Title: Karen Devaney Word Count
Author: karen devaney
Last saved by: karendevaney

Prologue
“There is no greater agony than bearing an untold story inside you.”        Maya Angelou
     
     It is said that an unsettled spirit lingers long after the body has disintegrated.  There are times of my life I placated to others that haunt me now.  Wasted segments of time I hope to reclaim, avenge the conclusion, step into the light. Too many years drifting in memories of what happened and why.  People stolen from me by a regime I had nothing to do with. Painting was my only politics, my way of saluting back to the world and revealing my thoughts. Perhaps I will loiter long enough to see the truth march down the aisle holding for all to see, those hidden works that I sacrificed for my freedom. 
     The irony is that I was not free at all.  Longing and want for a piece of myself that was swapped for a boat ride to America; traded, as though they were simple coins. That dark night we clung husband and wife, to the baby each wondering if this would be the last we would see of one another.  We prayed the sun would forget to rise and cried silent tears cursing the confusion the irrational.
     Why had Italia turned against us?  Why had Germany gone mad destroying our humble lives?  We wanted nothing more than to be artists with a small plot of land to garden and to love reckless and un-abandoned.  To continue cooking with fresh herbs and fish the sea that had never denied us.  We lived in a paradise that was no longer docile but rather a lair to escape.  
   Why love did you stay only to be caught and locked in a camp?  Die in a camp while your work, my work; our work was left to strangers.  Left to those who, I assume, protected the paintings kept them in darkness until it was safe to come out.  Did that day ever happen?  Was the door opened by brilliant beams of light cascading into the shed or the basement or wherever the paintings were; alone in their secrecy?
     I’ve have not lived to see this but I know the story well and I want it told.  I want every detail revealed and remembered and sown back together. I want them all to know the great love and passion you and I had for one another and for the art.  For the art, the artists and the lovers—what was it they called you and I?

                                                     Chapter One    
Alessandra Bongioni.  Beautiful Woman Beautiful Life. Born November 21 1917  Died April 26 2004

        Leaning against the pewter headstone, I heard my grandmother’s words,     “Juliana, you must go find your legacy—you will feel at home.”  I pledged to her over and over that I would visit Italy, explore my heritage—and paint the villages and the sea that she spoke of with a breeze like tenderness.  But I was no closer to being able to do this than the year before or the year before that.  My relationship with Nona tunneled back to a place rooted inside tales of Italy that swarmed my imagination. Nona and I interpreted the world through composition and hue.  I couldn’t believe she was dead and with her my unanswered questions.  I thought somehow she would be eternal and time would carry both of us back to her beloved Italy.  We would peruse the cobblestoned streets and her stories would arc back to us.
     “Ah, you go and will not return.  Italia, tis an artist’s heaven---a lougo of tragic beauty, mi montagna of my youth.”  She would say shaking her head back and forth the lines around her eyes soft.  I knew in those moments she had sojourned back to her village tasting “the sweet Mediterranean air.” 
     The noon sun untangled itself from the morning miasma blazing in the cloudless sky. I slid my hair back and yanked the bill down.  Although I had the olive complexion of my grandmother, I worried that the California sun would give me cancer or irreversible wrinkles.  People told me I looked just like my Nona and I relished the compliment but scarcely believed it.  To me, she was exotic; the dark skin, the red wavy locks swept in a loose French twist.  I felt more unkempt than exotic.  And although I had the color and curl of Nona’s hair—my strands flew in random directions with no semblance of her silent sophistication.
     Blooms of wisteria and lavender scented the air; the verdure of spring was rampant.  Sitting opposite of my Nona’s grave were two disheveled tombstones laced in green weeds top heavy leaning towards knobby oak trees on the knoll in front of them.  They reminded me of old women with thunderous breasts stooped in a forward tilt.  I thought about the painting I finished months before.  A face of a young Italian woman with angular cheekbones wearing a peasant top waving a tambourine.  Nona loved and admired it.  Like my grandmother, I could visualize faces and weave a story as if painting a past.   
     My grandmother was what Italian’s refer to as a grave-walker, wandering cemeteries peering at headstones creating vignettes of those buried in the soil. We walked this very graveyard many times.
    “I‘m doing a service, Juliana,” she would whisper as if corpses were listening. “If no one comes to visit-- the spirit cries, forlona…they feel their life is not remembered.” This was Nona’s final resting, an old coastal cemetery packed with men who fished for sardines and women who canned them.  They were the bustle and breath of the infamous Cannery row now replaced by tourists shopping for trinkets; seashells, tee-shirts sipping warm clam chowder.  Alessandra adored this graveyard and had picked and paid for her plot years ago.  
     “It tis close to the sea,” she swooned.  “Lucca will find me here, I know.”
          Before her passing, my grandmother bequeathed me a ruby necklace given to her by her first husband, Lucca Bongioni, when they were secretly married in Italy.  I yearned to know this man whom she spoke of with the reverence of a lost lover.   He seemed a mystery to me, a made up myth of a man that grew larger in my re-creation of him.  She kept the necklace snug in its green velvet jewelry box, afraid to wear it; afraid she‘d lose it or afraid to belittle the circumstances in which it was bestowed.  
     “I want you to have this Juliana. And don’t be silly coo coo like me.  Put it on your neck and parade around like a queen. With those a green eyes and that red hair, the people will step aside with their chins clanging on their chests!  What a beauty, they will sing.”
    I would wear the necklace at my wedding which was happening today in the early evening. I was exhausted.  In the past week I slept only four to five hours a night at best.  Not enough for my body’s seven to eight requirements.  I contemplated my own death and wondered if people would line the sidewalks to say good-bye to me, as they did Nona?  Or would my death drift like shriveled dandelion fuzz?  At thirty-eight I was irritated with life. I was tired of slaving at as a nurse while my art marooned itself waiting for my return.  I was too afraid to move on either in failure or success so I continued in this annoying limbo.
    A few months before Nona’s death, I had a very informal showing at a café.  One of the local reviewers penned my oils “Fresh, earthy, visceral” he wrote that he was “dumbfounded at why Juliana was in hiding and when was she going to debut?”  
    But my daughter, Louisa, was in college and there was no one else to dump the bills on, especially now, after Nate split despite we were engaged. I felt life blowing by, time sneering in my face.  I needed to shed any trace of hesitance or as Nona would say, “Paint like a reckless lover.”
      I thought back to the irony of coordinating my grandmother’s funeral while cinching details of my wedding.  My mother, my two aunts, and I chose readings and songs for the funeral.  We went through Alessandra’s artwork deciding which to display at the viewing.  We decided what flowers to have at the wedding and which for the funeral-- indelible moments of surreal-ness.  One ceremony to celebrate, another to commemorate.  
       The sun’s glare snapped my thoughts back to the moment.  Glancing at my cell phone I realized soon I would be reciting marriage vows at Carmel beach in front of a conglomeration of family and friends.  I referred to Carmel beach as “Alessandra’s beach” for she would sit for hours in her tattered fold out chair, marveling at the azure water and white sand.     “It tis the color of Italia’s sea,” she would sigh.  This was the reason I choose to marry there.

     I kissed the top of the headstone and hurried back to my car.  My cell phone, which now burrowed into a dark corner of my purse, began ringing.  I fumbled to answer it knowing it was most likely Sam calling frantic.
     “Hello.” It was indeed Sam, his voice like an out of tune guitar, waivered.
     “Juliana, where the hell are you?”  He demanded.
     “At the cemetery, I’m on my way home—relax.”
     “For god’s sakes, we still must finish preparing food.  Louisa is here and worried sick where you are?”  Sam said.  His tongue clacking an Arabic accent that thickened when he was upset.  I knew Louisa was not worried in the least and I hated how Sam morphed everything into a Greek tragedy. 
     “Let me talk to her Sam.”  I smirked, knowing he knew he’d been caught.
     “Just come home, please Jules, you know I worry.”  
     “Sam, put Lou on the phone, thanks.”
     “Sure, sure, sure.”
     “Hey mom, don’t worry.”
     “I am not-- just annoyed.”  I said.  Louisa chuckled.
     “So there’s a ton of food here.”
     “It’s not all Middle Eastern is it?”  Sam had assured me there would be a hodgepodge of ethnic cuisine at the reception.
     “No.”  She laughed again.  My daughter and I had a non-vindictive sarcasm that found humor in human absurdity. What people concerned themselves with and why.  Sam was a professional worrier which much to his horror Lou and I found comical. 
     “Good.  I’ll be home in twenty minutes, help Sam out.  Run around and act busy-- sigh and wince that will settle him down.  He’s such a freak sometimes.”
     “I know.  But he’s a sweet freak.” 
     “Hurry.”  Shouted Sam as I said good-by and folded the phone. 
                                                       CHAPTER TWO
 As I turned out of the cemetery towards the Post Naval Graduate School in Monterey, I wondered if Sam’s anxiousness was cultural, genetic, or just simply self-imposed.  Probably a little of each I decided.  We lived on sixth-street by Delmonte Avenue approximately a mile and a half from Cannery Row and two miles from the popular Lover’s Point.  The area is mantled with writers that steered the course of literature; Hemmingway, Steinbeck, Miller, Dorothy Parker.  They say it is the “positive ions” of the salt water and the sounds of sea life that invigorates the creative instincts.  Our house on Sixth Street was equally centered to Carmel; a pinnacle for painters who strode the white sands sweeping oils over canvases during the early part of the twentieth century.  The Central Coast with its audacious history for the arts, felt like an innate fit from the moment I laid eyes on it.   Alessandra  had felt the same. 
     I had specific reasons for saying yes to Sam’s marriage proposal.  Sam, real name, Husam (means sword in Arabic) Kardol, was a Catholic Israeli from the town of Dalyat at the base of Mt. Carmel.  One serious reason II agreed to marry Sam was because he was a wonderful friend who was about to be booted back to Israel.  Times were turbulent and had grown violent for non-Jewish citizens. If we married he could remain secure and in a few years, hopefully, things would settle down and we would divorce. 
     The second, less serious, reason was to thwart my father’s constant harrying.  George McKenna was obsessed over my singleness.  “I’m worried for your future, honey.  You need a good man.  Who will love you when you’re old?  You should have more children.”  My father was relentless in goading my matrimonial-less life.  With each passing birthday his level of obsession grew as if my destiny as a single woman was that of a scullery maid.  He failed to acknowledge that I had raised an amazing daughter, worked hard as a nurse, and god forbid was a decent artist. 
     My father’s ideal candidate would have been a practicing Irish Catholic.  His hypocrisy was top notch, an iconic remnant of his sturdy Irish heritage; the man went to mass once every five years. When Sam volunteered for the post, my father, with mingled satisfaction and disapproval, conceded that at least Sam had a sound religious background.  I realized at thirty-eight it was ridiculous to care what my father thought--but it was something I had little control over.  This “caring” would erupt like a burst water main catapulting me back to age five.  I decided, rather than call the plumber I’d plug it up myself--make it stop spewing at least temporarily.  Sam was the plug.  At least for a few years I would have some reprieve from fatherly judgment.
     My mother, upon hearing of my engagement asked;
     “Is he a good man?” 
I shook my head yes and she slapped her palms together, “Okay then.”  I knew she had secretly wanted me to marry an Italian to balance out the family scales.  A wealthy dark-haired, olive complexioned godlike man with a Roman nose would have done nicely.  A man who had a houses on the Amalfi Coast as well as two others sprinkled throughout the states.  This would have better set my mother’s fears to rest for according to her calculations, this would be my only hope to afford being a full time artist.  
     My mother had a mercurial opinion of wealth.  She condemned anyone with an inheritance but touted the benefits of money when it came to my love life. There were times she daydreamed about having hoards of money to traipse through Europe with. Other times she ranted about how greedy Americans were with their insatiable appetite “for things.”  When she was caught bragging to whomever about my brothers and sister’s economic successes she would emphasize, “Their pockets are lined from the blood of hard work.”
     My two brothers could care a sneeze over what men were in or out of my life and how much money I did or did not make.  My sister, Jillian, on the other hand was chronically interested in marshaling my finances and regarded me as pitiful, irresponsible.  My lack of being motivated purely, for the sake of money dumbfounded her.  “I just don’t get you Juliana,” was her favorite refrain.
    I pulled into the lumpy concrete driveway and took a deep breath preparing for a showdown of pouts that would rival a silent film star. As I swung the front door open, I saw Sam slinging plates of food around the dining room table mumbling Arabic to the walls.  Pungent garlic smells wafted through the kitchen fusing with the fresh aromas of mint, basil, and onion.  I took a deep whiff inhaling the herbs like they were some sort of relaxant.
     “Juliana,” Sam bellowed as if I was standing in a crowded baseball stadium.  His penchant for yelling was one of his less endearing qualities but none the less harmless.
     “For god sakes Sam, I’m not deaf.”   I said.  “And why are you putting food out now anyway? We have six hours before the reception.”  
     “Six hours tsk, tsk, tsk, that is all?”  Sam said looking beguiled that I didn’t share his passion for turmoil.  “Jules, oh my godt, wait till you see all the foodt people have brought. Baklava, hummus, Fadi’s home-made grape leaves, lamb gyros…”
    “I thought we weren’t just serving Middle Eastern?  My family is Irish Italian.  Remember?  My father only eats meat and potatoes.”  I could feel the nerves in my neck begin to pinch like little crab claws.
     Sam smiled.  His thick lips parting a velvet curtains showing off the large glimmering teeth that  resembled piano keys.  A clump of black hair escaped the heavy layer of sticky gel and trailed down his right cheek as he continued darting from counter to refrigerator and back to the counter.  He reminded me of a toy soldier wound too tight.  Sam was just shy of six feet with broad shoulders and fleshy biceps.  He fostered a single track of dark hair from his lower lip that split through the tiny indent in the center of his chin. 
     “Yes, yes yes my love.  We have plain American food too.  Don‘t be a grump.  Angelina brought us her homemade raviolis so there, we have Italia as well.”  He bustled about as if in seconds the guests would trample down the front door waving forks in the air demanding to eat.  I found it fascinating that Sam had an enormous array of cooking friends.  I often wondered if he based his friendships on a person’s culinary skills.  He obviously didn’t base his choice of a wife on hers.  I was deplorable in the kitchen—clueless and uninterested. 
    “I’m not being a grump.  Did Agnes come by?  Where’s Lou?” I fired off the questions not waiting for individual answers.  I had hoped the three of us Agnes, my friend since the second grade, my daughter, and me could squeeze in a walk before the mayhem began.  I felt a strong need for a female chat without any males sleuthing through my thoughts or giving unwanted advice. I had grown tired of potbellied middle-aged men encroaching on my decisions.  Not that Sam was middle-aged or potbellied but like men before him, professors, bosses, uncles, hell even janitors, he too was compelled to cast advice in the hallways of my life where I clearly had a “do not enter ” sign. 
    “Hey mom, I’m here,” Louisa, my twenty-one year old daughter said as she ambled to the refrigerator opening it and studying the inner contents.    
     “Agnes dropped off your shoes and said she’d see you at the wedding.  She went to get a massage and a facial.  Hi Sam” Lou said from the innards of the freezer.
     “Why didn‘t I do that?”   
     “Because you my sweet are not so selfish as Agnes.  Lou don’t devour the reception foodt, okay doke?”  Sam warned.
     “Since when is getting a facial selfish?”  I asked irked that Sam actually thought such a thing.
     “I’m just looking Sam.  I’ll devour later.” Lou retorted.
     “Agnes is hardly selfish,” I said indignant. “She’s smart, she takes care of herself, relaxes.  Maybe you should think about doing a little of that.”  I noticed tiny beads of sweat sprouted above Sam’s eyebrows.  
    “Okay look, what do you need us to do?”  I asked hoping he’d say “Nothing.”  There are those rare times when domestic chores are cathartic-- the week before my period is one in particular.  Or when my life feels like a pile of autumn leaves after a gust of wind; then giving the bathroom a good scrub gives me a sense of control, even if it is just the toilet.  But I felt no need to be domestic at the moment.
    “Tsk, tsk, tsk.  No, no, no, I want you to do nothing.”  Sam said wagging his index finger back and forth in front of his face.  Perfect.
     “Then why were you coming unglued?”  
     “I am not unglued. I worry.  Besides, your parents will be here soon.”  Sam fussed with the aluminum foil that was shredding in the center.
     “Nope, Nana called said she’ll see you at the wedding.”  Louisa said slamming the fridge door shut.  She grabbed an apple and 
took a chump out of it.
     “I thought they were dropping off their suitcases beforehand?”  I was secretly thrilled my parents spared me the increase stress of two more neurotics running about--but curious as to why.
     “Something about Poppa fishing this morning--they were running late.  You know Nana and Poppa they’re always late.”  Louisa said.
     “Yeah, yeah I know.  Sam if you don’t need us we’re gonna take a quick walk around the neighborhood.”
     “Fine, fine, fine. Please Jules, don’t be long.  You’ve got to get gorgeous.”  Sam said chuckling.
     “You’re hilarious.”  I shouted over my shoulder.
     Louisa and I cruised the pavements of our little neighborhood, referred to by the old timers as “oak grove.”  The fog in this part of town kept its distance and therefore also known as the “ banana belt”.  Most of the houses were quaint with bouquets of brilliant orange poppies, purple lavender plants and wild mustard that spruced up the few slipshod homes that were parched in need of painting.  The few slipshod homes,  tucked  between the well-tended homes, never detracted from the beauty of this place.  
     “So mom, are you nervous?” 
     “No, not really.  I’m too melancholy to be nervous.”
      “Nona?”   
     “Yes—and my father.   I feel a bit sneaky you know—this whole wedding façade. He’s going to be devastated when Sam and I eventually divorce.  I feel like a fraud and can’t wait until the whole rigmarole is over.”
     “You’re far from a fraud.  Poppa will be fine and maybe you and Sam will fall in real love.  He sure seems to be enjoying the whole thing.”
     “He loves productions, loves them!  And he honestly thought that if we didn’t have a fanfare, emigration would bang at our door and drag him away.   I know that does happen on occasion but I don’t think it would in our case.  And as far as your grandfather, he has harangued me for the past ten years about a wedding--so this shuts them both up.”
     We continued walking and turned down Park Street.  Park Street was lined with pillar like oak trees.  Their branches swaying to the ocean breezes.  
    “That’s weird that Poppa worried about you getting married. He’s always telling me, “Lou go to school, travel, and see the world. Don’t fool with the boys.”  
    “It is quite the quandary-- but your grandfather can be a baffling sexist at times and a sweet peach at others. He’s different as a grandfather—more seasoned, less sour.  Shoot, maybe I’ll stay married to Sam and indulge myself with love affairs.” 
     “Yeah right mom.  Don’t you ever just want to run away and do whatever the hell you want?  Be totally free of obligations?”  Louisa asked stretching her hands skyward as if freedom sat aloof in a cloud.
     “Every day.  I wrestle with wanting a stable home life—more kids and splitting for Italy where you and I can paint and travel and swim in the sea.  I want to be a successful artist live off my art as Nona did.”
     “See-- I feel the same.  I got my instabilities from you.” 
   “Instabilities!”  It’s not instability it’s thinking different—not letting your aspirations be molded.   But finish college first Lou, education liberates you.  And dump what’s his name.”
     “Raman’s harmless.  We’re not serious anyway.”
    “Raman is a brainless idiot that you have to coax a conversation with.”
     “Whatever.”  
     “He is gorgeous, I’ll give him that. The rippled belly is lovely.  But belly ripples will turn lumpy and boring--don’t you want more for yourself?” 
    “He works hard for those ripples-- and of course I want more mom!  Raman and I are friends—that’s it.  The reception should be fun don’t you think?”  Louisa was crafty at switching out conversations.  
     “I think it will be fun as long as no one gets intoxicated around Jillian.  That’ll be disastrous.”  Visualizing Jillian raising her Christian nose at tipsy guests made my stomach grind.  Jillian had what I call “blue blood behavior” even though she was raised in the same middle class family I was.  She honed a habit of snooping then organizing people according to social economics.  She would prattle on about a person—passing judgments over their clothes or shoes or hair style.   Jillian was in a constant melee with most of the world. She held high standards for herself and all those around her.  
     “Just ignore Jillian—it’s your wedding not hers.  She can leave if she is uncomfortable with the drunkards.”  Louisa said.   
     Lou had a terrific sense of humor and a profundity beyond her years.  From the instant I held her I wanted to cultivate a sincere relationship, despite being a single mom.  Now I could wallow in my rewards. There had been a few dreary episodes of loneliness when I wished Louisa’s father would have lingered long enough to help with the gnashing of toddler years or with the menial chores, the thankless things that grate on you like daily baths, homework, teacher meetings. And there were moments, I longed for a kid fairy to wave a magic wand over Lou, and whisk her past the pre-teen years.  Those were the times she regarded me with utter contempt-- I was an embarrassment and she disputed everything that I said—even “good morning” was  up for debate.  But all of those tumultuous times were behind us now.
     We walked for about an hour through sinuous alleyways and streets both feeling more relaxed after conversing and philosophizing.  That was the way it was between my daughter and I--we worked out the kinks in our lives together.  
      Before I realized time had slipped away.  I needed to doll up.  Lou painted my face like an artist shaping an oil on canvas—she had an  inherent attention to detail.  She kept “shushing” me when I told her to hurry; sitting still having my face fussed with was nerve wracking’ when I’m anxious I want to move.  
    Finally properly made-up, I clasped the ruby necklace that Nona had given me around my neck and made a silent plea for her to keep me sane.  
     It was a beautiful day for a beach ceremony.  There was a delicate breeze under a flawless blue sky.  A quilt of purple and blue ice plants carpeted the whitewashed dunes where family and friends were seated in folding chairs as Sam and I exchanged vows.  Laudatory seagulls hovered and I had a brief inward chuckle visualizing a guest being graced with bird poop.  Personally, I had notorious luck with animal droppings; it always seemed to land on me no matter how I tiptoed around or over it.  
      My eyes briefly scanned the spectators.  Agnes looked gorgeous in her lime green halter dress with a subtle split up the right thigh; the sort of split that makes one want to peek to see if she has panties on or not.  I made a mental note to give her grief later for attempting to out-dress the bride.  Agnes was half Asian half white with olive skin a shade lighter than my own.  She had twisted her long black hair in a knot behind her neck and placed s gardenia above her left ear, Billie Holiday style.  I had envisioned my own red strands snapping around my face, sticking to my lips.   But thankfully the wind was subdued, a rarity at this beach.  Circling my head was a wreath of baby white roses similar to the ones I’d left earlier at Nona’s grave.  Between the ruby necklace and the roses on my head, I felt Nona’s presence and it soothed me, like the hushing sounds of the sea
      As the final words ended and the applause quieted to a mumble—it was official; I was no longer Juliana Dorothy Alessandra McKenna.  I was now Juliana Dorothy Alessandra Kardol . Although I had wrestled over changing my name, in the end I decided in favor for Sam’s sake. I would revert back to my birth name once the immigration deal was finished.    

