps, trips, then laughs harder when my cousin pulls her back into the beat, teaching her the tarantella as if it were a secret language.
My aunts clap as someone shouts encouragement, and in no time she is dancing with half the family, twirling and spinning with such joyful abandon that she looks like she was made for this.
As if pulled by an invisible cord, I go to her.
My eyes follow every laugh that escapes her, tracking the beautiful movement of her body as she gives herself completely to the moment. Cecilia looks so light like this. So beautiful.Bellissima.
When I reach her, I spin her twice before Pietro steals her from me.