                                            CHAPTER THREE 
     After the ceremony, guest’s caravanned back to our house eager to dive face first into food and beverages.  Sam and I had a friend who had agreed to spin music, make announcements in exchange for a painting.  Sam had insisted on an arsenal of pictures and a celebratory glass of champagne, which like any other traditional bride and groom made us the last ones to the house.  I felt a bit ostracized from my emotions.  As I stepped out of the car I could hear the bedlam of voices through the front door.  Over sixty boisterous people were shoved shoulder to shoulder in our modest three-bedroom two-story cottage-like home.  The house was built in the thirties, an antiquated but cozy cape-cod with white shingles and blue shutters. A massive brick chimney stood on the slanted roof and under the ginger bread eaves dark pink bougainvillea dangled.  Sam had planted white and maroon calla lilies along the picket fence. 
     As I crossed the threshold I glimpsed my two brothers and their wives drinking beer.  My sister and her husband, their necks’ craned, seemed to be scanning the situation for a place to hide.  Once again, I prayed they would leave before anyone got too inebriated.  A few years ago my sister became a “born again Christian.” With her new found self, she became even more intolerant of any sort of debauchery or semblance of fun.  A fervor of energy sifted through the air as Sam and I muddled through the crowd.
     “There she is.  Finally my little Jules got herself a husband.  Congrats. She’s a handful though isn‘t she?”  My father said slapping Sam on the shoulder.”
     “Hi dad.”  I gave my father a skeptical hug. “Don’t be irritating today.”
     “See what I mean? You look good kiddo.  I hope you two have as much happiness as Isabel and I have had.”  
     “Thanks George.”  Sam said winking at me.
     “Why don’t you go get your ole dad a beer? That was a nice short ceremony, honey good job.”  My dad said smacking his palms together.  “I hate those long drawn out deals.”
     “That’s why we didn’t have a church service.” Sam interjected.
    “Sure, I’ll get you a beer dad.  I could use some wine.”  I left the two, free to discuss god knows what.  Besides their both having penises, Sam and my father had as much in common as a priest and a porn star.  
     I slowly made my way over to my mother who was talking to Louisa.  Louisa was flanked by her moron, Raman, and Agnes; the three women appeared engaged in chatter while Raman seemed to be following a fly, his eyes drifting in circles.
     “Juliana, oh my god you look so beautiful.”  My mother exclaimed squeezing my cheeks like I was a chubby toddler. “Nona is proud, her ruby necklace looks stunning on you honey. Come come, have some wine.”  My mother lifted her glass towards my lips.  I took a sip.
     “Jules, looking good.”  Agnes said hugging me from behind.
     “Thanks Aggie. You look way too sexy.”  
     “You both are gorgeous.  And Louisa, my little granddaughter, not so little now is stunning.”  My mother said this every time she saw Louisa.  She tilted her head and palmed her hands out as if Lou was a new car on display.  
     “Nana you’re too much. Save me a dance,” Louisa said giving my mother a kiss on the cheek.  “Mom, Raman and I are gonna grab some food.  That was a sweet ceremony by the way.”
     “Yeah it was nice. You look so pretty.”  I said loudly watching my daughter as she walked away.  For a brief moment, my mind reeled back to a time when she was a toddler teetering around in the mud patting out little cakes and serving them to me.  She was now a five foot five young woman with long curly blond hair and dark doe eyes.  The similarities of our bodies was profound; long torso round bottoms.  The buzzing of voices talking over each other brought me back and I suddenly remembered my father’s beer.
     “Mom, dad asked me for a beer.  Would you mind getting it?  I have to pee really bad.” 
     “You go, I’ll get your father what he needs.  Oh, and don’t worry-- your sister has to leave by two.”  Mom said as she flitted her fingers in the air and headed for the quasi bar set up in the back yard.  It would probably take her an hour to actually have my father’s beer in hand.  There were too many people clumped in groups laughing, bobbing their hands and heads and my mother while wading amongst them, would say hello to each and every person, especially those she’s never met before.  My mother had a fascination with strangers—like how others are fascinated with birds or waterfalls.  She sought strangers out with a vengeance and prided herself on the thousands of stories she has heard from all of them.
My bladder now felt like a water balloon about to burst.
      “Agnes come to the bath room with me would ya?”  
     “Come on.”  She grabbed my hand and we slithered through the crowd and up the stairs.
     “Holding up okay?”  Agnes asked, while I yanked my skirt up and shimmied my panties down.
     “Yeah…it’s still hard Ag.  I keep fighting it.”
     “I know, I know.  The ivory skirt and lacey shirt look gorgeous by the way.  And your Nona’s ruby necklace set’s off the entire outfit--very classy look—nice for a change Jules.”
     “Thanks.”  I said pulling my panties back up.  I hadn’t the time or the enthusiasm to show my outfit to Agnes prior to the ceremony.
     “Has he called again?”  Agnes asked.
     “No.  Once was enough. I saved the voicemail.”
     “Erase it.  Stop torturing yourself.  Nate doesn’t deserve you.  He’s a jerk who should be strung up by his penis in the town square.”
     “We don’t have a town square and it wasn’t all him you know.  ”
     “Come on Jules forget about it, move on.  Let’s go have a good time it’s your wedding day! You’ve got all those folks down there that love and adore you.  Including Sam.”
     “Don’t say that.  We are close friends and that’s it. He’s too neurotic and I’m too forlorn.”
     “I’m just joking around--what the hell happened to your sense of humor?”
     “It’s still here along with the image of Nate dangling in the town square!”  We both laughed.  Agnes and I had a veil that allowed us to peer into one another’s inner world.  Words often were optional an adjunct to what we already could see and feel.
     Meandering back to the party, I thought how blessed I was to have a loyal friend like Agnes.  We had survived milestones, two spirits stepping through time.   There was no mincing of truths it was as if we were born to mirror what the other needed to hear or do or not do. We grew breasts and shopped for tampons together.  We practiced kissing on door jams in our pre-teens and lamented and compared our first time sexual experiences.      Agnes was better than a sister; she was the truest friend a woman could hope for. We made each other laugh during difficult times and guided each other through the blur of tears.  Agnes claimed she knew a doctor who cured his own cancer with a daily dose of humor.  I wanted to believe I could do the same with my own inner struggles—guffaw my way through them with the only side effect being a belly ache from laughing too much. Agnes helped me put things in perspective and I did the same for her.
     I could hear the D.J. announcing it was time for the father daughter dance.  Sam had relocated my art supplies; an oversized easel, canvasses, and brushes, from the patio to make room for a dance floor. He tucked white Christmas lights inside the ivy that laced around the portico’s wooden posts.  My father stood statuesque clearing phlegm with his beer sloshing in his right hand, preparing for a speech.  
     “Four months ago Juliana told me she was engaged to Sam-and I didn’t believe her. I must say I was a bit peeved he wasn’t an Irishman but he’s a good cook, thank god since Jules unlike her mother is a foreigner in the kitchen!”
     “George…” My mother interjected attempting to curtail my father’s dark Irish humor.
     “Alright, Juliana and Sam,  everyone raise your glasses; 
     May God be with you and bless you,
     May you see your children’s children,
     May you be poor in misfortune, rich in blessings,
     May good fortune forever shine on you from this day forward.
      Cheers!”
        There was a round of applause to honor the Irish blessing as my father and I came together for an age-old tradition.  I felt a twinge of guilt spiral through me as we stepped right and left in circles to “Unforgettable” the classic Nat King Cole version.  His old spice cologne, a tangy mix of vanilla and alcohol emoted from his shoulders.  It was a familiar smell that I remember since I was a child when my father would come home from work, toss me over his shoulders, and call me his precious “sackapotatoes.”  The cologne lingered on his clothes and hair.  He would be heart sick if he knew the truth about my marriage and I reconciled my conscious with the fact that I was marrying an honorable man.  So-- we weren’t in love love : we respected each other as human beings and we were friends loving friends and at least in my father’s eyes, I wasn’t alone any longer.
     Jillian, with her lopsided smirk, came to interrupt the father/daughter dance and my black and white memories.
     “You look nice Jules, the attire is rather traditional for you, don’t you think?”  Her angular face sparkling with mineral make-up was staunch, wrinkle free, void of any expression.  Her tone was tedious with a slight trace of malice.  Her full chest with its curved mounds stood erect with breast that thrust a few inches below her articulate collarbones.  My sister was indeed gorgeous a real head turner, like those infamous movie stars of the fifties with big bosoms, thin waists and pouty red lips.  The problem was that too often it was hard to see past her brooding anger and continual judgments.
     “You know me Jills, I‘m not big on traditional garb but thought I’d give it a go for this occasion.”  The song ended as another faster one pumped through the crowd. 
     “Thanks for the dance dad and the lovely speech.”  I gave him a kiss on the cheek.  He hinted a nod and said it was his pleasure.  
     “He’s all yours Jillian.”
     Jillian waded towards our father, arms extended like a queen approaching her throne.  My father was always pleased by Jillian’s perfection.  She went to college first, married after her nursing career was underway, and-- her husband, Joe, was not only Irish but Catholic as well.  
       As I drifted away a posse of cackling women, co-workers from the hospital, rescued me.  Hanna, a large African American woman with enormous breasts popping out of her navy V-neck blouse shimmering with fake diamonds, jerked me into their circle of swirling hips. I felt a sense of lightness melt over me.  These women were loud obnoxious; they knew how to counter balance reality and how to flick suffocating horseshit off their shoulders.  A skill my sister never mastered thus far and I myself remained an intern.  We danced until the song finished and I was once again pulled away for a solo.  This time “for the blushing bride and her handsome groom.”
    The D.J. summoned Sam and I to the dance floor for your first dance as man and wife. As the guests clamored around sighing with nods of approval lost in their own memories or desires, Sam and I twirled to Sade’s “No Ordinary Love.”  Close friends chuckled as indeed--this was no ordinary anything.  After a minute or so of the sappy song, we busted loose with a techno version of Billy Idol’s “White Wedding.”  Twirling with dips and spins we had rehearsed for the sake of entertainment, the guest hooted us on.  Sam and I loved to dance and we were both fairly decent at it.  He flipped me around his back, I free spun in then flung me to the side fingers attached then reeled me back with a dramatic slide through his legs.  I could taste the salt from his perspiration as we kissed for our grand finale. We congratulated one another on our stellar performance while a crowd stampeded their way back for more dancing.  Watching my parents and brothers and friends jiggling about I smiled.  I caught Sam’s eye and we read one another’s thoughts; we were happy that although the wedding was not for traditional reasons; our friends and family were having a good time.  I surrendered my reservations content with the celebration.    
      By eleven that evening, the air was laden with vinegar and damp musky smells.  No doubt an amalgamation of wine droplets that had plunged and midair mixed with sprays of Champagne.  Thankfully, my sister and her obedient husband had left long before the demise had gotten underway.  The kitchen floor was sticky with a film of spilled beer, margaritas, and finely sprinkled wedding cake crumbs. I had had the withal to hire a clean-up crew, a couple who would busy themselves after the mayhem had died down.  
     Feisal, Sam’s cousin who had introduced Sam and I and introduced me to Middle Eastern culture, brought out his Jordanian drums.  He and a few cousins and friends began tapping sultry beats that instigated hip gyrations and finger snapping.  Drumming and champagne have a paralyzing effect on the part of my brain that controls inhibitions. I began writhing and shimming forgetting that I now had a husband and that a majority of the guest had no inkling the marriage was based on an arrangement between two friends.  Swiveling around the room I caught my mother mouthing, “Calm yourself.”   She pointed to my father who was shaking his head as if he had water in his ears.  
     A part of me was perturbed that my father of all people--was judging me.  After all I had more than a fist full of memories of my father staggering about, his words sliding out sideways from too much consumption.  This was my wedding and if I wanted to abandon myself I would!  My heritage was rife with a penchant for dance. Nona confessed to me many stories of late night dances under the influence of Chianti.  Here’s to you Nona, I thought.  I ignored my father and winked at my mother as I motioned for her to join me.
     By midnight most of the guests had stumbled into cabs retreating to their destinations. Agnes claimed Louisa’s room.  Louisa had left with Raman and was staying the night at his parent’s six bedroom (five of them spares) home.  My folks were snoring like dueling off key whistlers in the bedroom by the garage.  The rest of the clan was nestled at the Sea Scape Hotel a few miles down the road in Pacific Grove.  Sea Scape was a reasonably priced rustic hotel nuzzled behind sand dunes with the sounds of the ocean lulling on its eaves.
     As for me, I was ready to collapse into bed and dive head first into a deep repose.  I unclasped Nona’s ruby necklace, placed it back in its case and cloaked myself in cozy orange and blue pajamas.  Sam on the other hand was in bed sporting a full erection and ready to consummate the marriage.  Slinking onto my side, I rolled over and whispered “good-night.” trying to ignore his penis.   He caressed the back of my neck with his lips and slipped his arms around my waist.  
     “Jules, I want to make love,” he whispered.  “What do you think?”  
     “Yes, that’s fine.”  I mumbled back. But it was too late, my eyelids lowered and my body melted into slumber 
                                                          CHAPTER FOUR
     “I found I could say things with color and shapes that I couldn’t say any other way--things I had no words for.”  Georgia O’Keefe
     Ripples of bacon and coffee scents wafted into the bedroom and roused my consciousness.  I looked over at Sam who was still sleeping and decided to get up.  As I got out of bed I could feel the red satin sheets beneath my skin. “Great,” I whispered, “Where’s my underwear?”  We must have had sex last night but I certainly don’t remember it.  Although I had not drunk that much--once I slam into exhaustion, I am as done as a boxer knocked cold by his opponent. Pressing my palms over my eyes, I took a deep breath and reached for my pajama bottoms that were lying on the floor.
     “Good morning Jules.”  Sam said in a gravelly voice that crackled in and out like a short wave radio.
     “Morning.  I thought you were still sleeping.”  I said shuffling to the bathroom.
     “Just resting.  What a wonderful wedding huh?”  Sam said, his voice beginning to clear.      
     “Yup.”
     “Here you want these?” Sam flung the black lace thongs I was wearing when I went to bed.  
      “Ah…thanks.”
     “Don’t worry Juliana, we didn’t do it last night—not that I didn’t try. You fell asleep.  You snore by the way.”  
     “No I don’t.” I said knowing I did.
     “Yes you do, just a little soft snore.  A baby snore.”  Sam chuckled as if delighting in a secret.
     “That’s nice.”  
      “Smells good, the coffee, no?”
     “Yes.  I need some.”  I mumbled from inside the bathroom.  I flushed and stuck my head out of the door.
     “I’m gonna take a quick shower.”
     “Can I join you?”  Sam shot back.
     “No.”
      “Why?”
     “Because it’s gonna be a quickie.”
     “That’s fine…it’s the morning.”  
     “Very funny.”  
Turning the knobs of water I was anxious to feel its warmth trickle over the back of my skull. I worried that Sam may take advantage of his new marital status.  I lathered swiftly thinking about food and what my parents were cooking up.  My father was notorious for his breakfast creations; he was a pancake connoisseur.  Kids in the neighborhood would drop by on Sunday mornings for leftovers.  He once made fifty cakes in less than thirty minutes.
     I dried off, put on some sweats, and headed downstairs while Sam finished his morning rituals.  When I entered the kitchen my father was in the middle of tossing hotcakes in the air; my mother was futzing with a vase of flowers.
     “Good morning sweetheart.  You hungry?  Your father has cooked for the neighborhood.”  My mother said in an overly cheerful voice.  She was always unusually chipper in the morning, as if she were stewardess for the day.  I, on the other hand required coffee before conversing.   But I tried my best to make an effort.
    “Sure, smells awesome dad.  Sam will be down in a sec.”  
     “Jules do you have any more milk? Your father used most of it for the pancake batter.  I want to try your new cappuccino machine.  Jillian bought that for you--you know?  Such a wonderful gift.”  My mother said nudging the word gift.  It struck me at that moment, as it has many times in the past, how vastly different my mother is from her mother.  One never had to guess how Nona felt—she was forthright in her opinions, open minded, pensive.  She never seemed to subscribe to stagnant clichés or people’s expectations.  Nona was comfortable with the differences between people unlike my mother who was the unrelenting peacemaker.
    “Actually, I think we’re out mom.  Cappuccinos though, sound yummy and yes, I know Jillian gave us that, very thoughtful of her.  I’ll run over to the little store around the corner.  It’ll take me five minutes.”
    “Perfecto!  Oh honey, Louisa called said she’d be here soon and Agnes is out jogging, for why I have no idea.  She’s much too thin.”  My mother said setting the freshly arranged flowers on the table.  “Is she anorexic?”
    “No mom, be right back.”  I grabbed my purse and left.  
     My mother had a superstition towards thin women. She assumed they all had eating disorders otherwise why would they walk around looking emaciated.  My mother didn’t believe in being even remotely on the thinner side.  As kids, she stood like a patrolling soldier guarding the exit of the kitchen watchful of the amount of food we ate; if you were not that hungry, I found that proclaiming I ate already or had a slight stomach ache worked best.     
      Fuji’s store offered a mélange of essentials along with a deli that sold fresh sandwiches, potatoes salad, and Korean ribs. Fuji was a sweet five-foot Korean woman with gentle lines around her mouth and eyes.  She died her hair a blue-black wore it in a stabbing pixie style and donned the same large gold dangly earrings every day.  Her family owned the place for over thirty years and she knew everyone in the neighborhood.                        Last evening she had stopped in to say hello and to give us her blessing.  Fuji adored Sam and was thrilled when we told her we were getting married.  She had a warm sense of humor and often told stories about her “soldier man.”   “He say I pretty, show me how to drink beer.” She explained, holding up a can of Budweiser.  When she overindulged now and again, she would recite a sad but sweet version of Ave Maria, crooning as if she were a performer in some up-scale jazz bar.  Fuji was fascinating and I had utter respect for her and the racial struggles she had to overcome in the States.  Post Korean War brides were pigeonholed as women looking for a way out—they were rarely given their own merit.
     “Bye bye Fuji, thanks.”  I yelled swinging the front door open.
     “See you—say hi to Sam for me.”  She yelled back, waving a free hand. 
     “I will!”      
     As I scurried back to the house my cell phone rang; I retrieved it from the belly of my purse, assuming the call was Louisa.  When I glanced at the unfamiliar numbers I hit the silence button and tossed the phone back not paying attention to the fact I was weaving from side to side.  When I slammed into the person walking the opposite direction, I bobbled backwards losing my balance and almost dropped the milk.  I looked up to apologize and stared in disbelief. 
     “Juliana.”  The voice was a low baritone smooth as if it floated out of a saxophone in a jazz ensemble.   Anxiousness swept over me; the kind that taps you on the shoulder in a dark alley.  I stood trying to center myself gawking at the black Celtic tattoos decorating the thick veined forearms.  From the outline of his tee shirt it was visible that he had lost weight.  His upper arms were athletic but not as brawny as they were nine months ago.
     
    “Nate.”  I said examining the pavement trying not to have eye contact.

     “Hi Jules.  You haven’t returned any of my calls. I’ve been stalking this neighborhood for months looking for you.”  He teetered towards me stretching out his arms for an embrace.
     “No Nate, don’t.”  I threw my free hand out as if I was a defensive guard on the San Francisco 49ers. 
     “Juliana we need to talk.”  Nate returned his arms to his side, slumped his shoulders.
     “No, not really there’s nothing to discuss Nate.”  I said shocked by my own resolve.
     “Jules, I’m so sorry.  You have no idea what I’ve been going through; I made a mistake—a catastrophic mistake…”  
     
     From the corner of Nate’s eyes was a thin trace of tears draining to his jaw line.  Was this a dream or a nightmare?  I had fantasized about Nate coming back to me for months after he left.  It was a dreary time that lingered on leaving me with a persistent nausea, my stomach clenching every time I tried to eat. I retreated from my daughter and the loss she felt when Nate abandoned not just our relationship by her as well.  I hated myself for this but it was as if my stamina had been high jacked and I succumbed to a perpetual shadow of sadness. After four months, the paralyzing pain slowly began to drift, like the melting of a harsh winter and I gathered myself piece by piece.  
     I started stacking reasons Nate’s leaving was good for me—that I had been stifled after all he didn’t really understand my deepest desires—those that lay hibernating waiting to awake.  And there was Sam.  Sam had carried me through this difficult time merely with his presence, calling me, cooking Lou and I dinner—singing in his squeaky high pitched tone to his beloved Elton John songs.  Nate had fled without ample warning, why should he be allowed pity now?
      “Nate.”  I could feel the walls of my throat narrowing.   I clutched the Berkley Farms milk container like a weapon.  “I gotta go.  My folks are visiting…” I said looking up at him.  His face filled with an anguish I had never seen before.
     “Juliana, can I call you again?  Please give me a chance to explain.”  His dark hair glinted in the sun with flecks of gold.  His blue eyes held both the color of the sea and the yearning to be forgiven.  
     “Sure Nate I suppose so.  But I gotta go.”  I knew if I didn’t leave in that instance I could be doomed to a resurrection of feelings buried only beneath the surface.  I tossed on a lopsided smile and scurried away.  My heartbeat thumping in my ears, I prayed he couldn’t hear it.   Nate and I had been together for four and half years. We had been engaged for six months.  A part of me wanted to toss the milk in the gutter, grab him and run away to feel his body next to me, to smell him.  But there had been too severe a betrayal with no harbinger to warn me.  I had finally built a sturdy wall around his memory and could not or would not crush it because he suddenly feels remorse.  Besides, it was probably guilt, not sincere sorrow I told myself.
    “I’ll call you Juliana.”  Nate shouted to my back
      Flying into the house I put the milk on the kitchen counter.  Having forgotten to zip the change portion of my wallet as I bent over to take off my shoes, coins cascaded everywhere pinging on the hardwood floors rolling as if running for their lives.  
    “Jules, come, come, come.”  Sam shouted. He was on the back patio re-arranging chairs.  
     “Be there in a sec.”  I yelled back picking up the runaway nickels and dimes.  I finished and went to join Sam feeling self-abnegating and unsettled.  My parents were nowhere in sight.
     “Hi.  Had to go get milk for the cappuccinos.  How was your shower?”
     “Goodt, goodt, goodt. Your brothers called they are coming soon.  They walked on the bike path.  Isabel and George shooed me out of the kitchen, they are cute, you know?  What’s the matter?”
     “Nothing.  Just tired that’s all. Is Lou here?”
     “She’s in the shower.  Tell me—what tis wrong.”  Sam has the intuition of a soothsayer.  As impressive as this sounds at the moment, I wasn’t in the mood to divulge anything deeper than what I wanted for breakfast.
     “Okay then, fine.  When you want to tell me what it tis, I am here.  We are still comrades Juliana, just because I am now your husbandt.” Sam said squeezing my shoulder.
     “I know that Sam,” I offered a faint smile.
      “I prefer it when you smile. You looked beautiful yesterday by the way.  I think I did not tell you once.  Forgive me.”  Sam said as he got up to walk inside.  
     I sat staring at the birch trees fanning their leaves in the morning breeze.  It looked as if they were rehearsing a dance, fluttering and twirling; their gray and green colors flip-flopping.  The leftover fog withered to a shear layer but there was still a chill in the air.  I wrapped my sweatshirt in tight trying to ward off thinking.  
     Taking mental notes of the birches’ elegant trunks, they reminded me of my first oil I worked on under Nona’s auspices.   She had kept a gorgeous photo of a cluster of birches near her home as a young girl.  The trees were in their heyday of autumn reds and yellows, it was October 1943.  She instructed me on how to illuminate with shades and shadows to highlight sun rays and darken where the shadows were cast.  The painting was a large 5’x7’ canvas and I remembered that it was still nesting in Nona’s little granny unit.  I would make a point to retrieve it and put it in the house.  The flitting leaves on the peeling tree bark seemed a perfect blend of the young and the old—each leaf dependent on the trunk and its connection to the roots buried deep within the earth. Nona was my connection to what linked me to a history I longed to explore.
     I needed to re-cast my aspirations and stop dawdling through love affairs.  I needed to re-cultivate my focus, not just for myself but for Lou as well. I laughed recalling a famous “Agnes analogy.”  She would re-iterate, “Jules…we’re herd animals. We’re not meant to be alone, so get over your obsession with thinking you have to seclude yourself in sadness before your art can be sold.”  She was right, and I realized that although I don’t want to live life alone, I also don’t have to succumb to fear and settle.  It was an on-going quandary.  My marriage to Sam rooted me for reasons beyond sheer love or loneliness but eventually, I wanted love to prevail to be tangible.  I wanted a taste of a relationship a no-bail type of love; the kind that when you see it—it is visible like a memorable photo or a pink sky in winter during a sunset.
     “Juliana.  Cappuccinos are ready.”  My mother shouted from inside the kitchen.
     “That was quick. Be right there.”  I snapped my thoughts back together.
     “Don‘t move,” my mother shouted back.  She rarely spoke in normal tones she had this theory that no one could hear her unless she spoke as if talking with a megaphone.  I heard the screen door open and slam shut.
     “Here, sit.  Your father and I are almost done cooking.  That Sam, he is a good man.  I love that he likes to cook.  Your brothers are on their way.  I hope they are famooshed.”  She said and kissed the top of my head. My mother was known for using words out of context and slaughtering particular pronunciations. Things like flags being at “half-mast” mom called them “half masked” or treadmills were thread-mills.  Often she would improvise words that she could not get her tongue to articulate.  Some were simple like Star Bucks “Stawl bucks,” Oprah Winfrey, “Ofie Winfia.”  Others were more complicated such as Constantinople sounded more like “constipation.”  If I dared correct her she hunched her shoulders and said I was being insensitive, so I stopped.  Her misuse of the English language became one of her trademarks.
     “Thanks mom.”   Sipping my cappuccino, I thought about Nate and how much my mother wanted to castrate him when he left me.  The morning he said good-by, I clung to him like a sixteenth century peasant accused of witchcraft pleading innocence.  As he descended, with his packed bags, down the apartment stairs, I wailed in the fetal position, thumping the floor.  It was an utter pathetic scene, one I vowed never to repeat. The memory of the fateful event played over in my head.
      “Nate, I’m home.  Nate?”   The sky had grown thick with fog and I shivered. 
     Nate jarred the door open with the front tire of his mountain bike. His legs and face were stucco with mud.  
     “Hi baby, did you have fun?”
     “Yeah, it was alright.”  He slipped off his shoes.  “Watch out Jules.”  He lifted the bike and carried it out back to the porch..  As he picked off chunks of mud, I asked.
      “So what do you think about Morocco?” 
      “Morocco! I don’t know why?”
     “They have artist there who make paint from vegetables and egg yolks.  It is fantastic Nate, the colors and when they begin to dry they evolve into a tapestry like a living faux finish. They are gorgeous. I want to go and study their technique…wouldn’t that be awesome?  Totally different style.  I could learn it bring it back here.  People would pay for something different, you know?  I could make it work be a successful artist and you and I can quit our nursing jobs and…”
     “I don’t want to quit my job and I’m NOT going to Morocco or Istanbul or Rome or Florence!  I want to buy a house here, right here in California, have a kid, settle down. God damn it Juliana, grow the fuck up.  It’s like you’re still eighteen trying to find yourself.”

     I remember how viciously we argued that evening and I falsely pleaded-- said I was willing to abandon traveling for a while.   This was a lie-- really.  Traveling was something I had had to postpone thus far in my life and my desire had grown.  
     Deep inside, I was convinced my bloodline ran rampant with gypsies and I was one of their incarnations.   I had been oblivious of Nate’s brewing discontent over our relationship.  Were there caveats I neglected to notice?  If there were, I was too out of touch, too immersed in my own insidious fears of abandonment to pay attention to them.   Maybe that was the harbinger, the fear that I should have listened to.  I was notorious for avoiding conflict—I preferred tucking it in an old trunk letting dust collect.
     Our sex-life, which had always been a raw blend of lust and sensual intimacy, hadn’t changed. It wasn’t as if he had stopped performing although in retrospect he had been less affectionate in public.  Nate had been my confident and my lover.  Or at least that was what I had wanted to believe. When he vanished from my life, I was broadsided.  Was it his fault entirely?  No. He had his own set of desires and found a slavish someone who shared his need to settle down, buy a house full of Tupperware and matching cutlery and forever-clean linoleum floors. I hadn’t been willing to do that, regardless of my saying otherwise.
     After Nate left, I realized during those four and half years with him I had exiled myself, abandoned my impetuous spirit and stuffed it in a closet.  The sleeping gypsy slowly rose from her slumber when Nate went away.  It took time but eventually I stepped back into my own shoes and returned to my path.  My life had hinged on a stagnant relationship that I tiptoed around.. I had needed to take the same advice I’d pawned off on those “other woman.”   I had become one of those “other women” sneaking around the truth.   There was a tremendous sense of relief in letting the pain out in the open—it was less of a burden like observing a painting for its perspective.  I felt I had an un-muted myself as I regained resolve and inner strength.
      I began to paint again, to play my music loud, to converse in Italian with my “speak in a week”. CD.  I practiced weekly with  Rico, the Italian baker who owned Faccio’s on Elm Street..  I dragged my books, Female Artists in Renaissance Italy and Painting Moroccan Style out of the closet and put them on my self-made book shelves.. Painting brought me back like a palate of colors; the coy and the brazen communing with the sexy the sloppy, the matron, all shades of me drawn on a fresh new canvas.  
     “Snap out of it Jules,” Sam said.  “This is beautiful tasting, no?”  He held up his cappuccino cup.
     “Delicious.  Sam, do you believe in providence?”
     “What is providence, like a town?”  He asked.
     “No, as in fate, destiny.”
     “Of course, why not it can’t hurt.”  He laughed.  “Why are you asking me that question?”
     “I donno.  Just wondered I guess.”
     “Do you?”  Sam asked.
     “Definitely I believe our unhappiness comes from fighting that destiny rather than following it, you know?”
     “Are you unhappy with your marriage fate, Jules?”
     “No I’m not saying that.  It’s just that sometimes I wish my “moira” as Nona called it would come pre-packed in the mail so I could map out my route make sure I’m on track rather than schlepping along hoping I’m heading in the right direction for my life.”
     “But that would be someone telling you what you are supposed to do rather than you figuring it out. The risks are the signs. That tis how I see it.”  Sam seemed so sure of himself at times and I admired that. 
     “Yo bride, get your ass up, you’re brothers are here and they’re hungry.”  Jimmy my oldest brother shouted swaggering across the patio.  “Morning sis.  Hung over?”
     “Nope not at all, you?”  I said in a smug tone.
     “Oh yeah.  Come on let’s eat.”  Jimmy said pulling me up by my armpits.
     “Whoa…don’t spill the cap.”  
     Jimmy was my favorite.  He always managed to make me laugh and he was the most affable person I knew.  My other brother Jackson was rather meticulous but not extreme. He knew when to take off his military britches and play unabashed.  Both men had raucous exteriors but never harangued me over my life choices.  They knew the real reason Sam and I joined forces and I never had to worry once that they’d shatter the cookie jar not even to their wives. 
     My brothers were and had been all along absolute soldiers when it came to being uncles. Both Jimmy and Jackson treat Louisa as a daughter rather than a niece and for that I am eternally obliged.  They provided a male perspective for Lou.  Although I had attempted to be a mother and a father, I very often fell shy of both.  My brothers jumped in before I ever had to ask.
     The dining room was a banquet of food.  There wasn’t enough room for everyone to gather at the table, so Agnes, Louisa, my sister-in law Tommie (Jackson’s wife), and I sat on a card table at the end of the table therefore no one felt segregated.  My father was sipping mimosas asking if anyone needed a refill.  Agnes said she did and stood to make a toast still in her running attire.  After my father filled her glass she began.
     “Here’s to family and friends and to Juliana and Sam that as individual they can grow in happiness. And to our Nona who is here in spirit. Salute!”
     “Salute!”  
     After brunch, the group plan was to head to Big Sur to hike a little and breathe in some nature.  
     Before we piled into the cars, I pulled Agnes in the bathroom to tell her about seeing Nate.  It was the safest spot to convene.
     “What the hell was he doing over here? He lives on the other side of town.”  Agnes asked.
     “How do you know where he lives?”
     “I forget. I think that blond chick at the bank told me.  Anyway, forget about it. I can’t believe him.  Did you tell him you and Sam are married?”
     “No.  I didn’t have time.  He said he wants to talk…Ag he was crying.”
     “And your point?  Look Jules, he ripped your guts out and didn’t think about it for a year.”
     “It was nine months.”  I corrected.
     “Minor detail. You thankfully came out stronger for it.  Now he wants forgiveness?  Hell no!”   Agnes swirled her neck side to side like a mating rooster.
     “I know all of that. But I want to hear what he has to say.  I’m curious.”
     “I don’t think you should give him a split second of your time.  You‘ve moved on, he should do the same.”
     “Hey…Juliana, vat you doing, stop dawdling your family is waiting.”  Sam yelled from down stairs.
     “Coming.”  Agnes shouted back.  She hugged me and we descended leaving our conversation behind.
     Driving through Carmel on our way to Big Sur I felt a satisfaction knowing my brothers and I were together. Jimmy, Jackson and Sam sparred with one another with light sarcasm the kind that bonds men at a safe distance.  It was apparent that regardless of the cultural differences, certain male traits were universal like shaking the opposing teams hand after a football game.  
     Big Sur is a sacred spot with ancient land harboring phantom.  It was special to me for many reasons.  It was my solace, like a hidden tree fort to go to when I needed to be alone with Mother Nature.  Wisdom that tunnels back to the Native people, the Esolens and the Pomo, was buried deep in the soil and the sand. It is a place to renew to erase sadness to walk away lighter more serene.  Highway 1 is perched high above the ocean and flanked on one side by redwood grove; their earthy aroma of wet dirt splattered with ferns and wildflowers and on the other side lie the turquoise sea.  This drive never failed to leave me spellbound.  It had been the first place Nate and I had made love, in the woods by the tin roof house high on a hill overlooking the Venta
                                                 CHAPTER FIVE
“Sex is a sensation. Love is a state of being, a lasting relationship that we can slowly make permanent.  That is the deepest desire in all of us, to make this state of union permanent.”                                                      --Eknath Easwaran                                                                                                                                                                                       

      Two weeks had whizzed by since the wedding and the daily routines of working three twelve hour shifts at the local hospital, painting (when possible), and hanging out with Louisa and Agnes were gradually wedging their way back into place.  I was relieved that my family had managed to spend two entire days together without my sister sermonizing, my mother crying, or my father belittling.  Sam thought my family hilarious and found it impossible to identify with my sporadic feelings of isolation.  “You have a nice family, don’t take all the stuff personal” he’d say.  
     In the Kardol family, Sam was the baby of four boys, and one sister.  He was set on the shelf alongside Gandhi, Buddha, and Jesus Christ.  His family knew nothing about his persistent sexual appetite or his bouts of laziness.  His mother would call and say, “Husam there Julie?  Oh I tank you, tank you, tank you for sabing my goot boy. We miss hem…” then she would start sobbing. I would try to say something in Arabic, which only made her cry harder.  
     It was a Friday evening and I had just finished a horrendous shift at the hospital.  All six of my patients had diarrhea, dementia, and drains shooting out from every orifice. They were all incontinent and their families couldn’t understand why I didn’t change the diaper seconds after their loved one urinated or stooled themselves.  Why their loved one didn’t get a full bed bath after each soiling.  When the doctors slipped in, the patients and their families slapped on smiles and spoke as if they were addressing a dignitary.  Three seconds after the doctor left (to write a novel of new orders that I would have to implement) the demands erupted all over. Often families asked “could you interpret what the doctor just said” or worse what she didn’t say they wanted a translator slash fortune teller.  And they usually needed me to be specific no generalities.  But the truth is-- medicine isn’t specific.  There’s a lot of speculation and guesswork and doctors don’t have access to their patients will to live. That is entirely unique and personal to each individual. There is no questionnaire asking to rate your will to live from one to five.  I try to answer questions and listen as best I can, but juggling  six patients’ emotional and physical needs and their families’ requests is exhausting.
     Dragging my feet in the door, I flopped on the couch to sit in silence for a moment drained from the day.
     “Jules is that you?”  Sam screamed from upstairs. I was not in a mood for his stadium call.
    “Yup. It’s me.”  I limply responded.
     “I have a surprise for you…don’t move.”
     “Not a problem.”  
       Sam flung himself down the stairs sliding across the floor in his socks.  
      “Get naked.”  He said with too much enthusiasm.
     “God damn it Sam, I’m really tired, really.”
     “I know, I know, I know.  Give me your clothes and go up the stairs--come, come, come.”  He said holding his right palm out.  “Here you can throw this on.”  He handed me a white terry cloth robe with red leaves on it.
     “Sam I swear I’m exhausted and in a very foul mood.”
     “Give me your feet,” he took off my shoes and socks. “Lift your arms…” One by one he undressed me down to my bra and panties and looped the bathrobe around my shoulders.  He started to throw me over his back, but I knew he didn’t have the strength for that and besides I was in no frame of mind to be tossed around like a bag of coffee beans.
     Climbing the stairs I felt as if I’d grown a pair of elephant legs.  I knew that some of the tiredness was merely mental as well as physical.  I turned the bathroom door and 4rwas stunned.  Sam had poured me a bubble bath.  The sides of the tub were illuminated with flickering votive candles.  Maria Callas, my favorite Italian Opera singer sang Mio Babbino Car softly on the portable CD player and a glass of red wine rested on a silver tray.  Clean white towels with roses in the center were draped over the counter.  
     “Wow. This looks amazing.  How did you know I needed this?”
     “I called you at the hospital four times and each time they say, sorry she is busy.  I knew, oh boy.”  Sam said shaking his head.  
     “You are such a great husband and I’m such a crappy wife.”  I gave him a peck on the cheek.
     “When you’re finished, you get massage…if you want…if not no problem.”  He said and closed the door behind him. I took a long slow inhale.
     Slithering into the warm water, fragrant droplets of sweet almond oil floated up from the bath water.  The day’s irritations started to melt away as I took a sip of wine. For a brief moment, it registered that Sam had called me at work and I wondered what he had wanted.  Whatever it was, I’d deal with it later.  For now the warm bubbles, flickers of tiny candles and Maria Callas were soothing my frayed nerves. What a wonderful thoughtful act.  No one (let alone a male) had ever done this for me.  Why hadn’t Nate ever poured me a bath or offered me a massage?  I had done those things for him.  I pushed away the fact that Nate had recently left me four consecutive phone messages and let my thoughts dissolve into a pool of nothingness as my muscles unraveled.
    Between the wine and the heat after about a half an hour, I was sufficiently transformed.  The frustrations of the day faded.  I finished drying off and slipped into a pair of yoga pants and my favorite baggy sweatshirt.  Sam was downstairs listening to The Best of Edith Piaf, his favorite French CD. His taste in music, like mine, swerved in every direction from Elton John to classical Arabic. 
     “Thanks Sam that was divine.”  
     “Glad you liked it. You hungry?”
     “No, not really.”
     “Not even for a little baklava?”
     “Oh!  Well that’s different. Wanna sit outside, it’s gorgeous?”
     “Sure, sure, sure.”  Sam grabbed the plate of baklava and we headed to the patio.  The moonless sky was frosted with thousands of stars. Sam sat smoking his hookah staring at the dark yard.  We sat listening to the breeze navigating through the trees.
     “You’re awfully quiet.”  I said.
     “I feel homesick—it is difficult to explain—I miss familiar tings you know?  My mother called, she’s not well.”
     “What’s wrong with her?”
     “The family is not so sure yet…maybe cancer.  Godt, Jules I pray it tis not.  I have not seen my mother now--three years.  Three years--that is too long for any son to not see his mother.”  Sam said, his voice ardent cracked around the edges of his words. 
     I rarely saw Sam sad.  Most of the time he was optimistic almost to the point of annoyance, I could feel his chasm of sorrow as if there were another person among us.  
     “Oh Sam that is horrible!  When will they know?”
     “Monday, hopefully.  I am going to go to church tomorrow, pray.  Will you come?”  Sam’s ability to communicate without ambiguity or innuendo was refreshing.  He never contrived or censored his speech. Growing up with an Irish father who was articulate but guile with his words, I learned that to get to the epicenter of his emotions meant sifting through layers of buried feelings.  Sam’s emotional disclosure was significant, pure.  He took all the guess work out.
     “If it’s just to pray.  I can’t go to a mass, I just can’t.”  
     “No, no, no…just to pray with me.”
     “We can do that anywhere you know.”  I was sparring a bit.  My childhood experiences with rigid Catholic rhetoric left me seeking spiritual food elsewhere.  I could no longer sit and stand and kneel at a mass every Sunday. I’d rather go for a hike and thank God for the scent of fennel and wild mint growing on the trails.  Or fall to my knees over a sunset splashing red and purple across the horizon.
     “I know, I know.  Anyway, enough.  You look tired.  Tell me about your day…it twas bad, yes?”
     “The worst.  Don’t worry Sam; your mom will be okay.  Once you get your green card maybe we can go to Israel together.  Things will have to eventually calm down.  And you could show me all of the…”
     “Oh my godt…Juliana, it twould be the best.  The best.  Do you know if we got married in my village there would be a two-week celebration.  The streets would be filled with music and dancing, food pouring out everywhere we’d be like a king and queen. I wish I could take you there tomorrow.  My parents, they would love you I know.”  Sam said. 
     He looked at me-- and for the first time I saw more than just a friend or a husband.  I saw a man.  His round lips and dark eyes and the trace of black hair that outlined his jaw from a day of not shaving. Perhaps it was the wine that encouraged my sexual arousal towards Sam, like a sleeper wave coming out of nowhere.  Or perhaps it was the romantic fantasy of being in a foreign country and lavished with attention.  Whatever it was, I felt a desire for Sam I had not experienced ever before.  
     “That sounds incredible and vibrant.  We’re so humdrum here in the States.”
     “My Godt, it’s work, work, work, speaking of-- tell me what happened.”
     “Oh it’s over, my patients all had explosive diarrhea and…”
     “Oooph, never mind.  Don’t worry you won’t have to be a nurse forever.  Your art is going to sell, I know.  My boss loves the Trompe-L’oeil you did at the coffee shop, said it tis brilliant.”
     “Really? That was difficult at first figuring out how to make the stacks of sacks look real.”
     “Ah man you’re the best, the best.”
     “Thanks Sam, I appreciate the positive comments and that you appreciate my artwork.  I really love that.”
     “You love me?  I love you too.”  He laughed but I knew there was a smattering of truth to his words.  “Sometimes I wonder what it tis I am doing here, you know?”
     “You mean here or in America here?”
     “Here—in America tis what I mean is if I run away…”
     “You didn’t run Sam--you made a choice.”
     “I know, I know, but it tis crazy. I miss the sea, the land. I miss that if I want a job I hop on my motorcycle and tell someone, hey, I’m a pastry chef you need me yes?  And boom--I have a job.  Here, they want resume, cover letter.  Just taste my things I want to say.  Maybe we should go to Germany. I lived there once with a girl. It twas nice.”
    “No, I want to live in Italy if I live in Europe. Go to my Nona’s village.  I want to find my grandfather’s artwork.”
     “I thought Alessandra’s husband was American?”  Sam said.
     “That was her second husband. My real grandfather was Italian.  When the war came, Nona took my mom and herself here to live with my aunt who had been living in San Francisco.  They had to escape the war”
     “Which aunt?”
     “Aunt Geralina, she died when I was a little girl, I don’t remember her.”
     “War is terrible, so useless. Did he make it out?”
     “Who?”
     “Alessandra’s husband—the first one.”
     “No.  She waited for word that he had been liberated but it never came.  She was devastated.  She spoke of him often, they were known as the artists by the sea.  Sad.”
     “I didn’t know that story.  Tsk, tsk, tsk. So much we don’t know about each other huh?”  Sam stared at the candle flickering on the table.
     “Yeah.” I said. We sat in silence drinking in the conversation. It felt good to talk to Sam.  I felt a close-ness, I had missed after Nate and I ended.  
     “You want more wine?”
     “Sure. I’ll get it.”  I popped up and went to the kitchen.  Pouring myself another glass of Buena Vista Cabernet (Sam knew it was my favorite), I felt a pulsing sensation between my thighs a deep craving was yawning its way out.  I had been too long without an orgasm from a living penis, but it was more than that.  I missed the provocative touch and caressing that went along with making love.  Folded in the seams of sexuality was the desire to be touched and the desire to please to feel a partner from the inside because it was me he wanted, me he preferred to share himself with.  
     “Do you want the massage?”  Sam whispered on my neck. He had come in and was behind me. I could feel his erection on the small of my back.
     “Sure,” I slurred out of the corner of my mouth.  When I turned around, we began to kiss. Tracing my lips with his tongue tingled my whole body.  Sam swept his fingers over the sides of my neck and I felt my sexual guard retreating as I succumbed to my own stirrings.  We lingered kissing in the kitchen for a few minutes, until hands together, we walked upstairs
     It was the first time Sam and I had been completely intimate with one another and there was a hint of awkwardness, at first, not knowing what was pleasing and what was not.  I hadn’t had an orgasm with anyone other than myself for seven months.  Having been with Nate for four years, we had known every inch of each other and I was un-abandoned with him.   Sam was a very different lover.  Although he was eager to please he refused to let himself go completely.  I hungered for that surge of male energy and began to yearn for Nate but pushed it away.  When we finished, an overwhelming urge to cry boiled up.  All the unresolved emotions for Nathan came flooding inside of me like a swollen river pouring through streets scooping up everything in its path.  My eyelids filled and tears rolled down my temples and into my hair and around the back of my ears.
     “Why are you crying?”  Sam asked.  “Was it that horrible?” 
     “No Sam, it was wonderful.”  I plopped my head on his chest.  “I’m just emotional right now that’s all.  I miss Nona.”
     “You thought about your grandmother when we’re having sex?”
     “No.”  I slapped his side.  “I’m just sad it’s time for my period.”
     “I think you miss Nathan still Juliana, that tis why you cry.”  Sam said.  He rubbed his hand back and forth over my shoulders as if telling me he understood.
     “No, that’s not true.” 
     “I think so.”
     “Let’s sleep, I’m tired.”
     “I care about you Juliana.  I want you to be happy.  We won’t be married forever I know, but we will forever be friends.”
     “I am happy I promise.”  I rolled over and tried hard to stop crying.
                                                       CHAPTER SIX
“All at once you are free,
     with nothing left to hold on to.
All is empty, brilliant,
     perfect in its own being.”                              Seng-Ts’An 

     As little particles of dust danced in the morning sunlight, I stretched out and replayed my evening with Sam.  I felt as though Sam and I had moved to a new level of emotional intimacy. We had crossed over some sort of barrier, not merely because of the sex but rather it was the resolution of waning pretense.  It was now two consenting adults giving to one another without the strings attached.  I felt refreshed having safe noncommittal sex with Sam.   As I stirred to get up, I heard his beckoning.
     “Juliana, wake up good news.”  Sam shouted from downstairs.
     “Your mom is okay?“  I shouted back.
     “No, no, no I mean, tsk tsk- I don’t know yet.  What I do know is you are going to do an art show.  Come come come get up.”
     “What?”  I threw on my favorite sweats, the ones with huge holes in the knees, and clamored down the steps.
      Without my permission, Sam had apparently committed me to an art exhibit at his friend Paolo’s restaurant, Tuttu Italia and his friend was calling to confirm.  Paolo had an obsession for anything Italian—as he was from Lucca and although lived in the states for many years, missed his beloved Italia. When Sam told him my paintings were renditions of Alessandra’s photos of her village, he agreed to an exhibit--as long as I was billed as an Italian artist.  Sam’s zeal for my work, spurred my confidence, although I did feel jittery over the thought of a real showing. I had done many commissioned paintings and murals but had yet to display my work formally. Paolo assured Sam it would be a casual evening, wine and appetizers, no tuxes no gowns, nothing too fluffy, which for Paolo would be a stretch.  He was wonderfully flamboyant, always kissing a cheek, a hand and fussing over whomever it was he was greeting.  He liked to call himself the ‘happy homosexual’—even though he was happily married to a gorgeous Italian woman.
     “Juliana, you will be big artist I know this,” Sam said slapping his palms together..  
    “Oh my god Sam this is…”  I gave him a hug.  “I only have seven finished pieces though.”
     “You have until July.  Three monts. And besides Tutu’s is not that big.  Paolo is thrilled, he loves your work.”
     “I can do it.  I’ll get six more oils done.  Maybe Louisa can show with me?”
     “No. This is for you Juliana.  Lou is young she has time.”
     “What  I must hurry before I shrivel up?”
     “Oh my godt, you are so funny.  No of course not. Stop being a mother, tis your time as an artist, so shut up and tank me.”
     “Thank you thank you--ahhh.  I have to call Agnes and Louisa.  When did Paolo see my work?”  It dawned on me I had never shown him my art.
     “I showed him one day—your studio—it twas open.  We were outside and boom.”
     “Well, usually I’d be angry that you invaded my studio without me, but I suppose I’ll forgive you this time.”
     “That is kind of you. Let’s have breakfast to celebrate.”  Sam as usual was thinking about food.  Food was Sam’s favorite way to celebrate anything.
     “I can’t eat I’m too excited.”  I shouted.  “I need a web site.”
     “Yes you do.”   I will cook a little something for when you get back.
     Running back upstairs I was filled with ebullience.  I needed a bike ride to assemble and arrange my thoughts, mull over what I needed to do next, and then set a plan in motion.  Throwing on a tee shirt and shorts, my mind was racing not only about the art show but the intimacy with Sam last night.  Funny how in twenty-four hours life can take a switch back that uplifts you. It is those sudden highlights in life that make the mundane bearable.  
     As I tied my hair back for a split second I worried that Sam was not going to be causal about our sex and perhaps even try to pin me down with expectations.  Although, knowing Sam I doubted that would be the case so I immediately dismissed the thoughts as if they had never existed and ran down the stairs.
     “Sam I’ll be back in a bit, I’m gonna ride off some this adrenalin. Okay?”
     “Juliana.”
     “Yeah?”
     “Don’t worry I’m not going to pester you for sex all the time.”  Sam said.  His voice strained slightly as if he was stifling a cough. “And don’t forget, you said you wouldt go pray with me.”
     “I will I promise!  As soon as I get back we can go.  Ciao.”    
     “Ciao.”
     The late morning air had warmed to a perfect seventy-five degrees.  I could smell the sea and the kelp that lay stranded on the sand waiting for a wave to return it to its salty home.  Summer tourists hadn’t swarmed the bike path yet and it was early enough locals were still dithering over their morning coffee.  I often experience what I refer to as my “wild horse feeling”  The wild horse feeling bucks societal expectations.  Those historical obligations that turn their collars up, point fingers, and sing “for shame on you” at women who don’t like to cook or have too much ambition and too little interest in cleaning the house.  I struggled under the shadow of my own mother who was a fabulous cook, an organized house keeper, and always seemed to sacrifice her own desires. Riding my bike alongside the ocean always gave me a sense of freedom a release from the reins so to speak.  Pumping the pedals hard I reflected on what I should focus on in my most recent painting and how to complete the village settings. My eyes grazed over the boats bobbing up and down with the tide; there were beautiful sailboats with masks drawn, mingling with sun bleached dinghies and rowboats all floating with the ebb and flow of the sea.  
     A congregation of sea lions was barking on rocks speckled with bird droppings and half submerged by rolling foam.  Beside them was a herd of yellow kayaks, folks adorned with army green hats, their oars in sync with one another.  Early morning was the best time in for kayaking in the Monterey bay.  The water was usually smooth like a slate of marble and there less people out.  
     Up ahead I could see a pack of men heading my way on street bikes.  The bike path could be a precarious ride when clogged with these very serious riders. They were notorious for jabbing pedestrians out of their way riding in their testosterone driven peloton.  It was best to clear out and let them pass.  I kept my eyes averted wedging over to the far right and returned to my thoughts as they neared; dropping my shoulders chin to chest streamlining into a tight tuck focusing on my side of the path.  The bikers whizzed by like a herd of bees and I cruised onward relishing conjured images of my opening atTuttu’s.
     Seconds later, I heard my name being called from a winded voice behind  me.
     “Juliana.” It was Nathan.
    I continued riding.  My heart thumping my hands quivered slightly.  He must have been in the pack of male bees that had ridden by and I hadn’t noticed.  I pressed hard on my down stroke.
     “Juliana.”  He was persistent.  “Hey.”  
Nate had caught up with me and was now riding neck in neck to my right.
     “Hi.”
     “Juliana, can I talk to you-- please.  I’m begging.  You haven’t called me back--I understand--but I really want to talk to you.  Just talk, please.”
     “Your guys are gonna wonder where you are.” I said trying to avoid the question.
     “We’ve already done our ride.  They’re just heading for coffee at Morgan’s.  Let’s stop at Lover’s Point.  Are you hungry, I’ll buy you breakfast?”
     “Nah.  Not hungry.  Already ate.  Ah, I don’t really have time Nate.” 
     “Have dinner with me tonight then.”
     “Dinner. Dinner?”  I was flabbergasted at the idea.
      “I’ll come pick you up.”
     “No.”
      “Why can’t I pick you up?”
     “I meant no to both the dinner and the ride.”
     ”Juliana, look, I was an idiot-- a complete asshole.  Please let me buy you dinner.”
     “What the hell is dinner gonna do Nate?  Honestly, I’m over it-- you.”
     “I’m not saying you’re not. I just want to take you to dinner, that’s all.  I know dinner is not going to change the past.  But I need to talk to you, to explain. I miss the hell out of you.”
     “Wow.  Did you have a head injury or something?  When did this revelation occur?”
     “I’ve missed you all along.”
     “Nate.  It’s been almost a year!”
     “Eight months.  Just one dinner that is all.”
     “Nine. Okay, I guess, since you’re begging.”  I smirked.
     “How about the Meritage?”
     “No. Too fancy.”  
     “Peppers?”
     “Peppers is fine.”
      “I’ll pick you up around seven.”
     “I’ll meet you there at eight.”
     “Whatever you want Juliana.”   
     “You should go meet back with your boys. I gotta meet a friend.”
     “Okay. Okay.  I’ll see you tonight.”
     “Yeah, see ya.”  As Nate turned around in the intersection, our eyes interlocked.  And in that brief moment, I felt as if a warm light lit up inside of me, melting the façade I’d constructed.  It moved out from the center of my belly and drizzled all the way down to my toes. I was left with vague anxiety. How would I tell Sam?  And why did it matter, Sam and I were not in love we were married for immigration reasons, a friendly arrangement, a business deal, two people helping each other.  Why then, was guilt crawling around my skin like a bad itch?
     I pushed the pedals and I thought about the wild horse again and my art show and my need to stay strong, focused.  I thought also about my Nona how she had proven her warrior spirit many times over as a young girl, losing her first love, then moving to America all alone in hopes of locating her sister.  I marveled at her gumption.  I wondered what advice she would give me about Nate.  She forgave routinely without hesitation and I tried to cultivate that in myself.  But forgiveness and forgetting are two different processes. Nona had been a freethinking woman long before any liberation was out in the open.  She lived her life full as a woman but never fully subscribed to the gender rules of her era.  Alessandra had never tamed herself completely.  The truth was she embodied wild horse running with quiet mettle and had returned to the place she loved the most--the sea.
           “Sam, I’m home.”  I called out as I shoved the front door open still slightly winded.  The door handle smacked the wall causing the door to ricochet into my shoulder.  I winced irritated by my clumsiness.
         “Sam?”
          When no one answered I was relieved.  I wanted to re-play seeing Nate in my head, thumb through each scene scrutinize each word.  There was a note on the kitchen counter, Jules, I’m steeping wake me when you get back.”  Sam often misspelled English words but I never thought of it as an uneducated quality.  He could write and read Arabic, German, and French therefore misspelling an English word here and there was understandable. Trudging up the stairs, I decided I’d tell Sam I was meeting friends for dinner and pray he didn’t ask who.
     “Psst, Sam wake up.  Husam…” I nudged his arm.
     “Oh--what time is it?”  Sam asked looking dazed.
     “Twelve-thirty.  You asked me to wake you in your note-- remember?”
      “Ya, ya, ya.  I’m so tired.  It must have been all that sex.”
     “Very funny.  We should do the church thing now don’t you think?”
     “Why such a hurry you have a hot date?”  Sam chuckled.  “Come lay down.”  He patted the mattress.
     “No, I stink. And no I don’t have a hot date, just meeting friends later and remembered I’d promised you a pray session.”
     “Don’t worry, you don’t have to.”
     “No it’s fine.  Just sort of thought we’d go early before the crowds come and there’d be no kneeling room.” I laughed at my own sarcasm.
     “Okay,” Sam said yawning.  My sister Rebekah called, she’s scared, thinks our mother has cancer for sure.  But she’s always scared of something, you know?  Feisal wants me to go out tonight, a bunch of them are going dancing. Why don’t you come?”
     “Maybe. I’d have to meet you later. I promised an old friend…friends dinner.  You should go out, you haven‘t been for a while.”  
     Lately Sam had taken to staying home, as if he was a mother nesting her young.  It worried me.  He used to be a walking commentator falling in lust around every female. Louisa had mentioned as well, that Sam of late seemed to be retired--a man now dedicated to one love.  “Don’t be ridiculous,” I told her and dismissed it from my mind. 
    “I’ll be downstairs waiting.”  I said as Sam lumbered up from the bed.
     I felt a sudden urge to fly to the mall and buy something new and adorable to wear for dinner.  I wrestled with my thoughts trying desperately to shut my mind up.  I wished Agnes was home to talk to, but she was away in Paris.  She would have told me I was ridiculous for agreeing to meet Nate, I was sure.  Agnes was always pithy with her opinions.  She doled them out without permission like a city ordinance.  And her opinion of Nate was ruthless.  I sat waiting for Sam talking to Nona, knowing that somehow she would navigate me down the right path.  Alessandra was a renegade especially when it came to relationships.  More often than not, she gave me opposite advice from Agnes and my mother.  Now that she was dead, I had to sit in silence and listen, really listen.
      
     “Let’s go.”  Sam said as he marched down the stairs.  He had baptized himself in cologne. It was an Italian aftershave that harbored a blend of sweet oranges, vanilla, bergamot, and something earthy, like the scent of cut grass or summer tomatoes.  It was my favorite.
     “It was kinda early to be napping wasn’t it?”
     “I didn’t sleep so good.  Then I went to breakfast with Dia, ate too much; fell into a foodt  stupor.”  Dia was Sam’s closest friend—he was from Egypt. A five foot nine pack of fervor who married a woman for love and for sparing.  They argued round the clock.  Sam was their personal mediator.  But Dia and his wife, Bethany, had an understanding with each other.  Arguing fueled their relationship, it was the whole shebang contract; simply stated their marriage included subversive discourse.  It gave them something to triumph over among their more peaceful peers; to peruse through town with their fights proceeding them like film stars.
     “A food stupor…” I sighed.  “How long do you need to pray?”
     “Ten minutes. I’m quick.”  Sam said smiling.
     We opened the massive wooden doors to the eighteenth century Catholic Church that was used as a mission at one time.  I thought about the bleak missionary era when the Ohlone  Indians were forced to serve.  They were forbidden to practice their Native customs or speak their Native language.  The missionaries went so far as to separate men and women unless they were married under the Christian law. I felt sad that these tribes had to abandon their traditions-- peaceful people who gave thanks for the streams and the fish that fed them.  In the center of the entrance stood what looked like an elegant ceramic birdbath.  It was filled with “holy water.”  I always found it unusual that a priest could deem water “holy” through his blessing it. What, exactly was the criteria I wondered?  Did the water have to cure a particular number of ill patrons?  Or resolve a percentage of disfigurements? I knew it was a symbolic gesture, which is what I did like about the church—the symbolism. 
     Sam dipped his fingers in and made the sign of the cross.  I lingered behind as we walked over to the cluster of candles flickering under the statue of Mary.  Mary was clothed in a turquoise wrap with a white veil over her plastered yellow hair.  Her palms were lifted towards the ceiling; she looked serene, compassionate.  It seemed as if she was sincere in wanting to hear the concerns of those who knelt before her.  A stitch of sorrow stirred within me.  I had long abandoned my Catholic up- bringing but there were times when I still felt a connection to the rituals, to the ornate stained glass, to the statues.  I remembered as a child deliberating over what I should give up for lent and waiting for the blessed Easter Sunday to arrive.  My sister and I would don our black Patten leathers and click clack our way to church tip tapping down the marble aisles before sliding into a wooden pew.  There was something comforting in the repetition.  Glancing at the Jesus strapped to the redwood cross, suspended above the pulpit, I told him in silence that it wasn’t Him.  That I still pray and believe that he embodied love.  I was certain He already knew all of this but I said it anyway.  I asked for Sam’s mother not to have cancer and for some advice on Nate.  As I got up, I thought how Jesus articulated a similar message of peace that all spiritual leaders including Indian people have proposed we live by.  It seemed unfair to me that His words were more often distorted by people wanting to devise their own meaning of Christianity.  He seemed less understood than other spiritual leaders such as Buddha or the Dalai Lama.  So many interpretations, so much to argue and debate.
     Sam finished lighting his candle, crossed himself reciting “In the name of the father and of the son and of the holy spirit,” then we left.
     “That wasn’t so bad was it?”  Sam asked and squeezed my left bicep.
     “No.”  I took a deep breath.  “Have you ever been to an Ashram or a Synagogue?” 
     “Not to an Ashram, Synagogue yes.”
     “I used to go to Temple every Friday evening with my eighth grade friends, Robin Mehler and Hanna Freiberg.  The first boy I kissed was at a Bar Mitzvah. I was thirteen.”
     “I have millions of Jewish friends in Israel.  For me, it doesn’t matter, Jew, Christian, Muslim, Buddhist, I don’t care.  If you are a good person, that’s it--boom.”
   “We should go to the Ashram there’s one out at the mouth of the Carmel River.  I’ve never been.”
     “Yes, we can go any time you like.”
     We drove home without words both of us enveloped in our own thoughts.  As we pulled up the driveway, I saw Louisa’s car.  She came out of the front door in her UCLA sweatshirt and a pair of jeans that looked as if someone had shot at her.
     “Hi mom, hi Sam.”  
     “Hi Lou.”  Sam and I said in unison.
     “What are doing home?  Not that I’m not happy to see you?”
     “Raman and I got in a fight. I needed a break.  We were supposed to go hiking.  It’s our only day together.”
     “What was the fight about?”
     “I don’t know it was stupid.”
     “You don’t know what you were arguing about?”  Sam asked.
     “Well it is so ridiculous, I’m embarrassed to tell you.”  Lou said.
     Sam and I glanced at one another.
     “You mean it tis personal and you don’t want to talk about it in front of me?”  Sam said.  
     “Kinda.” 
     “I’m going to watch my Formula One Race, have fun you two.  If you need me I’m here.”  Sam said.
     “Thanks Sam.”  Louisa gave him a hug.  
     “Mom want to go for a hike?” 
     “A short one.  I’m sort of out of it today.  I worked three twelve hour shifts in a row and yesterday was horrendous.”
     “Why did you do that?  You usually split it up more?”
     “I want to try to schedule big blocks of time for painting.  I get more accomplished when I release into a zone.  Oh yea--Sam set up an art exhibit for me, in July!”
     “Oh my god, mom that’s huge!  Where?”
     “Tuttu Italia.  I’m nervous but really excited.  I have to get a website, get serious and focus you know?”
     “That is awesome Mom.  I need to start painting more too.  It’s hard.”
     “We could do a mother daughter show, after I do this one.”
     “That would be great.”
     “It would be unique.  Maybe have a theme. Can we do a quick walk rather than a hike?”     
     “How about Delmonte beach.  It’s close.”
     “Perfect.”
     As Lou and I ambled the long stretch of white sand I debated whether to discuss meeting Nate with her.  When he had left, she was devastated.  After smuggling her trust past all the fatherly misgivings only to watch him disappear; she couldn’t comprehend why he’d abandon her.
     “So mom, did you ever worry about becoming a loser?”
     “All interesting women worry about that. I still do.”
      “Why?  You’ve been a nurse, a mom, you’re a talented artist. Now you’re gonna have an art exhibit…you’ve accomplished things.”
     “I feel far from accomplished. When I’m selling my oils and being commissioned regularly than maybe I’ll be satisfied.” 
     “Oh and speaking of painting, there’s a new restaurant that opened, remember where the sushi place was on Lighthouse?”
     “Yup.”
     “They have two bare walls that are screaming for something.  We should talk to them.”
     “Okay, sure.”  I said looking at my watch. It was two o’clock. Six more hours before dinner with Nate.  When I thought about it my stomach folded like a wilting flower.    “So what was the fight about?”  I asked.
     “Sex.  Raman is ridiculous. He humps and then that’s it.  When we’re out in public, will he hold my hand or kiss me? No!”  Lou’s voice lowered to a loud whisper.
     “Have you told him how you feel?”
     “Of course mom.  He doesn’t get it.”  Louisa threw her hands to the sky looking very dramatic and exaggerated.
     “Well he’s half idiot half nitwit Lou. I personally can’t stand the guy.  Why don’t you just break up with him and date around. You’re too young for a relationship.”
     “I know I want to. But I hate dating.  It’s annoying.”
     “You’re twenty-one.  How could you hate dating?” As soon as the words flew out of my mouth, I thought how much I hated dating when I was younger and still do.
     “I don’t like having to pretend stuff when you first start dating.”  Lou explained.
     “What do you mean pretend?”
     “You know you have to act like you want to do something when you don’t really want to.”
     “Who told you that?   If you like the person, you may want to try and please them. But it’s a shared responsibility Lou.”
     “I know.”
     “You don’t have to lose yourself.  Those women who turn into Tupperware groupies, they’ve stepped out of themselves into a shelf with the lids closed tight.  Their lives are dependent on what so and so is doing or not doing.  I think that’s what happened with Nate and me. He wanted me to be a Tupperware woman.  But not all women are like that.”
     “You crack me up.  A Tupperware woman.  Speaking of Nate, have you heard from him again?”
     “Actually, I have.  He is taking me to dinner tonight.”
     “What! Mom! Why?” Louisa sounded horrified, as if I just told her I was going to shave my head or join a cult in Utah somewhere. 
     “He says he wants to explain himself, talk—really talk. I ran into him on the bike path. He’s been calling borderline pestering me for a while.”
     “Whoa.  Poor Sam.”
     “Poor Sam?” I said indignant.
     “Mom, you two better not get back together.  He is untrustworthy.  Swine-like—totally unreliable.  You deserve better.”
     “Louisa, I am capable of making mature decisions, thank-you.  I’m sure we’ll never get back together. The way he departed like a tourist running to catch a plane home-- is not something I will give him the opportunity to repeat nor will I forget.  I am not a total idiot Lou”
     “I never called you an idiot.  I remember what Nona used to say, “Don’t dig your heels in too deep or you’ll be stuck forever.”  I mean Nate is okay and I…”
     “I know I know—he betrayed you as well.  But honestly, I can’t help my curiosity.  It will be interesting to see what he has to say for himself.”
     “Poor Sam.”  Louisa said shaking her head.
     “Stop saying that.  Why poor Sam?”
     “I think he really really likes you mom.  Actually, I think he is in love with you--seriously.”
     “Sam and I are the best of friends.  We do love each other but not in a romantic sense.  He is an incredible friend—we are like friend mates.  I can be around Sam and not care that I forgot to wear mascara.”
     “Do you think it’s possible to love more than one person at the same time?”
     “Yes, there are different types of  love it’s a matter of who we give our allegiance to that is important.  Raman with his minimal brain cells and lack of integrity, is not someone you should worry about being loyal to.”
     “You’re right and I know it.”
     “I don’t care about being right, I want you to be free--indulge your talents, your youth.  Men aren’t going anywhere.”
      “Yea I know

     Louisa and I finished walking the beach and I managed to angle the conversation away from relationships and on to traveling to Italy and visiting all of the beautiful places Nona spoke of.  I understood her feelings towards my seeing Nate, but ultimately, it’s a decision I had to make alone
                                                            CHAPTER SEVEN
“Ah, not to be cut off,
 not by the slightest partition
shut out from the law of the stars.
The inner—what is it?
if not intensified sky,
hurled through birds and deep
with the winds of homecoming.”             Rainer Marie Rilke

     The house was dark when I left.  Louisa had gone to meet friends and catch a movie; Sam was with Feisal and the posse that huddled around the hookah smoking in our back yard discoursing on a regular basis.  At times, I felt as if I was at a Middle Eastern Conference. Sam would share with me tidbits of their conversations.  He had mentioned again about my meeting up with him later at a local lounge. I told him perhaps but didn’t promise.  Driving to Peppers I felt as if I was going on a blind date—I truly did not know what to expect. I whispered over to myself that I would remain composed, in control, that it would be interesting at least to hear what Nate had to say.  Veering into the parking lot, the tires crackled over the gravel.  I took a last look at myself in the review mirror.  A thin layer of Marine fog shrouded the half-moon that lolled in the sky.   I opened the car door and shuddered wondering if Nate would be late or stand me up and make me the fool once again.  Maybe this was just a joke, a cruel tactic to reinforce some cosmic lesson.  I leaned against the hood of the car, waiting, I was atypically early.  A few minutes had passed when I heard a car park and watched as Nate walked towards me.
     “Juliana.”  The deep tone of his voice reverberated through the darkness. He looked radiant, his eyes soft luminary. He took my hands in his and pulled me against his chest 
     “Nate…it’s been a long time.”  I pulled away squeezing my shoulders together.
     “You look gorgeous.”  He said and kissed me briefly on the lips. I inhaled and watched my exhale vanish in the night air.
     “You look good too, let’s go in.”  I said regaining composure.  Don’t let this fool you.  Nate is still Nate I reiterated in my head like a scratched CD repeating itself over and over.  Before he opened the front door, he reached for me and turned my face towards his. 
     “Jules, I’ve missed you.  I’ve really missed you.”  He tucked his hands behind my neck and gently pulled my face towards his and kissed me.  It was a soft subtle kiss, endearing and sensual at the same time.
      “Nate, come on.  You said “talk” remember?” I pried his hands from my neck and went inside the restaurant.  It wasn’t as if he had groped or forced, I just was not going to surrender to his will.  This was my time to finesse the situation.
     We sat at the same table we had sat at many times before our break-up.  I tried to keep distasteful memories of the past from infiltrating my thoughts.  Our waiter was absolutely adorable; somewhere in his late twenties, dark wavy curls and thick lips with big white teeth.  Typically, I would have flirted with him but I contained myself for this was a serious evening.  Flirtatiousness with a waiter could be construed that I was trying to instigate jealousy, which could further be construed—that I cared.  It was all I could do to keep from running out of the restaurant like some lunatic who had suddenly seen the devil.  The truth was I had missed Nate.  I missed him in a way that I had never missed another. It was a deep yearn that echoed through me.  Although we were innately different, there was an inner connection as if we’d been on a summit that only the two of us knew existed and in that place we interlaced like two oak trees growing side by side.
     Pepper’s had a European décor, outer awnings, green velvet curtains, and dark mahogany tables along with the provincial menu.  It was favored among the locals.  Andre, the owner, a flashy gay man knew his regulars and was notorious for his gracious glasses of wine on the house.  A stout busgirl with oversized breasts smashed against her white blouse with a red tie propped on top, brought us lemon water and a list of the specials.  Dismissing the list--I already knew what I wanted, I was predictable in my choice.  The fresh catch of the day, which the chef was famous for: Stewed vegetables, mussels mixed with claims simmering in a reduced sweet onion and garlic sauce seasoned with garden fresh herbs.  Andre spied Nate and sashayed his way over to the table.  We had a repartee over why Nate and I hadn’t been in for so long.  Andre asked for our wine preference and barked to the waiter, “Two Pinot’s on the house.”  We thanked him with hugs and he skirted away admonishing us not to stay away so long.    
     Nate and I chatted about work; how I was still at the hospital (where we had met) and how he was working the emergency room in Salinas. He said the pay was better and the patients less demanding than those at Monterey Valley.  A buzz from the patrons droned around our conversation and soon the appetizer and dinner was underway.   I thought back to the many meals we had shared together throughout Monterey and Carmel.  Nate loved to take me out for dinner and living near the ocean we more often than not had seafood.  He was a mussel’s connoisseur.  We once went to ten different restaurants during the month of February in search of the most unusual recipe.  I told him on a regular basis I thought he secretly conspired to fatten me up.  He knew how much I despised cooking and yet loved food. 
     After eating and drinking another glass of Alexander Valley Pinot Noir, I ordered a coffee—something I rarely did.  But the coffee at Peppers was exquisite with an earthy aroma that reminded me of our early mornings together.  Nate would rise before me and start the coffee the scent would lure me from the shower.  We would sit and read the New York Times together, silently trying to catch up current news before heading off to work.  These were rituals I had missed terribly when he left.  I had not read a New Times since. Nate paid the check and asked if I would walk with him along the beach.   So far our conversation had not involved the past or his reasons for leaving.
     “Sure.” I had worn a pair of boot-cut blue jeans that flared into cuffs with a white lacey V-neck shirt from Macy’s.  It was a classic look, feminine and one I usually didn’t wear when Nate and I were together.  When I was suddenly single, I had decided to explore new ways to express myself—a different wardrobe and style was part of the process. 
     “Are you chilly?”
     “I little, I have a jacket in the car.”
     “Here take mine.“  Nate wrapped his jean jacket around my shoulders.
     “Thanks.”  My mind went into memory mode—Nate and I used to walk to the beach most evenings and I always needed a jacket—underestimating the temperature.  He would always bring an extra hoody or shirt to give me.  It was those small acts that had made me love Nate—in many ways he was considerate of my needs.
     “Juliana, my leaving you was a horrible mistake.  And the way I left was cruel.  I was a coward.   And I know this sounds cliché and ridiculous but I didn’t know what I had with you until you were gone.  I got scared—almost forty, not married no kids of my own and to be honest--I was afraid of your art.  Afraid that it would take you away from me from us.  I wanted to change you—there—I admit it.”  Stepping on the cool sand the shushing sounds of the white wash seemed to buffer words like “left” and “cruel.”  The night air blurred the harsh memory.
     “What about the woman?  Jessica?”  I asked not really wanting an answer.
     “I have been alone without you.  We lasted less than a month.  I thought I needed a woman who was ready to settle down have a family, grow old with me.  But Jessica wasn’t you and if I can’t have those things with you, then I don’t want them.”  Nate grabbed my hand and pressed our palms together.
     “Things have changed Nate. I’m happy.  I have changed as well-- connected with myself again and I won’t feel bad—not ever ever again- for wanting the things I want or don’t want in my life.  And --I am still figuring that out, and big fucking deal, that I’m still figuring…”
     “Juliana, I want to make us work. Please, give me another chance.  Do you remember meeting that psychic and she told us we have had a past life together and I didn’t believe her?  I was wrong.  You know we’re destined for one another. ”
     “Nate, I used to know that. I used to also believe that it would be impossible for you to betray me the way you did.  And aside from all of that there’s your smoking issue.  I don’t miss the weed, your moodiness your need for order at all times.  I don’t want to deal with that anymore.”
     “It’s been four months since I’ve smoked. You were right; when I wasn’t high I was irritable and grumpy--who wants to deal with that?  I’ve started writing again. Juliana we could do those things you always spoke of.  We could be happy.”  Nate’s face flushed. He was crying.  I could not believe my eyes—I had never seen Nate cry unabashed this way.
     “I don’t know, so many things have changed now.  My life took a curve I hadn’t foreseen, you know, like a tunnel sneaking out of nowhere.”
     “Juliana I’m not trying to railroad you into believing me but that day I left, I remember you on the stairs sobbing.  I felt so terrible, I felt like a parent walking out on a kid—but I left anyway.  I thought if I didn’t I don’t know.”  His voice strained.  “I need your forgiveness.”
     “What about what I need Nate?  You show up out of nowhere, nine months later and expect me to spin my head around.  I can’t do that.”
     “I want to give you whatever it is you need from me.  I have changed Juliana—I mean I still like things neat but I have changed in that I don’t feel that if I don’t have a kid soon I am going to be failure in life.”
     “Nona died—a few months ago” A faint bleating sound echoed from the lighthouse and faded into the darkness.  It was a familiar sound like Nona’s voice disguised whispering, “Follow your heart.”   My resistance was faltering. 
     “I’m so sorry, I know Alessandra was an amazing woman and worst of all--I wasn’t there for you. Jules. Were you with her?”
     “Yeah.  It was a beautiful death—my mom and her sisters and I were all there.”
     “I’m glad, I mean that you were there. I know how you are about that.  Please. Come back to my apartment I bought your favorite champagne.  I live right around the corner literally and it’s a small token to show you I’m sincere.”
     “No Nate I can’t. I can’t, I can’t.  I’m supposed to meet some friends later.”
     “That’s fine I will drive you back.  You can leave your car here.”
     “No I just think…”
     “One glass.
                                                     CHAPTER EIGHT
“"Every action of our lives touches on some chord that will vibrate in eternity."                                --Sean O’Casey         

     Nate did indeed live only a few miles away from Peppers. I rolled my car into an empty space and climbed the concrete stairs to his apartment, hesitant but filled with anticipation.  He opened the door and motioned toward the couch and said to make myself comfortable while he poured me a glass of Pere Jouet France champagne.  Pere Jouet was my absolute favorite high end champagne.  Nate had only bought me this on special occasions like my birthday or Valentine’s Day.  He lit a mélange of candles and told me he had bought the bottle of Champagne in hopes I would see him. The Musette du Paris CD floated from his sound system-- melodious earthy tones that vibrated with soft undertones.  We had made love to this music many times—him speaking in a fake French accent laughing as he did.   I sat sipping the champagne bouncing emotions back and forth like a cat batting a mouse before devouring it.  My cell phone rang and I quickly silenced it.  Sam’s face flew into my mind and I swept the image away as if it were a piece of lint or a clump of dust.  Later, not now I thought to myself.
     Nate went to the bedroom and then meandered to the couch and sat beside me. He slowly traced the outline of my face and smiled. 
    “You’re so beautiful” he whispered.   “Juliana, I want you…” He leaned over and kissed me.  
     “Nate.”  I kissed him back my  waning reservations had been hurled down a steep hill.  My resolve was lying lifeless in a heap around my ankles as my desire grew like a blaze in a field of dry grass—spreading to every corner of my body.  “I don’t want to talk about that right now.”  I said.  Nate kissed the back of my neck—and it was the last I saw of my ability to deny him.  I slowly climbed on to Nate’s lap and kissed him my eyes opened.  I looked beyond his pupils as if I were in a gallery of untouchable stills running my fingers over their texture, feeling the brush strokes.  I kissed him again burying my body against him.  “I’ve missed you.”  I whispered despite myself.  The seal to my emotions was opened and a cascade of feelings spewed out.  
     “Let’s go to the bedroom,” Nate murmured and I raised ghost like to follow him.  The bedroom air was laden with ylang ylang from candles that stood in the corner.  As I slithered over the down comforter I didn’t care if he had premeditated this meeting.  It was not merely the sex I had missed-- it was Nate, his body.  I had ached for him like a homesick child.  As I smelled his skin against mine, I was unable to quell my desire.  We devoured one another burying past regrets each caress filled with passionate longing.  Nate’s hands, like the rest of him, were large and as he spread them on the small of my back and pulled me in, I was transported.   I could feel the pulsing of our groins wanting to hold out to climax in unison.  He took his time with every part of my body, kissing me from the nape of my neck down to my inner thighs and lingering until I exploded into uncontrolled pleasure my legs quavering only to begin again.  It became a dance—on top, bottom, behind surrounding each other.  It was the most sensual and sincere lovemaking I had ever experienced.  We climbed inside one another; it extended beyond the physical sensations of pleasure.  It was a solace as if we were two refugees finding one another after years of separation.
     When we were through and exhausted from the shear intensity, we wept and held each other wishing the night’s magic could stall the sunrise, post-pone reality.  He swaddled me against him and told me over and over that he loved me, that he will always be there no matter what my decision. We were reckless lovers cast in some romance novel, unable to stop ourselves from the pent up emotions.  His inflection soft and consoling rocked me to sleep.  
     I awoke at five in the morning my legs flopped over Nate’s, the sheets draped around us, an effigy of oneness.  I moved closer still basking in the sweet smell of his body.  His body with its beautiful etched muscles, the deep color of his skin, the features of his face—the jaw line that framed his full mouth, I studied them all while he slept.  I asked myself, could I live without this man whom I had sworn I would love forever but who walked away, betrayed me?  Could I walk away this time and leave him purely for the sake of retribution—to make him suffer what I had felt when he left?  And who would suffer?  Both of us—for I knew that my love for Nate had never gone away, never died but rather had merely been buried in a dark corner of my soul.  I had hoped that in time, I would find new love and in the meantime—I had Sam.  
    Sam, I could not bear to think of him without feeling ashamed.  How would I tell him what had happened?  It wasn’t planned or calculated but I feared he would think I had purposely betrayed him.  Confusion and fear settled over me and I wanted to escape—run away and forget the past.  But I knew that would be impossible.  I didn’t even know if I should see Nate again—although the likelihood of that now seemed distant.  I wanted to climb inside him and retreat from the world. 
     Nate rolled over in his half sleep state and reached for me, mumbling for me to stay with him.  I could feel my want and my despair and as if I had said it out loud, he pleaded.
     “Juliana, stay with me today—let’s go to Santa Cruz for the day—hop on my bike and will just go.”
     “I don’t have clothes with me and I…”
     “We’ll go shopping for new ones—let’s escape together” Nate kissed me softly.
We made love again and he fixed me breakfast.  I sat curled on the couch in his bathrobe wanting to avoid anything that had to do with decision making.

                                                  CHAPTER NINE
“When our inner nature is truly free, we find within ourselves a wealth of treasure: love, joy, and peace of mind.  We can appreciate the beauty of life, taking each experience as it comes, opening our heart to it and fully enjoying it. Realizing these qualities within ourselves is the greatest freedom that can be gained.”                                                                 --Tarthang Tulku

      “I’m running a little late Ag, but Lou and I will meet you at the baggage claim, so stay put.”  I tucked the cell phone back in my pocket. Louisa and I were picking Agnes up at San Jose Airport on her way home from Paris. She had been visiting an aunt who had vacationed in France in 1980, came home, packed her bags, and re-settled in Paris ever since.  Agnes nagged me to go with her, which I wanted to do but only after I a trip to Italy and at this time I could not afford either. 
     “Mom, were you really at a friend’s house last night or did you spend the night with Nate?”  
     “I was at a friend’s, no big deal.”  I said reconciling my fudging the truth with the fact that Nate is indeed my friend--sort of.  I did not feel it necessary to divulge the entire evening with my daughter.  Her opinion of my character would no doubt plummet and besides it was none of her business.   Lou held me in strict moral accord on certain areas of my life.  She was chock-full with high ideals that were doomed to sink into a hole like a pebble lost in the sand when trampled over.  I was the same way at her age and in some ways still clung to incorrigible naiveté.  For example I still thought it rude to not return shopping carts or to have one night stands on a routine basis.  Experience though has a way of unfolding the in between the debatable; Lou merely had not encountered enough life yet to see what lies at the center.  It’s like the young woman who declares she will never yell at her child or spank a puppy because she has had neither.  These self-proclaimed saints simply have not had their convictions put to the test.  Not that I am wishing Lou a bumpy descent into an abyss of naysayers,  I just knew that with time comes perspective.
     “Well, it was a big deal to Sam.  He called every hospital from here to San Francisco.  You shoulda called him.” Louisa said.  Her tone sounding like my mother’s while wagging a scornful finger.
    “I know I should have. I also shouldn’t have had wine and champagne.  I made a grave mistake, I’m sorry.”  The truth was I wasn’t regretful of being with Nate nor had I drank too much.  But I choose that particular excuse for not coming home last evening--a pathetic explanation to give a daughter.
     “It’s okay.  I’m sure Sam will survive.”  Lou said turning up the radio.  A love forlorn song crooned out of the speakers.
     “Did he really call hospitals?”  I asked.  “I hate this song.” 
     “Yes. Poor guy, he was pouring over the phone book all night.”  Lou dragged her words across my conscious.
     “Are you serious!  Now I feel horrible.”
     “It’s over.  He’ll know better next time not to invite you unless you are going with him in the first place.”
     “There won’t be a next time.”  I said meaning only that, next time I would call or rectify events prior to their happening.
     “So I was thinking. Nona’s birthday is Wednesday and wouldn’t it be great to do a painting of her?”  Lou said.
     “That’s weird that you say that. I was thinking the same.  We could give it to my mom.”
     “Why not keep it?  Nana loves to go to the thrift shops for her paintings. I’ve been with her it’s hilarious.  She squeals over priceless junk.  Besides you could put it in your show.  Not to be mean mom but Nana just doesn’t get art at all.”
     “It’s true and enraging.” I said chuckling.  “Maybe I should have a dinner just the girls. We can share some old Nona stories drink some wine. What do you think?”
     “I think that’s a great idea and--I think you should invite Jillian.“
     “Of course—it’s just that she’s so self-righteous, it’s even more difficult to be around her now.  She tangents conversation and mocks everything about my life.  She acts like I sit on a corner with a cup begging for change.” I had to admit, I did miss the miniscule relationship my sister and I had prior to her Christian martyrdom. We never, even as children, relished one another like Agnes and I do, no matter how desperate I craved it.  There was a buried distrust that my sister and I wrangled; it always appeared unwelcomed and left us sulking to opposite corners of life harboring our hurts.
     “I know, but she’s your sister mom.  If I had a sister, I’d want to spend time with her. We’d be super close.”  Louisa and I both had a proclivity towards idealism but when it came to my sister I was skeptical.  Jillian had dragged my emotions around too many times to simply surrender them to her. 
     “I try to be close to Jillian--she thinks I’m the devil incarnate.  She’s a harridan before her time.”
     “What the hell is a harridan?”
     “A mean old woman.”
     “Harridan, I like that word.  I think she’s jealous of you mom.”
     “Jealous of what.  She’s the nurse Practitioner; I’m just a lowly R.N.  She’s got buxom tits, beautiful straight hair and teeth, while I’m a modest B cup, slightly buck toothed and have hair that has a life of its own.”
     “Your teeth are gorgeous and your red tresses are as my friends say “The Juliana signature look.”  And, you’ve got a perfect bulbous butt like a globe, which thankfully you passed on to me because I didn’t inherit boobs either.  It’s your spirit I think that bugs auntie Jills.  You’re more lackadaisical.”  Lou said.  My daughter’s wisdom snuck up at times leaving me both marveled and mesmerized.  
     “I’m only lackadaisical about stupid stuff, like folding socks and putting them in the proper drawer.  I don’t know. I really think she has a genetic aversion to me.”
     “Just invite her.”
     “I will.”
   “So, I hope Agnes brought me back some clothes from Paris.”  Lou said, changing the subject.  
     “Me too.“  I was thrilled to switch topics.  Sister discussions were notorious for making me feel either depressed or as if I wanted to break dishes while shredding  childhood pictures.  “I gave her money to buy me some shoes, I want a pair of those outrageous trendy high heels—just for fun.”
     “Oh, yea I know which ones you are talking about.  Kinda look like stilts?”
     “Exactly.” My phone rang and I figured it was Agnes.  “Can you get that for me?  I‘m sure it‘s Ag.  Let her know we are just about there.”  Lou riffled through my purse.  “Put it on speaker, sweetie.”
      “Hello Aggie we’re on our way.”  Lou said.
     “Hello, Juliana?”  
     “No this is Louisa.” Lou said shooting me a panoramic look of surprise.  Her eyes widen like a cat noticing a new dog in the neighborhood.
     “Hi Lou, you sound so much like your mom. How are you?”
     “Fine.  How are you Nate?”
     My eyes swerved towards the phone.  
     “I’m fine.  It‘s been a while. I…”
      “Yes, well here’s my mother.”  Whenever Lou addressed me as “mother” in a frosty inflection I knew she was scanning me a judgment censor.  One of those little machines that beeps when a flaw is found like that in an airport when you don’t have proper identification. 
     “Hi Nate, hey this is a really bad time.  Umm, we’re picking up Agnes from the airport, I’ll call you later.”  I tried to flatten my voice to a nonchalant, atonal you‘re irritating me—voice.
     “Sure, sure.  Tell Louisa it was nice to hear her voice—she sounds so much like…” Nate resonated through the speaker.  I hung up the phone snipping off his words waiting for Louisa’s  verdict.
     “That’s strange that out of the blue Nathaniel Ivan calls, after you two had dinner.” 
     “Not really.  He’s been calling me before we had dinner and I hadn’t returned his calls.”
     “Fess up mom.  You two slept together last night didn’t you?”
     I was caught—it was hard enough to fib to my daughter but when the evidence piled up so high I couldn’t see my way through, it was over.  I would have to resort to my I’m the mother card. 
     “Louisa, it is none of your business. I’m an adult.”
     “I am aware of that-- but it is my business.  You’re better than that mom.  You tell me to dump Raman. Don’t get back with Nate mom are you serious? I don’t trust him after what he did!”
     “I’m not. By the way, that dress you have on is gorgeous on your skin.  Where did you get it?”
     “Hmm, nice try.  Express.  So, how was it, wonderful?”
     “Incredible.”
      “Mom honestly—be  careful.  I mean, I know you are an adult and all but I think Nate is unworthy, even though he is adorably cute and was always nice to me.”
     “He’s sorry for the way he left.”  I felt as if I was a lawyer defending Nate’s crime. 
     “So?”
     “So, let’s talk about this when I’m not driving. We had a lovely night and I’ll figure it out. What’s up with you and Raman?”
     “Okay, well I feel sorry for Sam but whatever.  I don’t know Raman is lame and I, well I’ve sort of been seeing this guy I met at school.”
     “Really you didn’t tell me.”
     “He’s so nice and thinks I’m beautiful and sweet.”  Lou said.  
     “Of course you are and don’t forget brilliant!”  
     “Yea, he loves my brain too, he is super smart.  He’s a Black guy, majoring in art and chemistry.”
     “I don’t care what color he is. Art, what medium?  Chemistry—weird combo but I like it.”
     “He‘s a sculptor, but wants to get into computer graphics as well.  I know you don‘t care about color.  His parents are super prejudice apparently.  Chemistry is to please his folks—they are still holding out for him to change his mind and go into med school. ” 
     “That’s too bad, about the prejudice I mean.  Okay honey, here we are.  Help me navigate the signs.  We need to park in the garage so we can help Agnes with her luggage.”
     “Okay.  I really like him.  Get in the left lane for the garage.”
     “What’s his name?  Look at that nitwit, pulled right out in front of me.”
     “Jordan.  You sound like Nona, I remember nitwit was one of her favorite words when she was driving.”
     “I know.  Jordan, that’s a strong name.”
     I parked the car then Lou and I sprinted to the American Airlines baggage claim.  As we rounded the corner, I saw Agnes waving bright orange fingernails our way, looking very similar to a parade wave in reverse.  I wiggled my hand in the air acknowledging I saw her,  She returned to staring at the steel conveyor belt spitting suitcases out in line with the other backpacks and duffle bags waiting to be plucked from the circle.
     “Aggie!”  We hugged.  “You look awesome.”
     “I’m so glad to be home.  Lou, you got your hair cut it’s adorable,” said Agnes giving Louisa an embrace.  Two days ago, Lou had chopped her hair into short sweeps with little bangs that pointed around her face.  The combination of her blond hair and dark eyes was gorgeous and the new cut accentuated it.
     “Yea, you like it?”
     “Love it, very French.”  Agnes said.  “Wait till you two see the goodies I got you.  Jules the shoes are divine.  The classiest whores in Paris are wearing them.”  Agnes said laughing.
     “Awesome, can’t wait. Oh and by the way, I have an art show in July at Tuttu Italia!”
     “What!  Shit that is fantastic. It’s about time I’ll be your agent.”  Agnes said wheedling her way back to the conveyor belt.
     “I could use one.  You’ve got to be exhausted?  There, those are yours aren‘t they?”  I pointed to the brown leather suitcases with dangling white tags, “King-Kiang.”
     “Yep there they are.”  Agnes, Louisa and I each grabbed a bag and flung them to the floor   When Agnes married her husband a man mixed with Chinese and Brazilian blood, she decided to hyphenate their two last names.
      “I don’t feel too bad. I have Sunday to recover.”    
     Agnes and I worked as nurses at the same hospital but on different floors.  She wrapped babies in warm blankets after they popped out and tended to women in labor, encouraging them to breathe and to re-enact their prenatal lessons.  I milked old men’s catheters on a medical/surgical floor or tended to broken bones mended from surgery.  The only bloody vaginas I saw were women who have had a reproductive organ that was no longer wanted or diseased  removed.  Agnes revered being an R.N. I dreamed of ripping my license to shreds and painting full time.  Not that I wasn’t empathetic to my patients, I was, but nursing for me felt like a big straw stuck in my side that sucked life out of me.  I was compelled to close that chapter.   I no longer had a toddler or a teenager to feed, it was time to take flight.  Like a man who all of his life worked as an insurance guy but longed to be a sailor and when he could-bought a boat and sailed the world.
     I had planned to traipse through Europe with my canvas tucked under my arm. Nona had fed me stories since I was a child about the hues of Italy, the pink and orange buildings.  She spoke of “sfumato,” the word meant smoky in Italian.  Sfumato an artistic  technique spreads thin glazes over each other to create depth.  The subtle blending of colors and tones merge so entwined the lines are barely visible.  She taught me how to blur my edges with tiny brush strokes, “like da Vinci." Nona would say.  She had wanted me to study at Academia Di Belle Arti, the oldest art school in Europe nestled in the bustle of Florence,  She would say, “Juliana you must walk the cobblestones where artist such as Michael Angelo roamed and the renaissance seduced the streets.”  But at seventeen I began dating a “good Irish boy,” Patrick Nolan and at eighteen I became pregnant with Louisa and Patrick mysteriously vanished.  I had too much pride to chase after him.  Nona said, “Forget it. He is not here in the beginning; he will not be here in the end.  A cane (dog) is better.” My mother at the time was treading early menopause and vacillated between lamenting “how could I do this to her” and rejoicing “A baby how beautiful.”  My father and sister spoke in loud low whispers about how I’d ruined my life. They slowly altered their attitudes after holding my sweet salty little girl for the first time.  
     Louisa came into the world after only twelve hours of labor (rather than the predicted twenty-four to forty-eight).  I had wanted to fly to Russia after researching water births and discovering a place where babies are born in the sea but money and logistics slapped me across the face and Russia was put on hold.  Agnes (who was my birthing partner) nor I could afford the trip and I would have had to flown my last month and stayed until the baby came. In lieu of Russia, I found a birthing center in San Francisco that specialized in water births and took MediCal patients. I was pretty determined for such a young mother. Agnes kept me glued together.  We were both too young to know any other way.  She breathed through every contraction, rubbed my shoulders, kept me as relaxed as was feasible under the circumstance.  She was amazing, an angel.  Lou’s birth changed her life; it was then she decided being a baby nurse was her calling.
      After Louisa was born my choices in life folded inside out.  I couldn’t gallop around Italy with a paintbrush and a baby perched on my hip—or perhaps I could have if I had a different perspective on what was expected of me as a mother, but I didn’t.  My mother hounded me, Nona re-assured me, “don’t worry, your still an artist in here,” she would pat her chest.  She understood things about me, my inner desires that my mother did not understand.   I decided to tread down the same angelic path my sister Jillian had forged and became a nurse.   I figured being a nurse would rescue me from the fracas of single motherhood.  I could sustain a decent income, while raising my daughter and hedged art for the time being.  My father softened as I was redeeming my sins in the halls of a hospital. “You are doing the right thing Juliana.  You’re being a good Irish woman” he crooned.   What the hell being a nurse had to do with being half Irish, I never did figure out.  
     Louisa, like all babies, needed me and being fiercely independent, I wanted to forge my own way financially.  I stashed my yearning for art into hiding-- placed unfinished paintings in a corner to collect cobwebs. Nona would rescue the neglected canvas, throw paper on the floor for Louisa to finger paint with, and order me to paint.  During nursing school, I often loaded Lou with a basket of crayons and drug her to class with me listening to lectures about the human body and all of its intricacies. Agnes was there with open arms and she would watch Louisa as often as she could.  She questioned my decision to be a nurse, knowing I was an artist, but  understood my reasoning.  She knew my financial crisis better than anyone.
     Now, at this point in my life—I wanted to reunite with my artist.  I lunged into the world of art where there are no bedpans looming in the corner over flowing with urine, feces, or vomit waiting for a sweet cheeked nurse to empty; no more bland bedside doctors snapping fingers for the nurse to get scissors or gloves or whatever they needed but were too important to fetch for themselves.  I was also through with high-minded administrative assholes that sat in offices monitoring hospital spending without regard for patients.  I once had a nursing supervisor tell me I was spending too much time with so and so in room 410 (naturally she didn’t know the patient’s name).  I needed to “budget my time better,” she said threatening to withhold any overtime pay.  The woman in room 410, the one I was “spending too much time with”  had been diagnosed with leukemia. She was forty years old, a mother of three small children, but apparently, listening to her fears and concerns was not on “the budget.”
     The three of us drove home listening to stories of Paris.  Agnes’s husband, Hank, had flown over for a week to join her.  He is a stockbroker and can fly his work around with him.   Agnes was hoping they made a baby while frolicking for a few days in the French Riviera. She desperately wanted children. She had miscarried twice but her OB-GYN told her not to give up.  All the tubes and organs were in working order and although Hank had a slightly lower than average sperm count, there was enough for one of them to hook up with an egg.   Agnes said the doctor told Hank to “ride his bike a little less and fuck on a more regular basis.”  
     As for me I wanted more children as well, eventually, if it was meant to happen.  But I really wanted to adopt.  Not out of fear of having a baby, I just felt there was someone special out there--waiting.  It was as if in a past life I’d been orphaned and remembered that deep longing to belong to someone.   Or it may have stemmed from Nona’s stories of losing her parents at a young age.  We drove home chatting nonstop about Ag’s trip and life in general.   
     “So Lou and I decided we—I-- should have a dinner to commemorate Nona’s birthday next week.”  I said.  “Just girls.  We can sit around and swap Nona tales.”
     “Great idea, perfect way to mourn and honor.  What do you want me to bring?”  Agnes asked.
     “How about that Japanese chicken thing, Yakama…”
     “Oh that’s easy, no problem. Can you have it on a night I’m not working?”
     “Nona’s birthday is next Wednesday are you off?’
     “Perfect. I’m off Thursday as well.”   Pulling into Agnes’s driveway she turned to Lou, “Do you wanna come in now and get your Paris clothes or do you want to do it later?”  Agnes asked.
    “Are you too tired?” Lou asked.
     “I’m good. Come on. Jules I can bring Lou home if you don’t feel like staying.  I really appreciate you picking me up.”
     “Don’t be ridiculous, of course I’ll come in.”  I had no burning desire to run home and hear an ear full from Sam.  “I want my French shoes!”
     “She’s in trouble Ag.”  Louisa said as we climbed out of the car.
     “Oh Sam’s upset because I didn’t come home last night. I drank a little too much and didn’t want to drive, that’s all.” I said, giving Louisa an “I don’t feel like discussing it now” look.
     “He’ll get over it. I told you he’s in that marriage for more than a green card, Jules.”  Agnes said.
     “Whatever.”  I got out of the car and lifted the trunk.
     We unloaded Agnes’ suitcases in the guesthouse.  Hank and Agnes had a custom home they had built from the ground up.  An Italian/Mediterranean estate with big pillars and palm trees lining the entrance.  Every room had a marble or stone fireplace and the floors were made from tiles flown in from Florence.  Agnes didn’t care about all of the extraneous luxuries and decor. She wanted a cozy house overflowing with toys she could trip over and children‘s books and little feet bounding about.  From the time we met in the second grade, Agnes lived at my house, which was a chronic whirlwind of kids flying in every direction.  She was an only child. Her family life was as reserved as museum effigies. I was certain that was why she wanted her own brood-- to create her own chaos.  
     “Whoa…these are so cute, Ag.”  Lou said holding up two dresses and a black pair of sandals with a sliver strap that embraced the ankle.
     “Go try them on.”  Agnes said.  “Okay Jules close your eyes.”  Lou went to change.
     “Why?”
     “Just do it.”
     “Fine.”  I heard riffling and tissue paper crinkling.
     “Ta da!”  Agnes held up two pair of shoes; the black pair had a long wooden heel with a leopard skin thong up the front.  The tan pair, platforms, had gold buckles up the sides and a thick brown strap that snaked twice around the ankle.  
     “They are gorgeous Agnes!  I must owe you more money.  Oh my god, I love them.”
    “My treat.  And you can wear them with these.” She produced two long skirts; one was white with a tight waist with lace flaring out at the bottom.  The other, a burnt orange color that hung on the hips with a split up the center.  “You said you’ve wanted more feminine stuff--so I got you sexy Parisian femme fatal.  You like?”
     “I love!  Geez, I’m going to have to take Sam out for dinner to show myself off.” I laughed.  Louisa waltzed in her shoulders fluttering; she looked stunning.
     “Whoa, look at you.”  I said.  “Very elegant!”
     “So we’ll need to have a girls dress up night. Go to a fancy restaurant, speak with French accents.”  Agnes said. “And hopefully I won’t be able to drink because I’ll be pregnant!”
     “Definitely.”  Louisa and I said in unison. 
     We lingered an hour or so longer before leaving. I dropped Lou off at, The Mission, the restaurant she waitressed at and drove home with dread filling my veins.  It was hard not to replay the prior night over in my head; it made me smile and scared all at the same time.  I decided to wait on calling Nate until after I sorted things out with Sam. I needed to face him and try to be as honest as humanly possible.
I opened the front door with the ginger-ness of a mother tiptoeing away from her infant had finally fallen asleep after hours of screaming.
     “Juliana!”  Sam shouted from the back patio. 
     “Yes.” I called back.  Obviously it hadn’t worked.
      “Would you explain to me please, yourself?”  Sam said storming through the kitchen.  
      “Explain myself.  No.”  I never did well with blunt demands.  My defensive nature raced to the forefront.
     “Oh, I see.  So you think it is alright to worry me to death and not apologize, sure, sure, sure.”  Sam said, sliding his chin back and forth over his collarbones.
     “Sam, Lou said she told you that I was at a friends’ I had called her and she…”
      “Why couldn’t you call me?”
      “Look, I was fairly plowed. You hate when I’ve had a too much wine.  I wasn’t in the mood to be lectured.”
      “Lectured.  Okay.  Well, I was sick to my stomach—all night. I thought you were dead on the road lifeless.  That was rude, Juliana, rude, rude, rude.”  He was wagging his index finger in front of his nose.  His earthy spice cologne cloaked the air and settled my nerves.  It was a comforting smell of burnt leaves and a mint julep mix. 
     “You’re right.   I’m sorry.  Let me make it up to you.  Let me treat you to that new Middle Eastern place on Lighthouse Avenue, Ishmael’s?”
     “I suppose.  Look, I’m not trying to be a pain in the ass or a husband, but as a friend, I worry.  You never do that, you always call.”  I went to hug him.  “And it was terrible you know we had sex for the first time and I know it twas difficult but…”
     “I know Sam. I’m really really sorry, really.”  I felt like a thug, like someone who beats old people. He was right--I should have called.  I would have worried as well had he not come home all night.  Perhaps a part of me, a shut- in stuffed in a locked room part, wanted someone else to feel what’s it’s like to be left. Abandoned.  If indeed that was the case, I chose the wrong person.  Sam was sincerely flummoxed.  He wouldn’t dream of blatantly hurting me or walking out without warning.  I call myself enlightened, practice yoga, speak to trees, who do I think I am?  
     “I have a beautiful outfit I can wear from Paris.  Agnes bought it for me!”
     “I don’t care about the outfit.  What time do you want to go?”
     “How about eight. I need a little nap.”
     “Fine.  Do you want me to wake you?”
      “No it’s okay.  I’m gonna crash on the couch.”
     “Why don’t you go to my bed?”
     “I’m too tired to climb the stairs.”
     I decided to stop avoiding Nate. I called and thanked him for dinner, told him I needed time and that I felt in a quandary. He told me he loved me and that he wanted to polish his tarnished past.  He vowed he would wait for me, would honor my space and decision, but could he see me tomorrow. I told him, “no” that I‘d see him next Saturday.  It was excruciating to say this and I panicked as soon as the words left my tongue.  But I had to muddle through my feelings sort them out like cards in a round of poker.
     Sam and I went out for dinner gradually melting the animosity he harbored over the night before.   Soon we were back to our old selves guffawing over stupid life incidentals; like why every time I go to a public bathroom, I sit in a stall where the new roll of toilet paper is lodged in the silver container and I’m stuck shredding it loose; or how his German girlfriend from a few years ago, made him twist her nipples to the point of practically pulling them off during sex.  “Pinch harder Sam, twist, twist!” Sam imitated.   I was laughing until my cheeks felt numb.  Sam recounted all of this in his best German Arabic accent that I loved.  We veered away from any dour topics.  Monday, he’d get the news of his mother’s condition and Wednesday I’d be reminded of my grandmother’s absence.  Neither of us was particularly anxious for the week ahead.   
       Opening the front door after we drove home from “Ismael’s”, Louisa was plopped in the living room eating ice cream; said she had been cut early from work.  She’d rented a movie and wondered if we wanted to watch it with her. It was a foreign flick about a quadriplegic that wanted to commit suicide--far from a morale booster.  But the film proved me wrong and was quite uplifting.  It reminded me that life is precious and often teeters on a pinnacle with a sharp pyramid point; one gust of wind could hurl you in a totally different direction and in that moment of free falling you had to either tuck and roll or splatter into a thousand bits and pieces.  It’s all about choice and digging for the truth—your own truth not someone else’s.
    Sunday morning I felt renewed by a restful sleep.  The spring air laced with honeysuckle and roses, reminded me of Nona’s flower garden.  Her ardor for natural smells fueled her penchant for creating natural fragrances.  She taught herself how to make scented oils from geraniums, roses, jasmine, and bergamot plants she grew. I was heir to the recipes but hadn’t had the time to fiddle with them.  I made a silent vow that I would start after my showing at Tuttu’s.
     “Hi mom, it’s Juliana. I wanted to know if you could come down for dinner next Wednesday. It will be Nona’s birthday, the first without her…call me.  Oh--I have an art show in July at Tuttu‘s, okay bye.”  I left the message knowing my mother rarely recognized my art as a viable way to make a living; she never found it practical.  
     Nona believed that being an artist was the most credible work a human could do.    She recounts to me stories of Italia  before the war.  She and my mother’s birth father, Lucca, (the name means light) would descend the crooked path to a plateau on the mountain.  There they would set their canvas on a tree that had grown distorted into a fork with a ledge. It was “nature’s easel” she said.  And there kindred in their passion, they would paint; Lucca the cubistic Picasso style while Nona painted realism.  She called Lucca “artista felice in riva al mare” happy artist by the sea.  Nestled in the Mediterranean air they would feast on the beauty set before them, rows of color from the landscape.  It is sad for me to think of that world being defaced by fighter planes; their bombs dropped on Nona’s slice of heaven. 
     I opened and closed my cell phone several time trying to convince myself to call Jillian. She had left the reception in a huff over religion; someone had disagreed with her and we hadn‘t spoken since—that was three months ago.  What the hell, if she is dogmatic about her beliefs, surely she can forgive, isn’t that the Christian calling?
     “Jillian, hi.”  Damn. I was hoping to leave a message.
     “Yes.”  Her tone was guarded as if I was a telemarketer.
     “Umm, I want to invite you to dinner next Wednesday; it’s Nona’s birthday.”
     “Nona’s dead Jules. Why would you be throwing her a party?”
     “It would be in honor of Nona, you know gather together and share stories. They do that in other cultures in remembrance. Thought mom may need a little cheering up that day.”  I cleared my throat hoping to slide the barrier between us aside.
     “What cultures?  I don’t know of any Christians with that ritual.”  Her voice a smooth sheet of ice I was slip sliding over trying not to land on my ass.
     “I don’t know exactly. Anyway do you want to come or not?”
     “If that is one of the nights Joe and I are supposed to go to our en-vitro counseling, no I can’t make it.”   My sister wanted a baby but for whatever reason wasn’t able to on her own.  Her husband Joe and she decided to invest in the test tube version. A baby was the first thing in my sister’s life that she wanted and wasn‘t able to get, so far.  
     “If it’s not, maybe.  But I still think celebrating a dead person‘s birthday is strange.” 
     “I understand. Just let me know. Agnes and Louisa will be here. Lou wanted you to come.  We celebrate Christ’s birthday at Christmas and he’s dead.”  My defenses had boiled up.
     “That is no comparison. How‘s married life?”
      “Fine.”
      “Just Fine?  Well, thankfully you didn’t marry Nate.  That would have been an utter disaster; don’t you think?”  She was curt her inflection chopping the air.
     “Well, I’m running late.  I better get going.”
     “Ah, I hit a nerve, sorry.  Going to Sunday church Jules?”
     “No. Sunday brunch with Agnes and mimosas.  Give me a call later this week and let me know if you can come for dinner.  Take care.”
     I hung up the phone with doubt and confusion coursing through my nervous system.  I didn’t bother to mention the art show; she wouldn’t be impressed.  Why did Jillian have to be so smug so self-righteous?  It wasn’t as if I was a mercurial idiot.  I had raised a stable ambitious daughter, worked as a nurse, painted with verve, and have friends that like me! Agnes is more my sister, I thought to myself, and I was incensed by Jillian’s mention of Nate.  

     Later that afternoon my mother called and said she would love a dinner in Nona’s behalf.
     “Tis a respectful thing for the ancestors Juliana.  You’re a good girl sometimes.”        “Good girl sometimes,”  I repeated in  my head I asked how dad was doing and she told me he was drinking more beer than usual.  My mother announced this on a routine basis as part of her shtick in conversation.  I am never certain she means it literally or if figuratively he is drinking the same five beers that cyclically bother her; like a meeting the first Monday of every month.  
     I have come to believe this cyclical dissatisfaction stems from frustration.  Frustration from my father’s measly allotment of physical affection towards her.  Dad had funneled a distant relationship with my mother, waving his love from afar.  He wasn’t comfortable with outward affections, handholding or kissing, which I suspect rooted back to the old Irish adage that marriage was merely, “a permission to sin.”  When the sinning was through and the nest was empty, he was forced to wallow in his estrangement. Mom was always wafting her arms and lips hugging and kissing someone. I harped on her to get  counseling regardless if my father refused; but she was loyal and loved him.  I wondered if she feared therapy would expose kept desires she had learned to ignore.  I suspected so.
                                                        CHAPTER TEN
“When we truly love someone, we love the Light within that person.”    --Swami Rama

      On Monday, back at work it was a bearable hectic, just the right pace for time to float by as if on a canoe cruising down a class two river.  Agnes and I were attempting to have lunch together but it depended on our patients.  If no one was sliding a baby out or dangling from his or her deathbed, we could pull it off.  One of my patient’s, a sweet little Italian lady from “Lericci” reminded me of my Nona.  She was a frequent flyer on our floor. Each month she came in for a blood transfusion to battle a chronic anemia the doctors were unable to diagnose. No matter how low her blood count her spirits were high. We called her “Georgie.”  Georginia Rapheala Zamarelli was her full name. Georgie always scheduled her appointments around my schedule.
     “Tell me what’s a new Julie,” She asked.  Georgie always called me Julie, she was the only person I’d let get away with it.
     “Remember I told you that Nate has been calling me?”
     “Si.”  I fluffed her pillow as we talked.
     “Well we re-connected this weekend.  I’m a smidge confused. He says he’s sorry, wants to get back together…”
     “Do you still a love him?”  Georgie asked.  
     “Yes, I do.  I didn’t realize how much.”
     “Do you a like him?”  She asked dipping her head and squinting her eyes.
     “What do mean?”
     “Do you think he’s a good person? Is he worthy of respect?”  Georgie asked.  She gave her opinion only when asked.  She was like a wisdom bank that didn’t charge interest. The bag of blood dripping into her veins was half way finished.  She had her little pink half robe tossed over her shoulders. Her brilliant white hair was wound in small curls and swept on top of her head with a chunk draped in the front dyed a brownish black. 
     “I think so.”
     “That—Julie is what you have to be sure of !  You have to respect the person you love.  Otherwise, honey, it’s a not gonna work.”  Georgie waved her knobby index finger at the ceiling.
     “You’re right.”  I said as a voice crooned over the hospital intercom, “Code Blue room 408, Code Blue room 408.”  Room 408 was my patient, Tom Hathaway, a fifty-eight year old alcoholic who was diagnosed with lung cancer two months ago.  His family an eclectic group petrified, refused hospice and anything to do with acknowledging the patient’s wish for a “do-not—resuscitate.”  It was unfortunate.  Earlier that morning, Tom (he refused to be called Mr. Hathaway by any of the staff) had confided in me that he was tired and “ready to retire to the big house.  “I heard the food there is excellent,” his sense of humor still sturdy and strong. 
     “Gotta go Georgie--I’ll be back.”  I flew out of the room, my heart banging in my ears.  Shit, I hate codes.  I prayed the team had already arrived.  I raced down the hall and into the room.
     “Juliana, here--record.”  A nurse commanded throwing a clipboard at me.  Tom was the color of the pasty white sheet underneath his body.  I said a silent prayer.
     “Clear.” Boom. His chest flew in the air as if it were trying to escape.  His ribs collapsed back his arms thumped the sides of the bed.  The family, who had been shooed out of the room, was huddled crying.  This dying man who had drank and smoked too much of his life away was at some point in his life a baby, a child, a young man; carrying with him all the desires and shortcomings we humans carry with us.  I felt a lump forming in my throat.  It never failed--at deaths as at births I was overwhelmed by emotion.  I was glad that my Nona never had to endure this kind of ending.
     “Clear.”  Another boom.  Another flailing of the body.  No response.  The doctor blurted out more orders for drugs but the intravenous had blown through the walls of the weaken vein and it was impossible to start another.  In the midst of the bedlam, Tom’s body yielded, his spirit set free. Enough.  No more.  I finished recording quickly and left the room to console the family.  The smell of rubbing alcohol and burnt skin floated around Tom’s corpse, a mere leftover of a life that once flourished.
     “I’m sorry for your loss.” I said, gulping back tears.  I knew this man for all of a month and he always made me laugh.  I knew the pain of losing a loved one.
     “Thank-you for being kind to my father.”  Tom’s daughter said dabbing her eyes.  “He was good man you know.”
     “I know. He was one of my favorite patients. Let me know if you need me to call anyone for you; the funeral home, whatever.”  I said and gave her a hug anxious to escape.
     I excused myself to re-check on Georgie and my other patients.  Walking down the mint green hallway, I glanced through the window and noticed the big oak trees swaying cotton ball clouds billowed behind them.  And I thought no matter what life goes on.  I thought that Tom was free now to dance in those trees or somersault in the sky free of his demons.  
     After passing the noon medications and making rounds to ensure the patients were holding their own, I had a minute to call Agnes about lunching together.  Most of my patients were bathed and repositioned, one was working with the physical therapist--a perfect opportunity for a break.  I shoved a mound of clutter from the phone and elbowed out a small circle to finishing writing my morning notes.  The nurse’s station was always unkempt.  The unit secretary was on the other phone, two doctors were huddled over patient charts, and the smell of feces floated up the hallway as the large silver lunch cart wheeled by.
     “Hey Ag, how’s your day going?  Can you do lunch in a few?”
     “Hell no.  What a nightmarish Monday.  I’ve two first time moms in labor accompanied by two pain-in-the-ass fathers breathing down my neck, and I still feel jet lagged.   Go without me, I’ll call you tonight.”  Agnes said.  Her voice dragging each word sounding like a lament.
     “I’m sorry.  I hope the day gets better. I’ll talk to you later.”  I hung up the phone and headed for food.  I thought back to the weekend and felt twinges of remorse mingled with satisfaction. It wasn’t as if I had planned to sleep with Sam and then run into Nate the next day.  It was awkward timing and I realized I didn’t regret either. Turning the corner towards the cafeteria I could smell the fries and hamburgers snaking down the hallway.  Although enticing I decided to hit the salad bar and sit outside under a tree. 
      As I finished munching down a bowl of lettuce, carrots, tomatoes, and half way through a cheese sandwich my cell phone rang.  
       “Hi Juliana.  I can’t seem to wait until Saturday to see you.  Anyway you could go on a bike ride with me tonight?  A casual ride?”  Nate asked.
     “I’m working Nate and it’s pretty crazy.”
     “Wouldn’t a relaxing bike ride and a beer help?”
The days had begun to grow longer as summer snuck in and indeed the idea of seeing Nate, riding in the comfort of fresh air, and chilling out with a beer was tempting.
     “That does sound pretty nice. Why not?”
     “Where do you live, I’ll ride by and meet you?”
     “Ah, no let’s just meet at Jack’s Pub. That’s half way for both of us.”
     “Okay.  Around seven-thirty?  Does that give you enough time to change and all?"
     “Yea.  That’s fine.  I better go. I still have a sandwich to wolf down before returning to hell.”
     “I love you.”  Nate said and hung up before I had a chance to respond.
     “I love you,” was how we ended every conversation before the break up.  I felt a mixture of excitement and dread brewing again.  Part of me thought, am I mad?  How could I ever trust Nate?  And if a relationship doesn’t have trust you may as well throw an anchor around it and sink it in the sea. But, my other half was hoping that trust could sail back into our lives and we could live blissful.  I wrapped up the rest of my lunch and went back to the floor.  
     There were forty rooms in all.  Georgie was in one of the newer rooms that had flower printed bedspreads similar to those at a cheap hotel. The dingy linoleum had been replaced with a newer version and the walls were a Navajo white, bland but efficient.  I popped in on my other patients assuring those who were conscious I was back from lunch.  Landing in Georgie’s room last where I would be detained with discussion over my personal life.  
     “Did you eat Georgie?” I asked not seeing a tray anywhere in the room.
     “Honey this a hospital food makes a me a sick.  Can’t do it.  A friend he bring a pizza.  How did the code blue end?”  She asked.
     “Well to be honest, the patient passed away.  But I think it was his wish, really.”
     “That tis good.  I wish to a die when it is my time and I want no people stopping me.  I’ll haunt whoever keeps me tethered to this old body…I swear it!”
      “Hmm.  Good plan.  Okay this bag of blood is just about done. When are the pizza people coming?”
     “They called, said they are on a their way.”
     “Do you want me to wait to hang your second bag so you can eat without being attached?”
     “No tisn’t necessary. I only need uno hand for pizza.”  
     “Guess who called me at lunch?”
     “Hmmm, don’t know.”  Georgie said with a smirk.
     “Nate.  He wants to see me tonight, what do you think?  Am I nuts?”
     “What I think-- is go if your heart a tells you to.  I had a fella once, we fell in mad love. We were a from due worlds.  He was a Irish.  It twas WWII.  He wanted to marry me and I said, let’s a wait, even though I love him very much.  One a notte around midnight, he rapped on my window; told me he was a going—boom being shipped out the next morning.  He stayed a with me until the sun a come up   And I swore to him that night I’d marry him when he returned. He wrote a to me almost every day. Then poof, the letters no come anymore.  Six months, can you imagine?  I was a so worried. Finally, I got a word that his platoona had died all of a them were heroes. Took me long a time to recover.  I never forgetta.  I should have a married him when he asked. Follow your heart honey.”  Georgie said as if she was experiencing that loss all over again.  Her eyes narrowed as she nodded repeatedly.
     “Thanks Georgie.  That was a sad story.”
     “Si, the past tisa often sad.  I met another man and didn’t wait that a time when he pop a the question—done I marry him.”
     “I think you’re right about listening to my heart. My grandmother used to say “ recevere amare, mai chiudere tu cuore.” Receive love never close your heart,” I muttered more for myself than Georgie.  “I’ll be back with your blood; no running off.”
     “Si, si--I’ll try not a to.”   Here was a woman who had experienced death of a husband, a child, parents.  She had survived blatant prejudice, smuggled her way into a male dominated society and yet never allowed those experiences to rob her enthusiasm her spirit—she still believed in love.
     The rest of the day was bustling with new admissions people needing surgery or needing a diagnosis.  It wasn’t until the end of the shift I had a chance to drain my bladder, which had blown up like a water balloon.  When I got home Sam was pacing and wanted to take me to dinner.  I explained I needed an antidote for the day’s troubles and was going for a bike ride.  I thanked him and said I’d see him later.  His face drooped his shoulders slumped but I left regardless.  Sam’s antidote to anything was food, which was one of the reasons I loved him. 
     The evening sky was a canvas of orange and pink sprawling clouds that looked to me like eagles wings.   Nate and I had routinely searched the clouds for images and I felt a revived thrill at the thought of seeing him.  I indulged my focus with the sounds of the ocean the waves rolling over pebbled sand, the barking of sea lions.  It was about a mile to Jack’s Pub parking lot where Nate was waiting .
     “Hey Juliana—over here.” Nate waved his hands in the air.
     “Whoa what a gorgeous night.”  I looked up at the changing sky.
     “Yea it is.  Thanks for coming.  Where do you want to ride to?”
     “How about Asilimar?” I said.  It was a beautiful beach with white sand and not too far.
     “Sounds great.”  For the first few minutes we pedaled in a comfortable silence.  As if we were sorting through topics to talk about.  “So it was a tough day?”  Nate asked through the humming of rubber on the asphalt.
     “Hideous day.  Had a patient die today after he was coded.  It’s really hard for me when families won’t listen to their loved one.  The poor man wanted to die in peace.”  
     “That’s the worst.  I don’t run into to that as much now that I’m in the ER. How is your art coming along?”
     “Awesome.  Actually, Sam hooked me up with an exhibit in July-- at Tutu’s.  My plan is by next year I can sustain myself with art fulltime do nursing part-time.”
     “That’s great.  You mean Husam, Sam?”  Nate asked.
     “Yea.  We live together.  Lou’s there too.”  I thought this was an ideal time to address my reality; riding bikes I wouldn’t have to engage in eye contact.
     “When did this happen?”  
     “Oh about a month or so ago.  He found a great house but couldn’t afford the rent on his own; I wanted to get out of where we, I mean I lived so…”  I could feel Nate staring at me.
     “Is that why you didn’t want me coming by?  Because of Sam?”
     “No.  I just don’t want to dive head first into an empty pool.”
      “I understand.”  Nate said.  “But I’ve changed and I hope I can prove that to you.”
     “You don’t have to prove anything Nate  I have to choose whether I can dismantle the past with you or not.”
     “I do have to prove myself Juliana.  I have to earn your trust, I know that.  How is Sam anyway.  I miss that guy.  Remember when you and I and Sam and Agnes went kayaking in the bay?”  Nate chuckled.
     “Oh my god, what a disaster that was.  Sam and Ag’s kayak flipped--they’d forgotten to put the back plug in.”  I laughed recalling the incident. Sam and Agnes dangling in the bay screaming that their feet we being nipped by sea lions!  I will never forget Ag being dragged aboard that fishing boat.  Hilarious.   “Sam is good.”
     “How is Agnes?”  Nate asked.  “I know her and Louisa hate me.  Louisa sounded stilted when I called the other day.”
     “They don’t hate you hate you, not like a person hates a Hitler or a Stalin.  They don’t like you a whole lot.  And they definitely don’t think I should see you at all.”
     “Are you kidding?”
     “No.  Nate, you said you were going for beer and never came home!  A week later after not hearing from you--you inform me you had found another place to live, to work, to love.  I felt as if I’d gotten punched in the face.”
     “I know Juliana.   I feel like a piece of shit for the way I treated you.  I’m gonna make it up to you and to Lou. Give me a chance.”  Nate’s inflection was sincere a plea dangling at the end of each word.
      We arrived at the beach as the last shades of gray muted the impending darkness.  The moon was full luminous looking like a gigantic search light over the white caps.  We locked up the bikes and sifted our feet over the sand.
     “Can you sit here?”  Nate asked patting between his inner thighs.    
     “Sure.”   I crawled in and nestled against him.  Waves washing over shells, the stars sprinkling flecks of light across the dark water. I felt happy secure in this moment.
     “Can you try Jules to forgive me?  I know I severely damaged our relationship—but I’ve changed.”
     “Nate, you know I need time, okay.  You had asked me to marry you. What changed?  Why all of a sudden did you decide you needed me in your life again?”  
     “It wasn’t all of a sudden it was within weeks of my leaving.   It seemed for the last year together we were drifting, you wanting to travel and I wanting to settle down.” Nate squeezed me close.  “I don’t want to lose you ever again. I want to grow old and crotchety with you.  The truth is Juliana, I hadn’t comprehended the enormity of my love for you, my respect for you as a woman, as a human being.  And when I smugly let it go, the void was too large to bear and I had to face my mistake.”
      “I still want to travel and you still want to settle down.  And I won’t become a nonentity ever again. And I won’t ever be crotchety even when I’m old.”
     “I never thought of you as an nonentity!  I realized that when and if I call a place home for good, I want it to be with you.  Don’t ostracize our love if it is still there for you.”
     “What about the woman?  You were seeing her when we were still together?”
     “Well kind of but not really.  I know that sounds outlandish…”
      “Yea it does.”
       “She was an old friend who I thought I …but we did not sleep together until after I left this relationship, I swear.  Think about it, we were together most of the time, you and I.  This woman wanted a house and blah , blah, blah.”
     “Finish the blah, blah…this is the only way I can heal Nate, is to hear the absolute truth from you.  You need to fill in the blanks.”  A fleeting thought of Sam whizzed through my brain and I knew eventually, I would need to fess up as well.
     “She liked to smoke pot and you didn’t.  I know that is an absurd thing to admit but it’s the truth.  She didn’t challenge me in anyway.  She was simple—wanted simple things—kids, a house.  Juliana, I had lost myself as well. I had smoked my way through bad feelings since I was seventeen. Once I stopped self-medicating the smoke screen lifted and I was left with an empty hole inside of my heart that I thought buying a house could cure.  All I could think about was you and how I hurt you and how much, I wanted to tear back through time.”  Nate pulled me close and leaned his head on the crock of my neck.  His tears dropped onto my skin.  I rubbed his cheek and turned to face him.  
     “Nate, I thought I would die when you left.  But I survived and got my strength back. I want to believe that we can re-ignite, I missed you so fucking much, but I won’t live my life like a spectator in doubt.”
     “I understand—I do. Hey did I tell you I entered the Sea Otter Classic and won third in the downhill?” Nate said fiddling with the pocket of his jacket.
     “No!  That is awesome.  You always talked about doing that—good for you.  Was it scary?  The downhill.”
     “My god I felt like I was jumping out of plane or something—I was scared waiting for my turn.  But when I hit the dirt—I completely relaxed—it was crazy.”  Nate said tossing a wrapped box on my lap.
     “What is this?”
      “A token of my sincerity.”  
     “What?”
     “Something I bought for you, not as a bribe, I just want you to have it.”
     I opened the tiny jewelry box and inside was a gorgeous ring. It was stunning.  A ruby flanked by two small cut diamonds.   
     “Nate—this is beautiful, but I can’t take it--not now.”
     “I want you to have it—ease my guilt will you.  No, I’m joking—I wanted to give you that as soon as I saw it.   I remember how special rubies were to you.”
     “Wow.  This is—wow!”  We kissed.  “Nona used to say one thing you can rely on is change, “cambiare.”  It happens no matter what we do or don’t do. For now, I’m gonna let things be and let the natural procession of events parade by.”
     “I get it Juliana.” 
     “You’ve gotten a lot more understanding in the last eight months.”  I said, turning back to the ebb and flow of the sea.  I stared at the gem resting on my right hand in disbelief.  The smell of sprawled kelp mingled with the herbal scents of lupine, lilac, and azaleas.  There were a handful of people walking their dogs on the south end of the beach like moving shadows.  We sat in silence for a few moments. 
      “My stubbornness back fired on me and I’m seeing life with new lenses, so to speak; not quite rose color but their definitely shades lighter than before.  You ready for that beer.”
     “I’m ready.”
     We rode back to Jack’s Pub and ordered a pint. Along the way I tried to squelch my pleasure about receiving such an unexpected gift.  The place was packed as usual with locals from Monterey.  The dark paneled walls were lined with black and white photos from the forties and fifties of fishermen holding their six-foot marlins, wide grinned leathery men.  Jack’s Pub over looked the Bay where bartenders of the past poured pints and shots for famous writers such as Hemingway, Steinbeck, and T.S. Elliot.  In my mind’s eye, I visualized those times looming under the creaking hardwood floors.  Nate was pensive and I switched our conversation to lighter updates.  He asked me about my paintings and the art show and promised to be a devoted buyer.  I shared about Louisa and me working together on a portrait of Nona; an oil, sfumato style of her face a hint of white roses at the bottom right corner. I toyed with the idea of confessing my marriage but it was too late and I was too exhausted and too elated by the ruby ring nestled on my hand.  I was determined though, not to have it influence or rush any decisions about Nate, I still had to make.
     “Can I call you tomorrow?”  Nate asked. His words stretched elongated, reminding me of a child bargaining for one more hour of play.  Half of his face was obscurely shadowed by the dim light of the parking lot his mouth wide.  In that instance he reminded me of a painting I recently bought of James Dean, a legendary look.
     “Sure.  Have a good night.”  I said getting on my bike.  He kissed me gently.
     “I love you Juliana.”
      It was only nine thirty when I got home.  Louisa was in her room and Sam was at the kitchen table.  I could see a small stream of light coming from the base of the kitchen door.
     “Jules, is that you?”  Sam shouted.
     “Yes.  I’m pooped.”  I fingered the ring and thought about removing it but decided to let fate direct the night.
     “Can I talk to you for a minute?”  Sam’s sounded strained nasal-ish.
     “Sure.”  Shit, I thought to myself dragging my feet to the kitchen.  I hoped this was not going to be an inquisition.  How was this happening?  Sam and I were friends, we made a deal, sure it was during a time of duress over lost love (for me) and then we get married, make love, and hello--here comes Nate!  
     “I spoke with my mom today.”  Sam said.  He was sitting at the kitchen table his head sagging towards his hands. 
     “Oh my god, Sam, I forgot, Monday. So is she okay?”  I sat down beside him.
     “No she’s not.  She has cancer Jules and its spread all over her fucking body.  Fuck, I can’t believe this.”  Sam said.  The rims of his eyes were red and slightly swollen.
     “Oh man, Sam, I’m so sorry.”  I went to him and gave him a strong embrace.  “Is she going to do anything, chemo…?”
     “Yes. She doesn’t believe the doctor.  She’s hates doctors, thinks they’re all crooks and liars.  My brother said they are going to try some new treatment.”
     “What kind of cancer is it?”
     “I don’t know. Tsk, tsk, tsk.   Maybe you can talk to them. She had some tumor on her ovary or something like that.”
     “Sure, I could talk with your family.  We’ll have to get you home for a visit.  We’ll call immigration tomorrow and find out what our options are.  Don’t worry, we’ll figure something out.”  I said rubbing circles on his back.
     “Will you go pray with me tomorrow Jules, please?”
     “Sure Sam, sure,”
                                                     CHAPTER ELEVEN
“Stay is a charming word in a friend’s vocabulary.”
Louisa May Alcott

    “Come in it’s unlocked.”  I shouted from the kitchen. Louisa was upstairs taking a shower when Agnes, my mother, and Jillian arrived. As it turned out my sister didn’t have an egg and sperm meeting and was able to join our soirée in honor of Nona’s birthday.  I was running late as per my norm; the sink had clogged for the hundredth time and I had snuck a yoga practice in after prying pipes apart and yanking out tufts of food that hadn’t squeezed passed the bend.  My intention was to have everything ready ahead of time.  That way I could sit and sip wine while commemorating my grandmother.  But alas, the retired plumbing in our three-bedroom beach cottage thwarted my intentions.
     “Need some help?”  Agnes asked, putting a bottle of water on the table.
     “Yes.  Open that cheese in the frig and there’s crackers up there.”  I said, pointing to a cabinet above the cutting board.
     “I’m surprised to see Jillian.”  Agnes said opening a box of multigrain crackers.
     “Yea, me too. It will be fine.”
      “I’m sure it will be.  How are you?  You look happy.”
     “I am. I’ve got the best of two worlds right now.”  
     “How’s that?’  Agnes asked looking puzzled lines furrowing across her forehead.
     “Being married but single all at the same time.  It’s not bad.”  I said carrying a tray of hor d’oeuvres out to the living room.
     “Hi mom.  Jillian, glad you made it.”  I put the food on the coffee table.  Jillian tapped me on the back and my mother sandwiched me with her gigantic breasts.
     “This is so sweet of you honey.  I feel Nona here, you know.  Hi Nona…we love you.”  My mother is a character in the truest definition of the word, a distinct personality.  She is part commandant, part perm-a-kid, and part Catholic priest.  But above all she is full of life and has never a clue how to be cavalier like my sister.  I prayed the little tap on the shoulder wasn’t a caveat of festering snide comments waiting to surface.  In four days my period would begin and I was in no mood for a barraging. My sensitivity level was high. I was still sad that Nona wasn’t here walking around, laughing and drinking her red wine. I prayed her spirit would buffer any bad vibes between Jillian and I.
     “Mom you want some good Chianti?”  I asked.
     “Of course.”  
     “Jills, you’re still abstaining right?”  I asked.
     “Yes I am.  Having a baby means sacrificing.”
     “Right.”  I said and went to get the wine.
     Louisa came down the steps with a towel draped over her wet hair like an African Queen, hollering “hello” to everyone.  Sam had left for the evening. He was going to stay at Fiesel’s house, a sweet and very smart move.  He gave up his room in order for Agnes to spend the night. I told him I didn’t think it necessary but in the end was glad to have a house full of females.  Not that I didn’t love men; my brothers and I have a kindred relationship but none of them could make it, which tossed my father off the list as well.  This way we could stay true to the girl’s only rule that I had initially proposed.  
     “Here you go mom.”
     “Louisa how are you doing?”  Jillian asked.
     “Good.  I only have a few more weeks left in the semester. I want to work a lot this summer since mom and I are going to Europe in the fall.”
     “That’s right.”  I sung out, excited with the very sound of the word “Europe.”  “Italy mainly” I reiterated.
     “Italy!  What for?”  Jillian said sliding her lips down her face as if she were a depressed clown.
     “Jillie,” my mother interrupted.  “Why do you say it like that?  Italy is where you come from.”
     “Nona comes from Italy mother…I’d rather kiss the Blarney stone myself.”  
     “Isabella I’m on your side.”  Agnes said, aware that she was dropping a hefty dose of gasoline on the flickering conversation.  She never shunned an argument. “Jillian what the hell is your angst for Italy about?”
     “Agnes, I realize you are from Asian decent; I personally prefer to identify with my American ness. I’m tired of people bashing this country.  We’re a great nation.”
     “Jillian save your condescending Republicanism for the born-agains.”  My mother said breaking up the fight before it got underway.  “We all love this country for god’s sake.”
     “Ha, if anyone is pompous and predaceous mother, it’s your precious Democrats.  I am astute.”  Jillian said staring at Agnes.
     “Okay, let’s skip the political discourse. You don’t like to acknowledge your ancestors, Jillie?”  Agnes said obviously not ready to end the debate entirely.
     “I never said that…”
     “I’m beguiled by your…”
     “Any way Agnes and Jillian--mom and I want to go to Italy and see Nona’s village she always talked about.”  Louisa said, dousing the heated discussion with her knack for neutralizing.  She had a wonderful voyeurs view in arguments and mishaps.  I liked to believe I assisted her cultivating that trait but knew she was much better and more consistent at it than I.
     “That’s sweet Louisa…maybe I’ll come to.”  My mother piped in as we corralled to the living room.  Although it was springtime here in Monterey the evenings still grew chilly.  I lit the stack of logs in the stone fireplace giving the room a subtle romantic feel and a bit of added heat, the crackle of burning wood was comforting.  The foghorn, a soft staccato hum, mingled with the faint barking sound of the sea lions; those enormous slippery gray beasts that loitered under the piers.  Our cold wood floors were semi-covered with green Indian rugs.  Several of my paintings hung on the far wall across from the bay window where an antique wooden bench sat.  Our house was cozy and welcoming with a hint of eclectic.  Sam and I both were book freaks and I recently purchased a heavy oak armoire, which I left open and made into a bookshelf.  The couch was Sam’s; a high back Ethan Allen with aged cushions and arms, nothing too major that couldn’t be camouflaged with throw pillows.  
     “Hmmm.”  Jillian said getting up from her seat.
     “Isabella you’ve never been back to Italy?”  Agnes asked.
     “Not once.  We went to Ireland to see Joe’s people and the place he was born.  But I never have gone back to Italy.  To tell you the truth, I am a little afraid.”
     “Really, why Nana?”  Louisa chimed in.
     “Yea why mom?  I never knew that.  I always thought dad kept you from going.”  I said.
Jillian had gone to the kitchen for some tea and was missing the entire conversation
     “Well, my mother told me about the sadness there and I thought why go back.”
     “What sadness mom?  Nona always told me about her “bella villagio.  She made me promise to go.”  I said, slightly indignant that my mother had never shared this with me.
     The doorbell rang.  
     “I’ll get it Mom.”  Louisa said.
     “Hey, what’s up what are you doing here?”  I could hear Louisa saying.  Through the glass panel on the door I could see she was talking to a young man.
     “Who is it honey?”  I asked.
     “It’s Jordan mom. He was in the vicinity and thought he’d surprise me. Surprise! He didn’t know we were having a little gathering.”  Louisa said, craning her head in our direction.
     “Tell him to come in.”
     “It’s okay, just say hi.”   Louisa said pulling the obviously hesitant dark skinned young man through the threshold.
     “I’m sorry to interrupt.”  Jordan said, his eyes darting from Louisa to me to the floor and back to Lou.
      “Nice to meet you Jordan.”  I extended my hand.  “This is Lou’s grandmother Isabella and her auntie Agnes, and her aunt Jillian.  Jillian had waltzed back into the room with teacup in hand.
     “Nice to meet you,” Agnes said and waved.
     “Hi.” Jordan waved back.
     “Good to meet you Jordan.  You look like a nice boy.”  My mother said and got up to give him a hug.  “Jules can I have a little more vino?” 
     “Sure mom.  Nice meeting you Jordan”  
     “Nice to meet you. I better get going.” Jordan waved and sprinted for the exit.
     “Call me tomorrow,” Louisa said before closing the front door.
     “He’s adorable Lou.”  I said.  “Tall too.  I love tall.”
     “Me too.”  Agnes grinned.
     “Very handsome boy, very handsome boy, looks like someone famous.”  My mother said sipping her wine.
     “He’s hot Lou.  Is he smart?”  Agnes asked.
     “Very and super sweet.”
     “Is he Black?”  Jillian asked.  As always, I was flabbergasted by her bluntness.
     “He’s half African American and yes he considers himself, Black.”  Louisa replied.
     “Hmmm.”  Jillian lifted her chin towards the ceiling.  
     “Our grandfather was darker than that, Jills remember?”  I said, knowing my sister was savoring some prediction that Jordan would need salvaging.
     “Of course.  He was Sicilian, they are all dark.”  Jillian spit out.  I contemplated that perhaps unconsciously Jillian was envious that her skin was not olive tinted like my mother’s and mine.   She and my brother Jimmy had the fairer complexion of the Celtic ancestors. 
     “So back to the conversation Nana.  Why you didn’t want to go to Italy?”  Louisa asked.
     I was grateful to return to a less volatile topic but remained irritated.
     “Are we going to eat anytime soon? I’m starved and I have to cover for the other Nurse Practitioner tomorrow.”  Jillian barked and stood up.  I knew she was sick of the conversations since her opinions were obsolete with this crowd.
     “In just a few everything will be done.” I wanted to keep the conversation alive.to listen to my mother’s unfinished answer.  After all we were gathered to honor my grandmother, my mother’s mother, our Nona, who was Italian.  It was inconceivable why Jillian had no affinity for her Italian roots; it was as if she wanted restitution from Nona’s dark complexion, for loving art, for living with verve and a gusto she may perhaps never know.
     “Isabella go on I want to hear this, relax Jill Jill.”  Agnes said giving me a swift wink.
     “Nona was famous in her village.  People called her and my father, Lucca, the caro artistas; the darling artists because they were inseparable and they could both paint beautifully. They met while apprenticing and fell in love. Nona in moments of deep reflection called him “ Mi bello Lucci—mi coraggios il marito.” My beautiful Luke—my brave husband.  Then boom, the war my father gets whisked away to a concentration camp for being a Catholic, my mother and I escape—she sells her paintings to sneak out of the country.  I was nine months old.  Nona tried to gain access to his whereabouts—but nothing ever surfaced. After seven years, she had to assume he died.  She moved on.  So… I am always afraid to go back, afraid that maybe my father is still alive and he will scorn me.  It’s crazy, I know.  Maybe I will see pictures and feel sad for my mother.  Nona always said “You can’t plow a field by looking behind you. So there you see it is stupid but I am afraid.”  My mother waggled her palms in front of her face.
     “God Mom, Nona never spoke of this.  She led me to believe Lucca died of Tuberculosis.  And she spoke little of the war—as if it had no impact on her life other then moving to America .  Now you are telling me er us our biological grandfather—died in a camp!”
     “She could never bring herself to say these things. When she received a letter from a friend who had been there as well—she threw it away as if it that would erase the pain.  She would say, how does he know?”  
     “Wow, Nana, I never knew all of this-- aren’t you curious about what happened to those paintings?  Maybe there are some pictures or maybe there are people still around who knew the story, you could ask them questions.”  Louisa asked.  I was still reeling from the idea of my real Nonno, dying alone in Auschwitz or Dachau.  His talent burned in a dank gas chamber amid the cries of innocent people echoing into nothingness.
     “Yes of course.  Your Nona feared that I would forget.  When I married your father, she was devastated.  He was an Irishman.  She wanted me to go back to Italy to learn to paint. But I can’t.  I can’t even draw a straight line. I don’t have the gift of my father and mother.  So, I don’t know…I could try and find the paintings, but how?”  My mother said.  Her eyes filled with tears.  
     “I let Nona down.”  My mother sighed in her deep dramatic voice.  
I always thought my mother would have made a brilliant stage actress   Her arms like an eagle about to take flight, floating up and down.  She was a one-woman show, a fat lipped, dark skinned, huge tits ball of energy and I adored her for that.  She had spunk that I admired although I could not always relate to. 
     “No you didn’t mom, don’t be ridiculous.”
     “Wow Isabella that’s an incredible story.”  Agnes said. 
     “How in god’s name could you have traveled with children mother?”  Jillian said.  “Can we continue all of this over food?”
     “Let me get everything out on the table, Lou come help.”
     “Right.”  Lou said getting up from her chair.  “Nana, I am so sorry.”  She got up and gave my mother a hug.
      “I’ll help too.  Isabella relax, Jillian chill.”  Agnes said getting up.
     In the kitchen I pulled the lasagna out of the oven to let it cool a few minutes on a wood block.  Louisa was sprinkling garlic croutons over the salad, the kitchen had minimal counter space and it was a juggling act to orchestrate a meal.  Agnes swung the door open, clapped her hands together and cleared her throat.
     “Guess what guys?”
     “What?”  Louisa and I said in unison.
     “I’m pregnant!”  Agnes squealed, slapping her cheeks.
     “Oh my god!  Are you sure?’  I asked.  “Paris, it was the Parisian water Ag.  Honey that is wonderful.”  I said and went to give her a hug.  “How perfect.”
     “That is awesome Aggie.  I’m gonna have a little cousin.”  Louisa said jumping up and down. The three of us stood there grinning.
     “Do me a favor though, don’t mention it to Jillian, not tonight.  She’s been trying so hard to have a baby and…”
     “Don’t worry.  This is Nona’ s night. That’s why I came in here.  I’ll wait to tell Isabella as well since your mother is notorious for blabbing secrets.”  We laughed and gathered the food.  I lit the tapered candles in the candleholders Nona had given me as a teenager.  They were statues of angles holding the rims, their wings touching.  I cherished the ornate details of the angelic faces and for the fact they were from my Nona’s village.
      “What were you all screaming about in there?’  Jillian asked as I set the garlic bread down.
     “This looks deliciousouso Jules.”  Mom said tearing off a piece of the garlic bread.
     “Oh I was telling them about what a horrific speller Sam is.”  I said quickly.  “Here Jills get some lasagna.  I used Nona’s recipe.
     “Thanks.”  Jillian said holding out her plate.
     “Oh I forgot something…go ahead and start.”  I said.
     “We need to pray.”  Jillian said clearing her throat.
      “Okay let’s pray.  Go ahead Jillian.”  
     “Dear Lord we thank you for the gifts you have bestowed on us this evening and may we in turn thank you with our gratitude and service.  Amen.”
    “Amen. Oh and hi Nona, this is for you.”  I said holding up my glass of Chianti.
     “Amen.”  Agnes and Louisa, and my mother chimed in unison.  
     I got up and put on one of Sam’s Italian CD’s and grabbed the decanter of wine from the living room.
     “Mom, you should come with Louisa and I to Italy.  I could research where Nona’s paintings landed that would be incredible to find one of her originals!  She never told me she had to sell her artwork for her freedom.”
     “Speaking of Nona memories, do you remember Jules that time she helped us build a raft?  Agnes asked in between slurping down food.  
    “How could I forget?  What a great summer that was.”
     “I’ll always remember the look on your father’s face when he had to pick the three of you up.”  My mother said slapping the table, a salad fork bounced.  “He was furious with her.  Alessandra when will you grow up, he yelled.  She was still a little girl full of mischief at times.”
     “So are you mom.”  I said.  As I child, my mother was strict about certain things like manners, going to Mass and cleaning but she had a marvelous pension for make believe.  We would stage plays and make forts for secret clubs that had rules and code words to enter.  She would donate tattered blankets, towels, costume jewelry, and old shoes for us to use in our productions.
     “What? I didn’t hear all of this story. Have I?”  Louisa asked.
     “Depends, there’s a few versions floating around.”  Jillian said.  “I had nothing to do with any of them.  That was all your mother’s concocted idea.”  She huffed, as if making a raft at the age of nine was evil.
     “No the boys helped,” Agnes explained.
     In the summer of my ninth year, I decided to build a raft and sail it down the creek behind our house in Mt. Shasta California.  I wanted to travel like Huck Finn and Tom Sawyer.  I had read about that particular era and was filled with romantic notions that I thought could be lived out.  Nona thought it a brilliant idea and assisted Agnes and I with the borrowing of old wood from my father’s stockpile. She told Agnes and I. it would be like riding a “gondola in Venitia.”  I was a hopeless tomboy back then.  While Jillian toiled over dressing her Barbie’s I was collecting salamanders or crawfish. My brothers Jimmy and Jackson helped with a bit of hammering and hauling of wood.  It was late summer and in the mountains that meant thunderstorms could sweep over you like an avalanche. They would appear out of nowhere as quickly as if you were closing a curtain.  Nona had sewn several torn sheets together, which we tied to a long wooden pole that became our sail. The entire vessel was about six feet by six feet boxy like a barge.  It hardly resembled the pictures of Nona’s gondolas.  Jimmy and Jackson helped carry the wooden beast down to the creek along with Ag and me; the plan was Jackson, who was sixteen and had his license, would pick us up at a specific point we all had agreed on, in my father’s old pick-up.  It would be our test run. Nona didn’t want us going down the creek alone until she was certain we could navigate.  
     “Okay Nona, climb aboard.”  I yelled.  The sky had patches of big puffy clouds and the air carried a strong scent of moist dirt as if the garden had been recently watered.  Wild honeysuckle and jasmine bushes flanked the banks of the creek, which was full from an abundance of spring rain and snow melt.   A fallen tree had decayed into a beautiful log decorated with green moss and smelling like the forest.  My brothers and I had used it to teeter the raft’s front end into the water.
     “I’m a coming holda on.”  Nona shouted.  She reached for Agnes’ hand while I steadied the raft with the large wooden pole Jimmy had carved for me to use as a guide.  
     “Are you in?”
     “Si, si, si. Ah fantasitco!”  Nona spread her hands toward the sky and started singing an Old Italian song; something about amare.
     “Agnes steady, I’m gonna shove us off.  Bye guys we’ll see you in about an hour.” The three of us waved good-by to Jimmy and Jackson.  Bobbling over the gentle current we sauntered down the creek with oaks and maples shading our way.  My spirit swollen with adrenalin from the adventure now underway.
     “We did it.”  I shouted.
     “See, girls can do anything they want.”  Nona said and started singing again.
     “Agnes, you’re the navigator. Keep us posted on what’s ahead.”  I instructed.  I was the captain.  My long red ponytail snapping behind me, I felt invincible.
       “Yes captain.  I will keep my eyes peeled for any pirates or alligators.”  Agnes said in a serious voice.  Between the two of us our imaginations could take us places we had only read about in books.
     An hour had passed and we came to a fork in the creek, which had quietly widened and began to feel more like a river.  The water had turned a midnight blue and we figured we must be close to our pick up point, only we had not planned on the y  split. 
     “I thinka we shoulda go this a way.”  Nona said pointing to the right.
     “Me too,” I agreed. “Agnes what do you think?”
     “Yea, I think so too.”
    As we ventured onward in the wrong direction, storm clouds raced in and the sky transformed into hues of gray.  Within a few minutes buckets of huge raindrops were pelting at us.  When thunder banged in the distance--Nona became worried. We managed to force the raft over to an embankment.  Reaching for a tree branch that jutted out over the water, I pulled us closer to the land.  But my foot shot out from the mud and slid back into the water.  Nona started screaming and Agnes reached for the same branch I had and repeated the same maneuver, slipping on her back and plopping beside me.  Nona took the pole and grunted as she shoved the raft hard; a chunk caught the edge of the grass.  She leaped off and yanked hard; Agnes and I swam over and clawed our way up the bank.
    By this time Jackson drove back to the house to get our father, since we were over an hour late to the pickup point and he got scared that something horrible had happened.  My father yammered on about Nona being irresponsible while we all were scolded for doing such a cockamamie stunt.  The three of us looked as if we had oozed our way through a mud bath.
      As I retold the tale, I could feel Nona’s presence beside me.  My mother was laughing so hard her cheeks burned a crimson color.
     “Wow, what a great story mom.  So your dad was angry at Nona?”   Louisa asked.
      “Yep, he sure was.  But the great thing was we didn’t give up.  We ended up using the raft all summer and got pretty darn good at it.  We always had a crew of three and eventually were able to turn around and get back to the house so no one had to pick us up.”
     “It was a sad day when we had to retire the raft!”  Agnes said.
      “You two were always inventing new ways to get into trouble.”  My mother said.
      “Were?”   Jillian seethed.
      “At least we dared to try things Jill.”  I said trying to make light of her tone.
      “What is that supposed to mean?”  Jillian asked.  Her back grew rigid as if someone threw an ice cube down her shirt.
      “It means that just because we had fun doesn’t mean we were bad.”
       “Don’t you think it’s time to grow out of the ‘having to be different syndrome’ Juliana?  You still act like teenager for god’s sake.  Even your marriage is weird with your Arab hubby that you’ve only been dating for a few months—you were only friends.”  Jillian sneered unable to camouflage her disdain.
       “Jillian I would like to tell you to f off right about now but that wouldn’t be Christian of me so I’ll refrain.”
        “You never refrain from anything so don’t bother.  I’m leaving anyway, it’s getting late   I assumed we would eat at a normal hour.”  Jillian snarled as she started to get up.
     “Aunt Jillian don’t leave.”  Louisa said.  “We haven’t finished the Nona tales!”  
     “Lou, sweetie it’s nothing to do with you.”  Jillian settled back into her chair. “Your mom needs to be an adult sometimes that’s all.”
     “Jillian and Juliana, stop.”  My mother smacked the table.   I didn’t feel I had anything to do with my sister’s attitude but I supposed I had engaged in the fight.  
      “Jillian, why don’t you give your sister a break, come on.”  Agnes said.
     “You have no idea how many breaks I’ve given her, Agnes.  Some of us like normalcy in our lives. Some of us think that being a gypsy and dragging a child around involving her with different boyfriends and Middle Eastern husbands is a little disgusting.”
     “I’m not a child Aunt Jillie.”  Lou piped in.
     “You know Jillian, We’re different-- so what.  People all over the world are different; doesn’t your religion teach you that god made us all, even us immature folks?  Or is your god particular and is only sentimental towards rich white Republicans?”  I couldn’t control my tongue at this point.
     “How do you know that your new husband is not part of a terrorist group?” Jillian accused.
     “You aren’t serious?”  I laughed.
     “I am.”  Jillian said staring at me like an investigator.”
     “Jillian, Sam’s a sweetie--a terrorist…he” Louisa said but was intercepted by Agnes.
     “Jillian--Juliana and I have known Sam for almost five years…”
     “Four.”  Jillian corrected.
     “Alright four, the point is Sam, Husam is no terrorist. His family is religious--their Catholic and his father is a cantor and...” Agnes said.
     “Catholicism is a cult.  I am concerned that’s all. I’ve only met him a few times briefly.”  Jillian huffed, her nose swung up like a dog sniffing a piece of meat.
     “Well you shouldn’t be.  Sam is a wonderful human being.”  Agnes said shaking her head back and forth. 
    “We’ve invited you and Joe to do things but you always refuse.”  I reminded my sister. 
     “Why are you so afraid of other cultures?”  Agnes asked.
     “Afraid.  I am not afraid, I’m sick of them.  When did it become passé to be a patriot?  Why does this family have to be diluted with strangeness; you’re not planning on having more children are you?”  Jillian asked whipping her head and eyes back to me as if she was the D.A. in a trial.
     “Yes, I probably will.” I said matter of fact not really sure that I meant it.
     “That is ridiculous.” Jillian hissed and threw her cloth napkin on the table.
     “I didn’t say whom with though Jillian.  You know me, I’m irresponsible.”
     “Juliana, don’t tease like that.  Jillian, Sam is a good boy, I can tell.”  My mother said.
     “How can you tell mom?”  Jillian was unrelenting in her accusation.
     “I know. I have Nona’s instincts.  She loved him.”  My mother was beginning to tear up again, her face squishing together.  It was something she did when she was trying hard not to cry. 
     “Can we get back to Nona stories, please?”  Louisa said. 
     “Yeah, come on Jillian, I just thought…”
     “As usual you want to ignore the elephant in the room, as they say.  Nona loved Nate. Unfortunately you chased him away.  I suppose he was too normal, not cultural enough for you.  He wanted normal things.”  Jillian spewed.
     By now I was ready to erupt and didn’t know how much longer I could police my remarks.
     “You’re wrong. Nona loved Sam.  She said he reminded her of a man in Italy.  She said she knew him in a past life.”
     “Oh for god’s sake that is it.  Nona did not believe in past lives or reincarnation or…”
     “She did Jillian. She just never discussed it with you.”
     “I am leaving.  Mom are you coming,” Jillian said gathering her purse?
     “We just finished eating, relax…”  My mother’s face drooped her eyes drifted to the floor.
     “Lou can you drive Nana home?’  Jillian said.  It looked as if she would implode; her face cemented in a frown her shoulders thrust back.  
     “It’s okay. I haven’t had any wine, I can drive you home Nana whenever.”  Lou said patting my mother on the shoulder.
     “Mom you can stay in the guest room if you want.”  I told her appalled that Jillian was forcing my mother to make a choice between the two of us. 
     “No, no, no.  I’ll go now with Jillie…”
     “I’ll be in the car mom.  Lou, Agnes it was nice to see you.  Lou call me anytime you need anything, okay?”  Jillian turned on her heels and marched soldier like to the door.
     “What the hell did I do Jillian?”  I said, now crying and feeling confused. Naturally she didn’t hear me as she had already slammed the door. I could hear the engine rumbling. I wondered how the evening had dissolved into a complete disaster after a casual stroll through the past.  Was it the raft story that re-ignited my sister’s contempt for me or was it her hormones and the wanting a baby that caused her to lash out?  This had happened before between the two of us. Jillian rarely approved of my choices in life. But they were mine and I didn’t ask for anything from her except to be my sister. What made it so difficult for her just once--to leave her judgments in a bag on the street corner?  She could pick them up later if she felt she needed them again.  And how dare she drag my mother into this when she too had needed to linger on Nona’s memory.  It’s part of grieving, it’s part of what people do to honor lost loved ones like a universal tradition.
     “Juliana, don’t cry.  Your sister worries that’s all.”  My mother said trying to appease the situation.
     “Worries!  She’s a bitch mom and I’m tired of it.  That’s it, I’m done.”  I sobbed.
     “No you’re not Juliana.  Your heart is like your Nona’s…it forgives.  The lasagna was incredible.  We’ll talk tomorrow, honey.   Lou and Agnes I love you.”  She hugged and kissed them both.
     “Isabel, I’m going to have a baby. I wasn’t going to mention it until I am further along, but.”  Agnes blurted out.
     “Oh my God!  That is so exciting!  I will say a prayer for the two of you. I better go.  God bless.”  She blew a kiss in the air and left.
      Louisa began stacking plates and piling them on top of one another, “Mom, I’ll clean up don’t worry.  That was fun.  Your sister really pisses me off sometimes.”  
     “She hates me.  I don’t do things in the correct order. I had a baby and then got married.  I had sex before I was eighteen, I don’t have an IRA account, I don’t’ go to Tupperware parties--the list is endless.”
     “Jules just let it go.   She can’t understand you and you can’t understand her.  What can you do?  She can’t help it the way she is nor you the way you are.  Someday—it will be fine, you’ll see.”  Agnes said.  
I blew out the candles and flicked on the light.
     “But I’ve tried Agnes, I’ve really tried to understand her.”
     “I know just let it go.  Look, I’m sort of pooped.  I’ll help you clean up and then I’m gonna split do you mind?”
     “No, it’s fine. You don’t have to clean, just take your pregnant ass home.  I’m sooo elated for you!  A baby.  Do you feel nauseous?”  
     “Just exhausted out of my head—I’m almost three months—I waited to tell you until I knew I was out of the woods--don’t worry everything will be fine.”  Agnes said.  “Bye little Lou.”  
    “You’re leaving?”  Lou came out from the kitchen with her hands wet and a red-checkered dishtowel slung over her shoulder.
     “Yea gotta go.  Take care of your mamma tonight, okay?”
     “We take care of each other.”  Lou said, giving Agnes a hug good-bye.
     After Louisa and I finished cleaning we sat in the living room and threw another log in the fire.  She had planned to see Jordan later but decided to stay home with me instead. We talked about school and about a new waitress job at, Fandango’s, a swanky restaurant that she hoped to get for the summer.  We polished off the Chianti as I shared stories about Nona.  In those moments where shadows from the fire lapped our faces, I felt an unexplainable nostalgia a longing for a time I had never lived.  There was a tangible sense that I somehow didn’t belong in this life; that somehow I had stepped on the wrong merry-go-round and desperately needed to get back to the carousel.  I felt grateful for my daughter and the closeness we shared. A part of me wanted to talk to Sam and the other part wanted to call Nate and tell him what happened.  But, I did neither. 
     I asked Louisa if she thought I had been too lenient with her, exposed her to things she didn’t feel comfortable with.  She laughed and said, “Mom, you’re my friend now, but you’ve always been my mother.” I wasn’t sure if that was a yes or a no and I told her that if she felt angry with me for my shortcomings that she could tell me. She didn’t have to store her true feelings in a closet.  She said that, I’d given her permission to explore.  I don’t know if that is true or not.  Funny, people learn at an early age to please the people who love them, even when that means turning a back to your most natural self.  As far as my sister, I thought about a quote I read recently from Daniel Patrick Moynthan; “Everyone is entitled to their own opinion but not their own facts.”  Jillian didn’t know the facts about me, nor did I know the facts about her.  Those facts that are embedded inside of our being that only we are privy to; those solitary events that no audience has witness.
                                                CHAPTER TWELVE

     “I love you and because I love you, I would sooner you hate me for telling the truth than adore me for telling you lies.”                                             -- Pietro Aretino

     “Sam wake up.  Sam, your mom’s on the phone.”  I said trying to shake consciousness into him.
     “Wha, huh?”
     “Your mom, she is on the phone.”
     “Oh my godt.  Okay, okay, okay.  Tsk, tsk, I should have gotten my lazy ass up earlier. Tell her I call her right back.”  Sam said rubbing his hair as he sat up in bed.
     “Hopefully she’ll understand me.”  I said zooming out of the room.
     “Hello, Mrs. Kardol.  Sam will call you right back.”
     “He not home?”
     “Yes he is he is…”
     “Can I talk to Sam, please?  Tank you.  Tank you much.”
I raced back up the stairs this time determined to have Sam come down and speak with his mother. I also pledged to get another phone for upstairs.
     “Sam, she didn’t understand me, just come down.”
     “Yes, I am. Let me put on my jeans.”
     “NO!  Your boxers are fine, go!”
     He took my orders and skidded down the stairs.  I followed with his jeans in hand.  When I came back down to the kitchen, Sam was smiling but seemed to be arguing with his mother.  His voice radiating to the next state, his hands flailing and his face tightening and relaxing as if he were doing facial exercises.  I grabbed my cappuccino and headed for “my studio,” which was a section of patio I had enclosed, with two by fours and old wood panels.  I enlarged photos of Nona and had some of her work hanging on the makeshift walls.  It was my solace spot for creating. I had been working on a new painting a rendition of a woman with long black hair.  She is naked and holding a small white dog in her lap.  A book, Silent Stills, Louisa had read for one of her college art classes had of late inspired me.  The book chronicled female artists of the Renaissance who received little notoriety and whose works were still being discovered.  Women such as Marietta Robusti Tintoretto, who was regarded for her portraits.  She was highly commissioned in the late 1500’s, her father and the accepted social restrictions of that time period had stifled her by limiting where she could paint.  Jocopo, Marietta’s father, insisted she remain in Venice painting at his studio; when she was propositioned by Phillip II and Archduke Ferdinand of Spain to paint for the court, which would have brought her the historical acclaim she deserved but her father refused to let her go.  Sadly, most of her paintings were credited to male artists, including her own father.  She died at thirty-four giving birth to her first child.  In 1920, two of her works were uncovered the  “Women with a Dog,” that had originally been attributed to El Greco fascinated me and I wanted to paint something similar in her honor.  I wanted to honor dead women artists whose works were either under the guise of men or were left unappreciated and undocumented.
     I had played with a new technique and had switched to acrylics applying heavy slabs of paint; layering to give the allusion of an oil.  Using new sable brushes was a treat, Sam had bought them for me and I was grateful.  When the piece is completed, I’ll spray it with a fine lacquer to keep the integrity of the colors then make a print of it . The Italian opera radiating from the tiny CD player heightened my compassion for this project.  I felt an ethereal sadness for the unsung female artist as if I had known her personally.  Perhaps my melancholy stemmed from thinking of myself as one of them.   I thought about Nona and the paintings she had to sell to buy her freedom.  As an artist there is an innate devotion that connects you to every piece you create—like a mother and child.  Unless you are able to make copies of your work—it can be lost forever.   I thought about Nona’s life and how she had made a decent living with her sculptures and oils.  I had wanted to make a website for her but she refused saying, “I like a the vecchio, (old) way, mouth a to a mouth.”  
      Standing back to assess, I decided I would paint the rest of the dog’s back paw over the woman’s groins.  This would give statement to the piece, her vagina looking like that of an old woman while the rest of her face and body are young and supple.  It seemed the older I got the more irritated I became with social stigmas against women.  Although, at times I felt hypocritical, since I often succumbed to slathering on creams to stave off wrinkles and have pulled my cheeks back to gander at what I’d look like with a face-lift down the road.  The soft lines around my eyes didn’t bother me, I felt fortunate to have a deep olive complexion and my hair still rich with red hues had not a hint of gray.  I was grateful that I didn’t taken after my father who donned a full head of white hair by the time he was thirty.
     I decided, when I was finished in the studio, I’d pay Nona a visit, bring her some fresh flowers.  It is a ridiculous tradition decorating a head stone with flowers but it was ingrained in me; it helped circumvent the pain of missing her.  My thoughts drifted to Louisa; I was happy she had not followed in the obsequious footsteps of her valley girl friends.  She had integrity and a passion for the past that rivaled my own.  It was as if regal ancestral spirits had swarmed her psyche.  Maybe she would come to Nona’s grave with me, I thought out loud.  Almost an hour had gone by since Sam had gotten the call from Israel and I wondered if he was still on the line.  
     “Sam.” No answer.  He wasn’t on the phone any longer, yet I could hear mutterings of conversation.
     “Sam…”  I walked through the kitchen door and caught sight of Sam in the front yard talking to someone.  I couldn’t see who it was but thought what the heck, I need a painting break. I’d go say hello to whoever it was.
     It was a gorgeous spring day, the sky harbored not a single cloud.  As I walked out to the front yard my spring-time serenity was jarred when I realized the friend Sam was chatting with was Nate.  “Holy shit,” I mumbled to myself, how did Nate find my house and worse, what had the two of them been discussing.
     “Juliana, look who it tis,” Sam said with a smirk “I was just telling him about our wedding.”
     Shit!  Well I suppose that was one way to break the news.  Surprise, guess what I did?  I could feel both sets of male eyes boring into me.  I felt like a mouse that had been plucked by the tail and was being whisked to the garbage can with the cheese still stuck to my teeth.
    “Nate.  Nice to see you.”   I stammered.
     “Juliana, hi. It’s been a while-- I was in the neighborhood and spotted your car, thought I’d drop by.”  He gave me that grin that said—‘so I wasn’t the only one with secrets.’
     “Hmmm.”  It seemed my feet had grown roots.  I couldn’t move.
      “Um, Sam how is your mother?”  What the hell, I may as well just act as if this is not bizarre, my husband and my ex-boyfriend yakking.  After all, it served Nate right, encroaching on my territory unannounced.
     “She is okay. Optimistic, you know.  Israeli women are tough.”  He smiled.  “Thank you for asking.  She likes you Jules, said she wants to learn English so she can talk to you more.”  Sam laughed.
     “Really, that’s sweet.  Tell her thank you for the Dead Sea, stuff.”
     “I will.  So why don’t you come in Nate.”  Sam said gesturing towards the front door.
     “Sure.”  Nate looked at me with that same grin lingering in his eyes.
     “Yeah come in.”  I was still rooted.  The two men strolled inside the house and I followed filled with hesitation wondering how this could possibly be productive.  I prayed Nate had used discretion regarding our recent rendezvous and why I cared—I wasn’t sure.  Sam and I had scarcely consummated our marriage and it was before Nate had galloped back into the scene. But there was a part of me that wanted to protect Sam.  He had been there for me when Nate had split and although the wedding wasn’t for love, I cared deeply for him.
       “Wow, this is a great spread.”  Nate said gazing at the living room, which I had just faux finished three of the walls a butterscotch color. It gave the room a Tuscan feel.  A bit of paint and a few dramatic accents gave the room a sense of sophistication.
      “Juliana did the faux, tis good.”  Sam said 
     “She’s quite the artist.”  Nate said.
     “Okay, enough.  You two are talking about me like I’m not here. Nate you want a beer?”
     “Sure.”
     “Sam?”
     “You know I don’t drink beer, but thanks for asking.”  Sam said with a peevish look on his face.
     “Let’s sit out back it’s too nice to be inside.”  I said going through the kitchen to get the beer.
     The three of us sat at the round picnic table.  Nate sipped his Corona, Sam and I nursed our lemon waters.
    “How many bedrooms are there?”  Nate asked.
     “Three.”  I said.  “Lou lives here too, well when she’s here that is.”
     “So you and Sam aren’t married in terms of the sharing the sack I take it.”  Nate blurted out.
    I choked on my water.
     “Only a few times.”  Sam winked.
     “Ha, ha, ha, very funny Sam.  Anyway you two want to see my latest painting?”  I was desperate to change the subject.
     “You don’t usually like sneak previews.”  Nate said, no doubt recalling my history of refusing him access to my art unless it was one hundred percent complete.
     “I’ve changed.”  I said getting up.  “Come on check it out.  It’s in honor of this Italian artist who never got her dues.”  I opened the studio door.
    “Oh my godt, Juliana, this is gorgeous!”  Sam shouted.
    “Babe, this is one of your finest pieces, I’ve seen yet,” Nate said. Our eyes entangled in an instant.  How could he refer to me as “Babe?”  Neither Sam nor I were ready for any drastic changes—we were working on the show and I was still dealing with old reckonings as far as Nate was concerned. 
     “Tis, Juliana, this will be goodt for the show,” Sam said.  He ignored Nate’s reference.
      “Yeah, it will,” I said.  “Anyway, I promised Nona a visit, she needs more flowers I’ve taken up her grave walking habit, it’s quite serene in the cemetery.”  I was hoping to end this little gathering before any more incriminating information leaked out.
        “I need to get going too,” Nate said, downing the last bit of beer.  “This is really amazing Juliana.”  He turned towards the painting and gestured.  “Sam it was great to see you again.  Thanks for the beer…uh I’ll call you later.”  Nate leaned towards me as if he was planning to plant a kiss.  I took a hasty stride out of the studio back into the clarity of the sunshine.  Sweet smells of honeysuckle and lavender undulated in the breeze bilking the afternoon temperatures.  I took a deep inhale and bid Nate good-bye as if he were the next door neighbor.  
     “Nice to see you Nate—thanks for stopping by.” 
     Sam walked with Nate to the front door and I went to grab my gray weathered sweatshirt and some trail mix out of the larder.  I heard the kitchen door open and braced myself, for why-again, I wasn’t sure.  There was this weird unspoken alliance between Sam and myself.  An understanding, really to the foundation of our friendship, we could read one another and I yet I could not dismiss my history with Nate and the love we shared despite the scars on the relationship.  Musing over the circumstance, I chuckled to myself feeling almost smug; not arrogant but confident that fate would intervene; I merely needed to keep my hands painting and my focus clear.  The art show and my current findings about Nona’s paintings and my grandfather in a death camp spurred me on, my male relationships would have to saddle back.
     “Juliana, can I go with you to the cemetery?”  Sam asked.
     “I kinda want to go alone, Sam.”
     “I won’t bother you, I won’t peep a word even I’ll breath quiet. Don’t worry, I’m not going to ask you to talk about anything.”
     “Sure, okay then if you want.  I have to get some flowers on the way.”
     “Why don’t you cut the roses from the side of the house?  There are white ones and corral ones—beautiful.”
     “That’s a nice idea.  I’ll snip some—“
     “I have a green glass vase you can have.”
     “Thanks.”
     I cut a half a dozen roses and mixed in some lavender and two Easter Lilies that were boasting their full bloom.  The mingled scents stimulated warm memories of Nona—her house was always filled with fresh flowers, even during the winter.  In the car, Sam and I chitchatted about the weather and how gorgeous springtime is in Monterey with its’ rampant wild flowers sprawling the hills and valleys.  Blue and purple ice plants blanketed the banks of the bike path that meanders alongside the sea.  Wild lupines blotted the landscape and everywhere trees and shrubs were fattening themselves for summer.  Sam reminisced about Israel’s springtime.  He spoke of the “sea” and the salty residue it leaves on your skin.  He said he missed the warmth of the Mediterranean waters as the Monterey Ocean remains a chilly sixty-two even in the heat of the summer.  Surfers donned wetsuits year round.  It was the color of the Central Coast that is reminiscent of the azure color of the sea in Israel and for that-- Sam explained.  We pulled into the cemetery and walked to Nona’s grave.  I leaned the flowers along the right side of the tombstone and sat down to have a silent chat.  
     I asked Nona to intercede on behalf of my and my sister’s bottleneck; while silently I mulled over and over why Jillian insisted on keeping our lives segregated and how did I contribute? Did she assume superiority?  Was her newfound religion to blame?  We never got along like a house on fire, but there was at least a small flicker that kept us loosely connected and was better than this utter extinguished feeling of emptiness.  My mother and Nona had been opposites like Jillian and I but they respected each other and rarely quarreled.  Clarity around this whole thing eluded me—I knew Nona would understand.
     Moving down the list, I also asked Nona what her opinion was about Nate.  I wasn’t waiting for her ghost to wiggle up through the earth and tap me on the shoulder I just needed to sift through my thoughts, which was something I always did with Nona.   She always had a wise answer for me to marinate on and ninety percent of the time Nona’s advice proved to be dead center correct.  “Oh one more thing, no two-- keep an eye on Aggie she’s pregnant and another on little Lou—keep her safe,” I said aloud.
    Sam was strolling through graves stooping randomly to read who was buried there.  I told Nona thanks for listening and hoped she liked her flowers, especially the Easter lilies then went to join Sam.
     “Look at this one.  Poor woman, godt—she died at thirty-four, my age!  So sad.  When my mother goes, Juliana, I don’t think I could see her in the ground, you know?”  Sam said, shaking his head back and forth.  His olive skin, slightly darker than my own, glistened when the sun touched it.  He hadn’t slicked his hair back and a few curls hung loose over the crest of his cheek-bones the blackness shimmered with a rich hue.  I put my hands on his shoulders.
     “I think the reason I feel connected to Nona here is because she loved this cemetery.  We used to do just what you’re doing.  Visit graves of people we never knew and imagine what their life was like.  She would create little scenarios.”  I said rubbing Sam’s back.  “I know it must be difficult for you.”
     “What, my mother or Nate?”  Sam turned and looked at me.  There was a seriousness I had not seen before.
      “I guess both.”
       “It’s okay, we married for business right?”
     “Sam, I love you to pieces-- but we’re friends.”
     “Why did you sleep with me Juliana if you were seeing Nate again?”
     “I wasn’t seeing Nate that night.  And, if you recall, it just sort of happened between you and I.”
      “What did you expect, all the time I see you tiptoeing in your bra and panties—driving me coo-coo,” Sam said smiling.  He gave me a hug.  “I think I fell in love with your butt.”
     “It’s big enough to fall in love with.  Sam, you know—I have no idea what’s gonna happen with Nate and I.  Yea, of course I wasn’t over him as much as I thought I was and when he started calling me.”
     “But what about how he left?  I don’t trust him Juliana—I think he is goodt guy—but not one to trust.  If he breaks your heart again, I break his face in two.”
    “Don’t be ridiculous--you’re not a fighter.”
     “I know it sounded tough though, huh?’  Sam and I laughed.  “I just want you to be happy—you deserve that.  Okay you ready?”
     “Yup, let’s go.”  We walked linked by elbows pondering our own thoughts, the brief but poignant conversation-- when my cell phone joggled inside my purse, startling the silence.  It was Louisa.
     “Mom, I’m with Agnes” Louisa’ high-pitched tone a harbinger of crisis caught me off guard.
     “What’s wrong?”  I asked afraid of the answer.  
    “She’s bleeding.”
     “Oh shit!  Did you call the hospital or her doctor?’
      “No she wouldn’t let me she wanted me to call you first.”
     “Okay sweetie Sam and I will be right there.”
     “Where are you?”
      “At the cemetery. Tell her to put her legs up against the wall and relax.”
     “She already is, hurry mom.”  Lou said and I could hear the strain in her voice.
     “What tis going on”  Sam asked concerned.
     “Agnes.  She’s bleeding.  Come on!”  I jumped into the car and turned the key.
     “She had an accident?” Sam asked buckling his seat beat.
    “No Sam—she’s pregnant.”
                                      CHAPTER THIRTEEN
     “From the beginning, if we are swathed in love our souls will soar.”
Alessandra Bongioni
     Nona always said “amore” is like a bubble that it protects us as long as we treat it like a thick pane of glass that is only destroyed if left unprotected.  She said that if we meet a person whose “amore” has been broken, we could be the one to bind it back like glue.  Agnes and I are just that—glue for one another when something monolithic happened we keep each other from shattering into broken shards.
      I knew I would have to intercept Hank, Agnes’s husband.  More than likely he was off in Beijing mollycoddling multimillionaires who needed pampering like melting snow needs the sun.  Hank was a nonpartisan type of husband.  He refused to take sides with his wife’s emotions.  Monetarily, Hank was a player passionate about the game but when it came to feelings and marriage his monotonous expression rivaled his interest in which teams would win the world cup or World Series—it didn’t matter.  He never followed any team for more than a winning season.  Hank’s allegiance was to the stock market. It was his first and true love.  “It wasn’t that way in the beginning,” Agnes would chant.  She clung to that memory convinced if they had children, Hank would change.  I felt different.  To me, Hank was like the metal rail in a bus people absentmindedly reached for when standing around corners.  He was merely there.
     Sam and I pulled up into Agnes’s driveway.  I asked him to wait in the car, to let me assess the situation first then he could come in.  Otherwise, Lou could bring him home.
     “Sure, sure, go, go.”  He shoed me off.
     Cautiously I turned the front door handle, it was slightly ajar. Tiptoeing over the thick threshold onto the Italian tiled floors of the foyer, I gingerly shut the door behind me, not wanting to startle Agnes if she had dozed off.  Clutching the ornate railing, I ascended the ominous marble stairs with walls bedazzled by gold-framed renaissance angels, painted in lavish oils with wispy white wings and chubby bodies bobbling between heaven and hell.  Agnes’s house was eerie at times in its echoed vastness.  Looming hallways the size of football fields vacant of life reminded me this was Hank’s house a museum, to be observed not lived in.  He had had it built it from the ground up--hired famous San Francisco designers Tim Swathmore and Devon Petrie no expense was too great.  Agnes was excluded from any major décor decisions.  She resigned herself, claiming that once they had their family the “dungeon” as she referred to the house, would simmer with warmth.
     Entering the bedroom, I saw that Agnes had indeed propped her legs against the textured wall, her feet in the middle of the mammoth silver mirror an overseer of those lying in the bed below.  Lou caught sight of me and threw her index finger over her lips waving me to the window.
     “Did the bleeding stop?”  I whispered still appalled that her doctor had yet been notified.
      “Yes.  She fell asleep.  Poor Aggie, She couldn’t get hold of Hank. He’s in Beijing!  The doctor told her not to panic, gave the same advice you did and to call if the bleeding starts up again.”  Lou spoke in a hushed voice.
     “Well thank god you at least called her doctor.  Was there a lot of blood?”
     “It seemed like a lot to me…but what do I know?”  Lou’s voice barely audible.
     “You two can stop whispering, I’m awake.”  Agnes said in a thin voice that sounded more like a child’s.
     “Hey Ag.  So it sounds like things are under control sort of.”
      “I don’t know Jules—I’m really terrified I’m gonna lose this kid.  My luck the placenta embedded over my cervix.”  Agnes said with an unfamiliar docility.  She began to cry.  Tearing up wasn’t something Agnes did easily or often.  She usually encapsulated her emotions and left them stacked in a ‘do not open’ box.  That was an enormous difference between Agnes and I.  My emotional lids were usually ajar and the contents scattered about.
      “Ag, stop being a nurse.  Think positive.”  I held my own tears and reservations in check to avoid alarming her further.
     “I have to pee,” Agnes said dropping her legs over to the right like a broken hand on an old clock.
     “Come on I’ll help you up.  Take it slow.”  Agnes held my shoulders and gradually sat up, legs dangling off the edge of the bed.  Inching her feet to the floor she took a few steps and stopped as she said she was feeling dizzy again.  I told her to “breathe, to slow down.”  So far there was no sudden gushing of blood she marshaled strength and started shuffling again.  She reiterated to me that she had not been unable to contact Hank: a fresh flux of tears dribbled down her cheeks.  I reassured her that I’d get in touch with him as soon as she finished urinating and was safely back in bed.  Agnes continued her dainty hobble to the toilet holding her lower belly as if it were a fragile piece of pottery..  She steadied herself over the porcelain toilet and settled into the seat.  What happened next was a blur.  
     Standing at the bathroom door to give Ag some privacy, my mind drifted over the warm gray tile astounded how heat from the expensive tiles could penetrate through the floor.  Suddenly, Agnes fainted; she went sailing straight for the edge of the Italian iron bear-claw tub.  I lurched on instinct and caught her seconds before she smacked her head, heaving my body forward Agnes’s breast joggling as if they were bracing for impact.
     “Lou!  Call 911 NOW,” I screamed.
Louisa ran up the stairs, cell phone in hand firing off details to the emergency operator.
     “Correct.  487 Windmill circle.  Yes, she’s four months pregnant.  No.  Yes.  Yes.  Yes.  Okay thank-you.”
     I sat Agnes back on the floor, she was semi-conscious, flopping her head between her knees she aroused, groping the air.  Lou was at my side as I orchestrated Agnes back to bed directing with nods.  We lowered her slowly back to bed.
      “What happened?”  Agnes asked.
     “You passed out Ag.  Sweetie, we called the ambulance, I think…”
     “NO!  My doctor promised.  She makes house calls.  Her number is over there by the phone on the night stand.”  Agnes said as if she were a general leading a brigade into battle.
     “Agnes!  Don’t be ridiculous.  Your doctor is going to need an ultrasound to figure out what is going on.  You’re four and half months pregnant and bleeding-- that’s not really normal Ag.” I had completely forgotten Sam was still in the car, when I heard the front door open and he yelled up that the ambulance was arriving. Only then did I hear the piercing shrill of the sirens.  Agnes began to cry.
     “Jules let me call my doc first, please.”  Agnes said in between sobs.
      “That’s fine but I’ll dial don’t move.”  I punched in the numbers and handed over the receiver.
     “Damn it answer the phone.  Great.”
     “What?”  I could hear the sound of an answering machine
     “They’re at lunch.”
     “Hello.”  A male voice called from downstairs.  It was one of the EMT’S.
     “Lou go show them up honey, will ya.”  
     “Sure mom.”  I could hear Lou directing the crew as she descended the curvy stairwell, her voice echoing off the marble, mingling with the squeak of black rubber striding up the steps.  The gurney belts clanging into the metal sides.
     Stroking Agnes’s hair, I told her that more than likely she wouldn’t have to spend the night.  I didn’t believe that-- but thought it may comfort her for the moment. 
     “You want to be sure the baby is okay Ag.”
     “I’m petrified to be a patient Jules.”  It was difficult for Agnes to admit that.  In that instant she looked like a ten-year-old child waiting for her punishment.
     “I’ll stay with you until we find out what is going on.”  At that the EMT team lurched through the door.  Sam pulled up the rear.
     “Hi Sams,” said Agnes looking as faded as a  photograph left in the sun for years.  Sam blew her a kiss.  Two of the women EMT’s scribbled a history on their clip boards as the other two, men, wrapped a blood pressure cuff around Agnes and assembled a portable oxygen set.  I reassured Agnes, Sam and I would follow behind.  They carried Agnes down and set her in the back, I could hear her breathing—fast laborious, struggle for control.  As the ambulance whirled down the driveway, I gathered my phone noticing I had three missed calls:  two from my mother, one from Nate.
     “Lou you’ve done enough honey. I know you have classes today, go.”
     “You sure mom?”
      “Yea, I’ll call you later when we know what’s up.  I’m sure Ag will have to spend the night for observation.  Thanks honey for your help.”
     “No problem. I do have finals coming up. I shouldn’t really miss any more classes.  Okay, I’ll talk to you later then, love you.  See ya Sam.”  As Lou drove away I swelled with pride.  My daughter never kowtowed to adversity never backpedaled from difficulties. She’d greet the situation with a handshake, pull up a seat, and figure out what needed to be done.  I thought how mothers if their lucky, can learn from their children’s strengths and wondered if I had given my mother any lessons any strengths of my own?
     “Sam do you mind driving? I want to call my mom. She phoned twice, which usually means something’s amiss.” 
     “Sure, sure, sure.  Let’s go.”  We got in the car and zoomed to the hospital.
                            CHAPTER FOURTEEN
“The garden kept me warm.  The baby wasn’t cold; to her, outside was home.
It was a cold summer, too cold to plant
corn or melons.  The Northern Lights roared 
and each star was separate and alone.
I waited for each night to pass.”  --Devan Cook

     “Why didn’t you tell me mom?”  I implored.  Tears flowing.  
    “How many months was she?”
     “Almost six weeks.  She’s devastated, just devastated.  I couldn’t tell you Juliana, Jillian forbade me.  She wanted to wait until she started showing.  What was I to do? It was their second attempt, you know?”  My mother’s nasally voice indicated she’d been crying.  She blew her nose (I envisioned) on one of her Italian handkerchiefs hemmed with little lace pink flowers.  Jillian had lost her baby through the night.  I had not known it was her second in vitro attempt.  That was the reason she had refused wine and been grumpier than usual during Nona’s honorable dinner.  I felt a layer of guilt wash over me.  In my wildest nightmare, I couldn’t comprehend the feeling of losing a pregnancy.   As ridiculous as it sounds to some, I still didn’t rule out having more kids even though Louisa is now technically an adult.  Twice with Nate when my period was weeks late (I acted as if I was horrified) I was crushed when it returned.  Even though my circumstances were far from ideal, I loved being pregnant with Lou.  Smelling your baby for the first time is something every woman with a child presses deeply into her memory-- honoring that moment with a spiritual reverence.  My sister would never know this.  Not only had she lost the baby, they discovered a tumor in her uterus and it would have to be removed her entire reproductive system had to be evicted.
     “Can I call her mom?”
     “Why don’t you pop over instead?  Surprise her.  Bring her something to eat.  She’s not eating—that’s not good.  I’m worried.”  My mother assumed if a person wasn’t eating death was emanate.  As kids, she insisted on feeding people even after they said they weren’t hunger.  It didn’t matter. “Eat something or she’ll think you’re dying.”  I would whisper to my friends.
     “Okay Mom, sure I can do that.”
     “How is Agnes?”
     “She has placenta previa.  She’ll be bed-bound for the rest of the pregnancy, other than that—she’s fine.”  I said trying to sound casual.  I had been unable to get in touch with my mother the night Agnes was diagnosed.  The coincidence of Agnes pregnancy being in jeopardy and Jillian losing hers was unnerving.
     “She hired Lou to help her, since her darling husband is still in Beijing.”  
     “What!  He stayed knowing his wife and baby need him?  Stupido…what an ass.”  My mother rarely cursed, unlike myself and when she did she’d lower her voice shrouding the offensive word.
     “You don’t think I should warn Jillian I’m coming?”  I asked feeling concerned about a surprise visit.
     “Juliana, just go.”
     I hung up the phone and walked to the car after finishing a six hour shift at the hospital, a breeze after working twelve’s; Dolores a hilarious serial dating nurse from the Philippines had asked me to cover half of her shift.  We did this often for one another. Currently she was seeing a man sixteen years younger after leaving her husband of ten years.  She had an infectious laugh and when we worked together no matter how disastrous the day, we kept our senses of humor. 
     It was yet another gorgeous Central Coast day, mild, seventy-five-ish, faint layer of moisture lingered in the air.  The bucolic road leading to Jillian’s house was hemmed in by rolling hills.  I had called Nate to let him know my change of plans.  We were supposed to meet for an afternoon bike ride.  It had been four days since I saw him and I missed him.   Agnes and baby were resting safely in bed for the next five months.  Lou and I were taking turns spending the night at her house.  Her physician released her from the hospital under the condition she would stay put.  Hank would not be back from China for another three weeks.  Sam volunteered to help and was designated to the kitchen.  There he could roam freely creating concoctions we would all later devour.  He was an extraordinary cook when he wanted to be.  He made enough food to feed the state of California—we packed Agnes freezer—she was set for a while.
     Driving to my sister’s house, I became aware of a gnawing sensation in my belly.  I tried shifting my thoughts to a painting of Nona I had recently started.  It was a rendition of a photograph of her as a young woman cradling my mother, her long hair draping her shoulders lapping at her wrists, her hands strong and expressive.  My mother is holding a bouquet of roses with a ribbon knotting them together.  I tried to re-invent the painting in my mind—tried to make mental notes of what I needed to do next.  But nothing seemed to lure my thoughts and I was startled by the intensity of my dread, after all this was my sister I was going to visit. 
     I pulled into the pebbled driveway listening to the crunching sound of stones.  Joe and Jillian were re-modeling, putting in a brick driveway, sprucing up the exterior of the house with a fresh color scheme—gray and red and adding skylights throughout.  Their modest two-story had three bedrooms, a large great room with a rustic fireplace made from Carmel stone, an old fashion mudroom in the rear, and two and half bathrooms.  Jillian was a deft gardener.  A plethora of flowers—white and yellow daisies simmered in a cornucopia of herbs.  Succulent ground coverings and red rose bushes encased with geraniums and lilies stood statuesque a banquet of aromas.  I parked the car and grabbed the brown bag of food I’d bought from Gianna’s Deli.  A hodgepodge of snacks: salami, cheese, fruit, and bread.  I rang the doorbell and bite my lower lip as my stomach dived back and forth.
      “Just a minute.”  I heard Jillian call through the door while unlatching the lock.
     “Hi.  Hungry?”  I presented the brown bag as the door swung open.
     “What are you doing here?”  Jillian asked looking genuinely surprised.  Her long fingers flattening out her short stylish hair. She had on yoga pants and a crème color T-shirt that said “Armani” across the chest.
     “I was in the area and…”
     “You talked to mom.”
     “Guilty.  Can I come in?” I pasted a pathetic smile across my face.
     “Sure.  I’m not really hungry but I appreciate the thought.”  Jillian turned the edges of her lips into a hint of a smile.
     “That’s okay.  You and Joe can save it for when you are.”
     I walked through the small foyer down the hallway and into the kitchen, which Jillian had re-done from top to bottom in chrome.  It was immaculate as if it were merely on display for a staged home sale.  A rack of cooking pans dangled from the ceiling over a chrome island.  The entire room radiated with a sterile sheen of Martha Steward cleanliness .  The midday sun shot a ray through the large bay window where basal and oregano plants sat in their terra cotta pots; I was truly impressed with all of the subtle touches.  Jillian was a fantastic decorator indeed.
     “Wanna sit outside, it’s gorgeous?”  I asked.  “I should put the meat and cheese in the frig.”
     “Sure.”  Jillian’s voice sounded bland, despondent.  Her shoulders slumped and she appeared shorter than normal.  I felt a deep sorrow for her.
     “I’ve started a new painting of Nona.  I’ll need your opinion.  Trying to get ready for the show.”  Treading topics not knowing if Jillian wanted to talk about things or not.  Or at least not with me.
     “Hmmm.  Okay.”  She opened the French doors that led to the back patio, which was equally abundant with shrubs and floral plantings.  We sat at the black iron table topped with an Italian vase. It was a pastoral peachstuffed with an arrangement that looked professionally done.  I wondered if it was a get-well gift from co-workers.
     “Beautiful arrangement Jills.”
     “Thanks.  The docs I work with sent it.”  She stared blankly.  Her face wilted as she sighed, heaving the Armani logo up and down.
     “Jillian--I am so sorry.  I know this must be really tough for you and Joe.”
     “I heard Agnes is pregnant,” she sniffled.
     “Ummm, yes.  She has placenta previa though and has to lie in bed for the rest of her term…”
     “Well she bloody well better stay put and not fuck it up.  Hank didn’t want kids, why did she get pregnant?”
     “Ag always wanted kids.  She hired Lou to help her out…”
     “Louisa shouldn’t be straddled with that!”
     “Look Jills it’s a job and she offered.  It’s only temporary.”
     “I suppose I should go see her.”  Jillian dabbed her eyes with a wad of damp tissues.
     “When you can.  Take it easy Jillian, you need time to heal.”
     “What do you know what I need?  I have all I need.  It’s what I want I can’t have. I don’t need a baby, I want a baby.  There’s a significant difference Juliana.  You didn’t want a baby you just happened to have one and I…”  Jillian shuddered, collapsing her chin to her chest dissolving into sobs over the table.  I got up and wrapped my arms around her as she abated any semblance of control.  It was the first time (as an adult) I witnessed my sister crying as in sobbing.  A part of me felt awkward.   A part of me felt utter empathy.  She cried unabashed.  I stood behind her gently rubbing the sides of her arms and telling her it was okay, to let it out—release the pain.
     “I’m sorry Jules.  I just can’t believe I will never ever be a mother.”  Jillian said looking up, black mascara smudged under her eyes.
     “There’s always adoption Jills.  You’d make a wonderful mother.”  In the past Jillian had adamantly opposed this idea.
     “I know.”  She whispered.  “I feel like a failure, less of a woman.  Joe has been amazing.  He keeps saying he only wanted kids because I did.  I don’t believe him.” 
     “You know Jillie after you have the operation you’ll feel much better.  Than you can think about a baby.  Remember Anna and Zach?  They had such a sweet family, three kids all adopted.  Each kid turned out incredible.  Maybe God has a different plan for you.”   Jillian had always thought that because I didn’t subscribe to one particular religion, I was ineligible to discuss spiritual matters but under the circumstances, I felt entitled.
     “My pastor said the same thing; he said there are plenty of babies that need parents.”
     “Exactly, God has someone special picked out.  When is the surgery?”
     “Next Tuesday.  Jules do you think you could be my nurse?’  I was flattered and flabbergasted.  
     “Of course.  Are you sure?”
     “Yes, very sure.   I know I have been intolerable lately and well—I’m sorry.  You are a good nurse, I’ve seen you with patients. I just…” She began to weep again.
     “Jillian, it’s okay.”  I grabbed her hand.  ?Maybe we can start over and be friends.”
     “I want you as my sister.”
     “I am.  I’m here.”      
     Jillian and I talked the afternoon away.  We spoke of past differences with a sense of newfound clarity there was a wobbly bridge knitting between us.  A bridge that was beckoning both of us to gather our courage and walk hand and hand to a foreign place—a place formed out of reconciliation and mutual respect.  Don’t get me wrong it wasn’t as if an amnesia spell descended on Jillian and I, dissolving our history.  Rather, it was like the scrim that shrouded our understanding, was slowing fading and we were seeing each other—for the first time-- as individuals.  
     It seemed that afternoon allowed us to shed ancient roles we both had subscribed to and to begin anew no more friction—start a different history together.  I told her about Nate and my fear of not making it as an artist.  She confided that she had in many ways envied my laissez-faire lifestyle and even though it wasn’t for her, she didn’t know how to blend her creative desires with her practical demands.  We agreed on a few things and continued to disagree on others.  At least now, the walls of resentment had begun to fall away piece by piece as a new foundation was slowly being paved.
     I left my sister’s house that afternoon filled with hope not only for the two of us, but for my life in general.  If healing could happen between Jillian and I; I was now resolved that I could paint like the unabashed lover my Nona had foreseen in me.
                                          CHAPTER FIFTEEN
          Months of foraging through surgery with Jillian and bed confinement with Agnes had brought Nate and Sam, ironically close.  Nate surprised me with his commitment to help me with my sister.  The day of her surgery, he drove me to the hospital insisting that I call him immediately after Jillian’s surgery was complete.  Fortunately, everything went smoothly and they were able to take out everything through the vagina.  Jillian was as weak as newborn calf wobbling to its feet.  Joe and I were at her side as she was wheeled into the O.R.  Her doctors, who all knew me from the hospital, offered to allow me in on the surgery—I declined.  There was no way I could objectively look at the bloody insides of my own sister and remain nonchalant.   
     All of us took shifts keeping Agnes chained to the bed while her baby nestled in her womb.  Louisa, Nate, Sam, and I, a curious foursome that had somehow managed to put aside conflicts of interest while tending to the infirmed.  When my mother wasn’t with Jillian she helped out as well.  Agnes begged “Isabella take me outside, please!” but my mother stood by the mandates of the physician, which were as specific and uncompromising as a militant dictator.   Even my father stopped by now and again, I think he was anxious for the pitter patter of a little one and wanted to ensure Agnes followed the rules.  So far, Louisa had been his only grandchild and she was well past the pitter-patter stage.  
     Hank, who under normal circumstances was absent, made it a point to escape on every business trip he could finagle whether it was necessary or not.  Agnes oozing with pregnancy hormones cried and begged to no avail. It was heart wrenching to listen to, her long throaty sobs.  Looking back, Hank was slowly leaving the message that he wanted as much to do with fatherhood as he did with being a husband.
       I had clocked in the least amount of Agnes hours, as the deadline for the art show was fast approaching and I wanted it to be a success.  I wanted this show to be the ultimate venue that would catapult me out of nursing and into being a paid artist.  I was pulverizing myself with mounting pressure, as if I would never be able to paint again if I failed.  I had finished several pieces all with Italian centered themes, paintings of women who either played a significant role in society or who had been trampled by it.  I had been drawn to painting women who were understated, the unsung heroes some who eventually made the history books others who remained undocumented but none the less influential in their own circles of life.  Women who through childbirth were either destroyed or thwarted or judged by a society who had not a glimpse into their suffering..  Women I knew, women I read about, women who impacted the way I felt in my own female skin.  All of them were linked with an Italian background or artifact—as the show was billed as Italian art by an Italian artist.
      I named the collection; Silent Warriors.  The  Silent Warriors began as a small ripple and soon emerged as a wave of women—it took on a pulse as if the women themselves were cheering me on, stepping out of their graves, rising their spirits in a collective rally as they sang their untold stories.  I walked the gravesite of my Nona and found names and recreated their lives on my canvas.  It was exhilarating and scary but I could feel Nona’s presence in the room beside me in the colors I choose.  The more I painted the more I transcended into a place of solidarity with the women, a calm resolve, a quiet unwavering confidence grew not only towards my work—but within my own inner sense of myself.
     Nate noticed my transformation—even though it was subtle.  He commented that it scared him not in a way of threatening our relationship but rather as a mirror to his own need for growth.  It is difficult to stay grounded in a relationship when one person is changing and the other is stuck.  It is like being on an island together and both wanting to leave—you have to risk the swim or be content with eating coconuts for the rest of your life.
      “I am so proud of you baby.” Nate would say.
     “Thanks—me too”  
     “You’re not going to leave me once you’re a big time artist are you?”
     “Maybe.”
      “You can be my sugar mama”
      “Never.”
     “I’m just kidding.”
      “No you’re not.”
     “I am.  I need to get back to my writing—you are inspiring me.  I got lazy.”
     “We all do sometimes and sometimes I think we just need a rest.  When we get fed up enough—bam—we’re back.”
      “Yeah.”
     “Let’s have sex.”
     “Right now?”
     “Yes, right now—I have a few minutes to spare.”
     We made love several times catching up from all the apartness—caring for my sister, Agnes, Lou.  And although Sam and I had settled into an understanding there was still a part of me that felt a twinge of guilt when I was with Nate.  I cared deeply for Sam but knew I had to make a choice.  The reality is, whether we admit it or not, human beings can be attracted to more than one person at the same time for varying reasons—but it is the decision—the commitment that we cling to that keeps our loyalties in check.  I certainly wouldn’t want Nate sleeping with another woman while we are together.  And it would not be fair to Sam if I dabbled on both sides of the fence.
     Our sex life seemed to solidify our relationship not merely in the physical release but in the quenching of that desire to be part of another person to be raw and alive and in that moment, like a bubble inside of water—together but uniquely yourself.  Nate was a passionate but gentle lover.  Taking his time to caress and titillate my arousal, never insisting—he was intuitive slowly coaxing my body.  He could read me like Braille.  I loved the way he moaned and the way he smelled—the strong scent of his perspiration never revolted me but rather did just the opposite--I would sometimes merely crave the smell of his skin or the deep baritone of his voice.  His hands were wide and muscular yet smooth and articulate.  I had strict requirements when it came to a man’s hands.  A guy could be outrageously gorgeous, well endowed—but if his hands were small—it was an instant turn off.   Not sure where that came from—and not terribly interested in finding out.  I supposed it was merely a primal attractions; like preferring dark hair over blonds. Hand size was simply a preference. 
     That afternoon would be the last sex session until after my show.  I was determined to complete sixteen paintings and I had exactly ten days and two oils to finish.    The final paintings were interpretations of Sicilian women dancing; Dolce Stil Novo a style of poetry made popular in the 13^th century that inspired me to paint my “Creatures from Paradise” a rendition of three nude women by the Sicilian sea coast all wearing only the traditional headdress of a bride.   My “Tarantella” piece depicted the Calabrese style of the Sicilian folk dance with three mandolin players faintly etched in the background and the women circling one another.  In that particular painting there is a sense of fluid movement that comes from the swing and twirl of each woman’s skirt as it billows then falls again.  I tried to create a celebratory sense of freedom to the Tarantella painting--it is my favorite piece besides the one of Nona.  
     As my sister’s strength returned, she became obsessed with Agnes’s growing belly and insidiously turned into her personal attendant.  She had crossed the childless desert metaphorically speaking and was no longer a barren victim.  Jillian had decided to start doula classes buying “Childbirth and the Newborn” and “The Doula Book” essential reading for completing the certification.  Jillian declared that after Agnes had her baby and was back on her feet, she and Joe were going to adopt. And it didn’t matter from where--a vexing switch for my sister who professed fetish like patriotism.  I was proud of her—as she was slowly pulling herself out of the cement block she had cast her ideas in.  And for Agnes, because Hank was more of a visitor than a resident in their house—Jillian’s company was an emotional and physical relief.  The two women needed one another.
     Sam and my mother were to help me arrange my work the day of the Art show.  Louisa, mom and I all went shopping for chic outfits to wear—it was a criterion..  My mother insisted on paying for which I tried, to no avail, to fight for it would limit my choices—if mom was paying mom had to approve.  As it turned out, we agreed for once on European style blouses with cuffed sleeves and a pair of Banana Republic pants for both Lou and I.  We further accessorized with choker style necklaces, bangle bracelets, and big hoopish earrings.  My mother did a conservative style of the same and instead of a necklace bought a gorgeous oversized hat that looked adorable on her.
     Nate had created a website for me—just a simple one click deal to peruse my art and increase my general visibility.  He thought it appropriate for the show since people would expect a serious artist, such as me, to have a website.  I agreed and was grateful for his time and effort since I was frantically balancing nursing at the hospital, finishing last minute touchups, and working out the details of the exhibit (such as designing the layout, how to transport my work, etc.).   Sam had been equally as helpful cooking meals, keeping the house clean and taking turns checking on Ag.  He also helped me out with Lou as she was the type of young person who needed to bounce her thoughts off of adults (that was usually me)—but for the time being, I was too consumed to ricochet any wisdom.  Sam and I laughed at our relationship—he was the wife and I the husband.  I think everyone should have a wife—they are extremely handy especially if they have antiquated attitudes like Sam did.  His idea of a wife was a woman like his mother—she cooked and cleaned and raised her family.  He adapted well—almost grateful for the opportunity to help—that was the way it was, in Israel he would say.  Family is everything.
     Finally the evening of the show arrived, July 7^th.  The Carmel fog had stayed at bay and it was a perfect 83 degrees with the promise of a full moon.  The show began at 5pm and technically ended at 7pm in order for normal dinners to be served.  Paolo was flitting about like a nervous bride.  He had accented the restaurant with ten dozen melodious smelling roses—their opulent red hue fit perfect with my Warrior theme.   A freeway of tangled emotions ranging from terrified to elated, coursed through my body.  My mother, Lou, and I had arranged my paintings after Sam and Nate (he surprised us as I thought he had to work) transported them to Tutu’s.  Paolo provided mouth-watering champagne, stuffed Italian olives, roasted garlic, a menagerie of cheeses, breadsticks, and a feast like antipasto platter.  Flanked by my mother and Louisa, I felt a surge of confidence roll over me as the invitation only guests began pouring through the door.  They were ogling over my work—my art, I couldn’t suppress my smile and it was difficult to stop a backlog of tears from flooding down my face.  Nona’s presence was palpable—her magic blessings veiled the evening.
     As people mulled about perusing my artwork, comments drifted through the air—I felt like a voyeur looking through my own window.  I was floored by the level of success the show was promising.  Even my sister Jillian, who had stopped by briefly, told me how proud she was that I was on my way to artistic success.  It was the first time my sister validated my paintings—a new era was erupting; I felt like breaking out in song or cart-wheeling on the patio.   
     I noticed Sam conversing with a very handsome very tall very olive skinned man who looked about my age.  I didn’t recognize him but assumed he was a friend of Sam’s from the posturing between them.  Sam was flailing his arms his face exaggerated with wide smiles. He came a hair away from whacking a poor woman on the back of her head as she walked towards my Tarantella piece.  Nate was talking to Lou, which comforted me.  I yearned for them to grow closer for all of our sakes.  There seemed to be an invisible barricade blocking them from trusting each other.  I was sure it was a remnant of suspicion on Lou’s part since Nate still had a shadow of the past marring his record. 
     Paolo was thrilled that several of the pieces had already been purchased within the first hour.  Sam’s voice grew louder as he began calling my name and waving me towards him like an air traffic controller guiding an incoming pilot.  I was in the middle of a conversation with an elderly gentleman from Philadelphia, an African American professor who had taught history at Penn State.  He had been friends’ with Paolo since vacationing in Carmel for many years.  I politely excused myself to find out what Sam so urgently needed.
     “Juliana, you must meet Dante, he is from Manarola, like your Nona was.”  Sam said with a smile as wide as the Mississippi river.
     “Hi, nice to meet you.”  I extended my hand.
      “Buena sera senora.  Parla Italiano?”  Asked Dante as he shook my hand.
     “Parlo un po.” I said embarrassed by my limited Italian.
      “Si, but your accent is good.”  Dante’s face felt familiar and I had no ideas why for I had not met him before.  “Your art Juliana-- is bella, quite exquisite.”  
     “Thank you.  Thank you very much.  You know it is strange--I can understand Italian more than I can speak it.  My grandmother was from Italia and she often spoke in her native language. So you’re from Manarola as well, how wonderful.”
     “Yes, I was born there but I live now in Verona.  My grandfather still lives in Manarola.  He was an artist, like yourself-- many years ago.”
     “He no longer paints?”  I asked, feeling a sense of sadness over an artist I had never met that had abandoned his passion.
     “You two talk, I need some foodt.”  Sam said tapping me on the shoulder.  He spun on his heels towards the food table where my mother had enraptured two distinguished looking men in conversation.
     “No, he no longer paints. Actually, he stopped long ago—after the war.  You see--he survived a camp and that experience took much away from him. Before the war, he was married and his young wife and he were known as the artiste par la spagia’ the darling artists.  She was beautiful and exotic with autumn red hair, a rarity in his village.  He has paintings they worked on together---he speaks of her often, especially now that my grandmother has passed away—she used to be jealous of these memories.”
     “Wow, this is uncanny—my grandmother had a husband before the war—a man obviously I never met.  They painted together as well and when she passed away, not long ago, I promised to visit her village.  She had to sell most of her art during the war to bargain her way and my mother’s way out of Italy.  That is when she came to America. ”  I felt a sudden presence of buried truth.  “She too had vibrant red hair—a rare color for her people.”
     “Did she ever try to find Lucca Bongioni again?”
     “Yes—well no--the records or a letter of some sort indicated he died in a concentration camp.  How did you know his name?”  I felt a surge of entangled fear and excitement.
     “Because--he is my grandfather Juliana.  Your grandmother was Alessandra; the mythical woman my grandfather has been seeking.  You see, after the war it was difficult to track down records.  After ten years—he gave up and married my grandmother.  When she passed several years ago, my grandfather’s yearning to find Alessandra and Isabella grew stronger. We are blood Juliana—I have been searching for you, for Alessandra and Isabella for many years now.”  Dante’s voice had faded to a whisper as he pulled me towards him.  We stayed in an embrace for what seemed a life-time.  How could this be?  
     “My grandfather will be sad to realize his beloved Alessandra has passed but happy to see his long lost daughter and the granddaughter he has yet to meet. Please—introduce me to your mother.”
     “My god.  How did you find me?”  I was flabbergasted.  This felt like something right out of a historical novel where the past is revealed from a series of coincidences.
     “Your art—your web page confirmed my hopes.  I have been researching for years but every trail led to disappointment.  So many names were Anglicized, papers destroyed.  My grandfather has had a hole in his heart for many years—but out of respect for his second wife, whom he loved as well, he stopped pursuing his past.”
     “My god, I just can’t fathom this—it is surreal, I, I, I’m sorry.  I’m not sure how my mother is going to react to this.”  At that moment Nate came behind me and tugged my right elbow.  
     “Who’s the Italian trying to steal my girl?”  He whispered.
     “Nate—meet Dante.  He is from Manarola—we share a grandfather.”
     “What?”  Nate limped over the words looking as confused and surprised as I was. 
My mother and Sam were suddenly darting in our direction I worried for a moment how this new revelation would impact her.  All of her life she rested on the stories her mother told of her real father, tucked them neatly into a small stack of memorabilia but had long given up hope of ever finding him—we all believed he was dead.  
     “Juliana, Sam says I must meet this handsome Italian.”  My mother held out her hand.  “Ciao, mi chiamo Isabella.”
     “Piacere.  Mi chiamo Dante Bongioni  I am the grandson of Lucca Bongiovani.” Dante said while clasping my mother’s hands.
     “I’m sorry, I don’t understand—that was my father’s name—he died a long time ago in the war…very sad…”
     “No Isabella…he lives in Manarola and he wanted me to find you.
                                                      CHAPTER SIXTEEN
“Someone may have stolen your dream when it was young and fresh and you were innocent.  Anger is natural. Grief is appropriate.  Healing is mandatory.  Restoration is possible.”                                                                                       Jane Rubietta

     The dense fog plopped random droplets over the driveway the morning after my art show.  My mother, Louisa, Sam, Nate and I cradled our coffee mugs waiting for the caffeine to pry our eye lids fully open.   We were all exhausted from the late night conversations.  I had sold nine pieces and the Saturday reviews were reeling in each one a testimony to my work; the Carmel Pine Cone, the San Jose Mercury, and the San Francisco Chronicle (Paolo knew a friend who knew a friend who wrote art reviews for the paper) were inspiring.  My website, which I had a brief glance at, was populated with new inquiries and I had two phone messages requesting future shows.   But the real crux of our fatigue was the fact we had stayed up conversing with Dante, until the hints of dawn urged us to bed.
    My mother imploded like a boiled egg left on the burner too long when she learned her birth father was not only alive but that he had been searching for his first “familia.”   Lucca had not perished in a cold concentration camp incinerated or shot for tedious crime the gestapo made-up.  Rather, he had survived and carried with him a lifelong dream to find Alessandra and Isabella whom he had never forgotten.  The records had been wrong or doctored or merely described a different man.  It was difficult to fathom for all of her life my mother believed that she would meet her father in death and in spirit only.  She felt a profound sadness for Nona—who left this world not realizing her lost “darling artista” had survived. 
     When Nona had remarried, my mother never begrudged, Frank Penzonia, her step-father, she merely felt void of any feelings either way towards Frank.  Nona had married him when my mother was seven and they had two daughters, my aunts, back to back.  He died when mom was fourteen.  According to family rumor, he was aloof with the children, a loner, not particularly missed.  Nona rarely spoke of this second marriage, she spoke often of her first with a tenderness that chiseled those stories into young Isabella’s heart.  My mother carried these stories as if they were as tangible as a treasured book—complete with a leather binding.   She polished and reshaped these protected memories with the meticulousness of a sculptor.
     As the six of us sat semi-comatose waiting for the drizzle to clear the phone rang-- it was Dante.    
     “Can I take your family to eat—a how do you call it---breakfast and lunch?”
     “Brunch?
     “Ah si, Juliana—brunch.”
     “Oh Dante that is so kind but you don’t…”
      “No, I insist—where—you suggest.”
      “Ah, well, let me think ah--Bananas—it’s a good breakfast joint and can accommodate a large crowd.  It’s a mile down from the Cannery Row crowds—just off the bike path by Lover’s Point.”  I said trying to mentally scan for reasonably priced options.
     He eagerly agreed—bubbling that he already missed his new familia.  He had not yet spoken to his grandfather, my grandfather —but instead suggested we could do that in the afternoon before it became too late in Italy.  My mother was drafting a short introductory speech, she was afraid she would dissolve into whimpers  if she was not prepared.
     Bananas was a family favorite restaurant that overlooked the ocean—a place both Nate and Sam and I had been many times.  I called Jillian to invite her and Joe as well.  I told them about the mercurial twist of fate with Dante and Lucca and the success of the art show.  I told her of the impending reunion of Isabella and her father whose bones she thought had long ago been burned by the Nazis.  I also notified Agnes of this hidden treasure that had been at long last been unearthed. 
     “Oh my god, Jules, this is incredible!”  Agnes said sobbing into the phone.  “Tell her I send my love.  Jesus, I am so sick of this damn bed—I swear once I have this baby I am going to sleep standing.”
     “Four more weeks Ag you are in the home stretch now, you can do it.  I’ll tell mom you send kisses and I am sure she’ll be over to reiterate every detail—that will take up at least a week.”  I said, Agnes laughed.   “Hank is home this week right?”  I asked.
     “Yes, yes—umm--he’s trying to not travel as much.”
      “That’s great sweetie, but I have to go, I’ll call you later.”  I couldn’t stomach hearing that Hank was “trying” again.  Hank was and will forever be a rapacious ass that never had any intentions of being a father.  I feared for Agnes and secretly prayed that she would find a real partner, other than a marbleized imitation of a husband.
     “I’ll be with you in spirit Jules—I love you.”  Agnes sighed.  Since her pregnancy, Agnes had morphed into a melancholy confessor who blurted out tears of joy or despair at will.  She sprouted concern for all living things lamenting about global warming, which prior to pregnancy she had no tolerance for.     “Love you too—bye.”  
     Nate was on-call at the hospital and as we were hopping in the car--he was beckoned—an auto accident that was catastrophic—three assumed fatalities.
     “Jules, I’m sorry.  Damn it.  I’ll try and get someone to come in and cover for a bit after things simmer down.  If not, I’ll see you tonight.  I miss you.  I need a baby-love session, I am feeling a little deprived.”  Nate said kissing the back of my neck.
     “‘Baby-love session’ that’s a new one.  I know, it’s been a hectic two weeks.  Tomorrow, you and I will go for a drive—find a deserted spot and…”
     “Juliana—what are you doing—come, come, Dante is waiting for us!” Sam shouted up the steps.
     “Coming Sam.”  
     “Tomorrow.”  Nate kissed me good-bye and ran down the steps nearly knocking Sam over.  It was odd, I realized Nate had a difficult time comprehending the impact that Nona had just missed re-connecting with the love of her life.  But this was nothing new--Nate often seemed aloof when it came to my family affairs.  I don’t know if it was because he was raised in a disconnected family that rarely spoke to one another or because he was merely uninterested.  Either way, it seemed shadows of our past appeared an eerie hum of a familiar tune.  I buried the desire to be angry or worse-- disappointed.  After all, he was on-call and that was not his fault.
     Dante was already seated at a large round table when we arrived.  We exchanged hugs and kisses and scuttled into our seats eager to resume where we had left off.  There was years of catching up—literally hoards of time that now lay before us to discuss.  We were archeologists marveling over a recent find trying to put the pieces of time back together.
     “Have you spoken to your grandfather, er Lucca, I don’t know what to call my own father!”  My mother said as her eyes misted over.
     “No, I have not yet.  Isabella, don’t worry, you will know what to call him when you talk to him.”  Dante said patting my mother’s hand.  He was sweet and gorgeous and I thought how strange to be attracted to a man who shared the same grandfather as I.  Nonetheless, I knew it was merely an infatuation that would wane into an affectionate brotherly-ish feeling, or at least I hoped it would, and that it was just a matter of time.  But at this moment, it took me off guard—the green eyes blithely sitting beneath the thick black lashes, the bronzed skin, the wide malleable lips that parted into a sensual half smile.  The kindness he emanated from his voice, his English well lathered with a melodic Italian accent, made him more adorable.  I sensed his mutual admirations—but I knew we were both guarded well-seasoned lovers who knew the art of self-control.  
.  Dante’s presence was complex—compelling, for we shared a connected past.   There was an unspoken curiosity between us .  We were two people who had collided into one another inadvertently and there existed a vague familiarity.
       As the family clamored over one another we ordered food in between the constant flow of conversation.  Ahs and “I can’t believe its” flew around the table as the past continued like an epic novel unfolding before us.  My mother still had many unanswered questions about her father, about his confinement in a concentration camp, about the details of Nona’s escape.   
     “He never speaks with details his stories focus on life before the war—I think it is too painful.  I never push.”  Dante said.  “Perhaps, Isabella, he will share these things with you.  After all men always disclose their secrets to women they love.”
     Dante shared the story of how Lucca and Nona had met while going to art school in Florenzia.  That they had fallen in love and decided to drop out of school to marry as the political environment was unstable at the time.  There was a growing penchant for violence in the city streets and random raids where fathers or brothers were taken in the middle of the night had become frequent.   
     “It twas much safer in Cinque Terre.  In the villages people didn’t know—ah they were ah sheltered from the swelling hostilities of the Fascist regime.  And despite the mounting war, the young artists painted.  They returned to Manarola to settle nearby their families until the conflicts resolved and the city was safe again.  Their art soon became popular among the people of the Cinque Terre and La Spezia.   The young couple managed to eke out a meager living on their paintings.  They kept a small plot of land for food--a garden—they had olive trees and old vines for wine making.  In those days, villagers looked out for one another—not like today-eh?  Today too many tourist. ”  Dante said shaking his head.  
     “It was there, that Alessandra, your Nona, conceived you, Isabella.”  Dante continued.  
     “How do you know these things?”  My mother asked.
     “Poppi—er grandfather told me—he told me everything.  It twas as if I was writing his life.”  Dante said.
     We learned over hash browns and mushroom omelet’s that my mother was born at home on November 11^th 1939.  But when Mussolini took power, the situation became dangerous even in the outlying villages—those such as the Cinque Terre.  Lucca had refused to join the Fascist party.  Stories of the concentration camps began to swarm the village streets like an unforeseen infestation, some unknown plague.  In the meantime, my grandmother’s sister, Juliana, had already immigrated to America with a friend.   Juliana, Alessandra’s sister, my name sake, worked as a seamstress in San Francisco.  She married, Gessipi De Ritanoni, an Italian man from Milan who had also immigrated to San Francisco to escape the upheavals and the potential of either being shipped off to fight or to be sentenced to the death camps.  Because he had achieved brief notoriety in the fashion world he was able to slither through the watchful eye of the Italian militia feigning a meeting with New York designers.  
     Lucca, feared for his wife and child as the raids in La Spezia increased for he knew it was merely a matter of time before they invaded Manarola.  Catholic non-Fascist families were being deported to Dachau and other camps—so he made arrangements for Nona and my mother to sail out of La Spezia to New York with a man who they sold their most beloved paintings to.  The “salvatore misterioso” the mysterious savior, as Dante referred to him, spoke excellent English and made all of the arrangements, prepared the documents, etc.  The next day after they set sail, Lucca, in the middle of the night, was dragged from his bed and taken into custody.   As Dante spoke, I felt transported back in time as if all the events he described where happening right in front of me.  I visualized Nona’s face as she left clutching my mother—leaving her husband, her home, her art.
     “This is where the story wanes for I have been unable to obtain exact details from my Grandfather.  Perhaps Isabella—you can pry them out.”  Dante said.
     “Juliana, Isabella, you should go—go to Italia—Louisa you too.”  Sam blurted .  “Just go, go.”
     “Mom, Nana, we should—we should go to Manarola and surprise—I am not sure what to call Lucca either.”  Louisa said.  “Oh this is so exciting—I have a great-grandfather living in Italy!  I want to go home and pack.”
     “Call him Poppi Zio—that is what he is mostly called in his Village.”  Dante said as he laughed and patted Lou’s hand.  “Maybe you can go first Louisa?  I can arrange a job for you.”
     “Poppi Zio—that is adorable.” Lou cried.  “You could?  Oh my god, this is amazing—I am going to live in Italy and work and...”
     “Poppi  Zio?  It all is so strange—“  My mother said cutting off Louisa.  “We will have a lot of catching up to do.”  Her voice trailed off as if it was beckoned from a spirit asking her to follow.
       “Lou, I can’t go lickety-split —I’ve got work and more pieces to finish and you have to get a passport and...”  I said before being cut off by Sam.
     “Nate—you have to consider—as well as your husband.”  Sam said.  “Lou—you must go but your mother is right you need a passport…”
     “I have one.”  Lou said hinging on defiance. 
     “You do?”  I asked.   “When, when did you get a passport?  You never asked me for your birth certificate.”
      “A few months ago—I decided to get my passport so when I am ready to travel I would have it.”  Louisa said, adjusting her shoulders—smug in her secrecy.  
     “Wow—. And yes, I do have to keep Nate and my husband in mind.”  I said slightly irritated by Sam’s flippant tone of voice but slightly amused as well. Sam had a way of highlighting my desire for a man who cares but one that does not suffocate me with obsessive meddling.  I pondered for a brief moment how difficult that is to balance two vying desires; freedom and belonging.  I figured both freedom and belonging have to concede to each other at varying crossroads in people’s lives.  They are like love and hate, impossible to feel one without the other.
     “Look, this is all very fresh and obviously caught you off guard.  But really tis not complicated.  Juliana—I know international law.  It tis okay for you to travel—yes—you stay for a while, come back, Sam visits, whatever.  INS will not care—soon you will have your meeting and bam you are free to wait it out and—look—I know about this.  I to married for reasons other than love...”
     “I am lost—what are you all talking about?”  My mother interjected, her face sagging as if it had been drained like a plastic bottle of water, collapsing into itself.  She had not been privy to the secret behind my marriage to Sam.  We had spoken freely without realizing or rather remembering this.  She had asked me why Nate had returned after his abrupt disappearance—but I had merely responded that we decided to be friends.  I was not in the mood for a debriefing on my love life nor did I feel it was in my mother’s best interest to know quite yet—the conversation at hand demanded my full concentration—I was somewhere in Manarola imagining Nona and her life.
     “Mom—we will talk later—we need to focus on getting to Italy and reconnecting—so Dante when do you think we should call Lucca—er Poppi Zio—mom...”
     My mother sprung out of her seat as if launched from a burning plane—she burst through the front door her napkin dangling on the side of mouth.  I bolted after her knowing this new discover, a father thought to have perish yet alive and living in Italy, would send her reeling into emotional turmoil.  She would be irrational, childish even and most definitely over dramatic, transforming, in a matter of minutes, into a young girl.  I felt deep compassion for her as I could not imagine meeting my real father for the first time at the age of sixty-three.
     “I cannot believe all of this and your Nona not here—my god, why now?”
     “Mom, look it isn’t a bad thing—we should be celebrating.  I understand, I wish Nona could have reconnected with Lucca—but I know she would want us to go and visit him.  There was so much of that life Nona would allude to but we never knew the details.  Now, we have a chance to complete the picture.”  I said rubbing my mother’s left shoulder.  She had pulled the mangled napkin from her lips and was dabbing her eyes with it.
     “I know—it is just that all of these years I wanted a Poppi—Frank, phif, he was not a father—not a bad man not a great man either.  And, my memories with Frank are faded.  Life has so many little caves filled with things we can’t see.”  My mother said blowing her nose into the withered remains of the napkin.
     “Mom, listen...”
     “No, Juliana, the real thing is too that—well now I am fat and old.  My Poppi will be disgusted with me—and—I don’t paint!  You like Alessandra are an artist, Poppi Zio, he will be fascinated with you.  Me, phif—he will be disappointed I am afraid. ” My mother dissolved into another episode of soft sobbing.
     “Mom, you are a beautiful Italian goddess—and do you think that your father is going to look like-- Dante?  For god’s sake, the man is in his eighties.  He won’t care that you don’t paint—he will care only that you are standing in front of him and can talk to him about Nona.  He will be proud of the family you have raised and the wonderful person you are.  You and dad have worked hard.”  I said, feeling my mother’s pain and anxiety.  At this moment I saw her not as my mother but as a woman, a girl, a person with fears and disappointments that had nothing to do with me.  “Besides, your Poppi is an Italian man as long as you can cook, which you can, he will love you.  And besides the cooking you make your own wine!  He will adore you.”  
     Several years ago, my mother had taken up wine making on a small scale. Her dream is to create a Marsala Vergine Soleras—an Italian wine that typically is eighteen percent alcohol and aged for exactly five years.
    “Ah—you are right!  I am being silly ridiculous and vain!  A goddess—you think?”  My mother half smiled and blew her nose again. “Yes my Marsala will wow him, I am sure—once it is finished.  Come let’s go back in, I am okay now.”
     “Okay.  You sure?”
     “Sure as Dante is gorgeous—huh.”  My mother laughed one of her diabolic high decibel cackles and I knew we had ridden through the eye of the emotional storm.  All that lay ahead was planning our trip to Manarola and breaking the news to Nate.
                                     CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
“Because someone has made up the word “wave,” do I have to distinguish it from water?”              Translation from Robert Bly
     
     Although Agnes had only four weeks left, her situation was far from over.  It was a Tuesday afternoon, an unusually balmy day  the beaches were packed with people playing hooky from work to frolic in water warm enough to forgo a wetsuit--when Hank announced that he had fallen out of love.  Not only had he fallen out he had also fallen in and was leaving Agnes—moving to Japan to be with his lover; a woman he had been sharing a secret life with for the past two years.  Needless to say, Agnes was shattered. She fractured like a fine piece of crystal flung onto a brick wall.  Sam, thankfully, was there to help consolidate the shattered pieces, to re-assemble them and to endure the initial days of grief at her side.  At last, guttural cries and fists pummeling into pillows began to subside as Sam spent almost every waking hour with Agnes. He made her drink water and herbal tea and insisted she eat at least one thing a day, which was about all she could tolerate. He rubbed her shoulders, sang her Arabic lullabies and tended to the household chores.  In short, he was a Middle Eastern Angel that kept Agnes from going into preterm labor.
     In the meantime, Sam’s mother had finished treatment for her cancer and was planning to visit California.  Sam had obsessed over her visit for over a month—talked incessantly about where he would take her and what meals he would cook for her—if she let him. He had an entire two week menu mapped out recipe by recipe; lists of foods to buy were taped to the refrigerator door.  But when Hank bailed, he called his mother and explained the situation.  His mother, a generous hearted woman responded:  ”Husam—you must take care of Agnes—yes.  She needs protections.”  “Yes.” He was able to convince the airline to swap dates until a few months after the baby was supposed to be born—which was no small feat—especially in light of plummeting ticket sales.  
      Because Sam’s work as a pastry chef, or as he corrected me a “Patissier,” was done early in the morning or late in the evening—most of his day time hours were free.  He traipsed some of his special must have utensils to Agnes’s house but left many behind as Agnes had a restaurant style kitchen that was equipped with enough cutlery, sauce pans, and Boulanger items to cook a five star meal for all of Monterey.  Sadly, although she loved to fuddle duddle in the kitchen, Hank was rarely home and never appreciated nor shared her love for diverse cuisine.  He pretty much had a steady diet of Japanese style food, which now in hindsight was  perhaps another harbinger that Agnes had ignored.  It is the little incidentals that people cling to when they are keeping secrets, the small changes that fuel and reinforce their private plans.  Hank was a masterful sneak who had sown so many lies he became tangled in his own un-weeded garden. The only way out was to cut all ties and fly away forever.
     It was three o’clock on a Sunday morning—three weeks, five days, and forty-six minutes from the time Hank closed the door behind him when Isabella Maria decided it was time to make her dissent into the world.  Sam was half asleep in the adjacent room when Agnes wailed.
     “Sam, my water broke—oh god--Sam, Sam-- Sam!”
     “I’m here stop yelling.  Okay now breathe and relax and shit—I gotta call Jules.”
      “Don’t be ridiculous—we have time—I mean labor—doesn’t just boom happen immediately after—oh, oh, oh god—oh god, oh god.  Maybe call Juliana.  I have never birthed a baby only delivered them. ”  
     After Agnes’s water broke there was little time before she was tossed from mild to moderate contractions.  It is an old wives-tale that first time mothers deliver like a herd of turtles waddling out to sea.  Agnes had waited for this, she had been bed bound for months and now her liberation was impending and she was petrified. It is one thing to be a labor and delivery nurse for strangers but when it comes to your own first time birthing experience, logic is nothing more than a roll of empty toilet roll you toss in the trash.  Sam remained calm and called me speaking in a very reverent voice, as if he was an undertaker arranging plans for a funeral.
     “Sam, I will be there in thirty minutes.”  I said rubbing my eyes and deep breathing trying to rouse myself from a delicious dream where I was about ready to make passionate love with some unknown Italian soldier that had escaped from a vague war—I was dressed in a fifties style negligée just about to slip off the left shoulder strap when the phone rang.  
     “No Juliana, you must come right away!”  
     “Sam, tell Agnes to relax, make her some herbal tea, I have to get dressed, prepare—this is going to be a long night.”  I rattled off a list and hung up the phone before Sam had a chance to argue any further.
     “Nate, Nate...” I gently nudged him as he slept beside me. Nate had taken to spending the night when Sam was not around—which lately had been most of the time.
      “Wha, what...” Nate roused.
      “Agnes is in labor—I gotta go.  Do you want to...”
      “I’m coming with you.”  Nate garbled out.  He got up and shuffled through a pile of clothes.
     “You have to work in a few hours....”
      “I can call in---this is important, I want to be there for both of you.”
     I have to say, I expected him to mumble good luck then roll back to sleep and meet me later after the hoopla had simmered.  Nate being supportive rather than pulling out a leftover excuse was still new to me.      
       “Okay.  We have time, I am sure Agnes is only in the beginning stages.”  We both finishing dressing grabbed a few essentials and sped out.
    As we pulled into the driveway, it looked like a beacon of light, every lamp and fixture  in Agnes’s house was on.  We opened the front door and I could hear Sam breathing.  He was going through the relaxation techniques with Ag in his sweet Middle Eastern accent.  It caught me off guard and I wiped away tears.  My Aggie having her first baby!  At that very moment, I was glad Hank had abandoned her—he would have been useless during labor looking for reasons to escape and I would have been incapable of hiding my disdain for his coward-ness.
     “Ag, I am here!” I yelled as I sprinted up the stairs.  Nate was coming in the door tightening the string around his sweat pants.
     “Thank god—Jules—“ Agnes said in a voice that resembled an animal being led to a slaughter.  Suddenly the slaughter voice evolved into a whimpering puppy then accelerated into slow wave like ocean sounds.  Her eyes were fixed on Sam who was well rehearsed in giving Ag gentle but confident directions.   They had read books and watched videos together as Sam prepared to be a birth partner.  Agnes had progressed in her labor faster than I had expected and from the way she was behaving, it seemed the baby was ready to tumble down the birth canal any moment.  Nate tapped on the door and whispered that he would be down stairs making coffee.  
     “Ag, it is time to call Sharon.”  I said. Sharon Andrien was the OB doctor who insisted Agnes birth at the hospital not at home as she had planned.  Because of her placenta previa, there was an increased risk of complications and Agnes needed quick access to an OR.  
     “Call Jillian too.”  Agnes said, a dim smile emerging from the corners of her mouth.  My sister and Ag had grown close over the last four months and Jillian had asked if she could be present during the laboring and birth of the baby.  Louisa had hoped to attend as well but was not positive she could handle the smells, “hospitals make me queasy” she told Agnes.  
     Louisa was indeed my daughter.  She echoed my complaints about western medicine and their spending habits; they prefer pumping people full of pills over promoting preventive measures that would have kept them out of the hospital in their first place.  I often chuckled at Lou’s self-righteous attitudes, which she carried like a patron Saint.  I too, at her age, thought in more black and white terms—gray didn’t exist.    The reality was that I clung to maverick ideology when it came to nursing and medicine but had become inclusive trying to see all sides.  
      “Okay, I am going to go make the rest of the phone calls—Sam why don’t you get what Ag needs for the hospital together and we’ll head out.  Just think, Ag—you’ll be able to hold that little wonder soon.”  I said and gave a kiss on the forehead.
     “Yeah, I can’t—oh” Agnes was gripped by another contraction.  She remained calm, looking at Sam as he breathed in and out with her.  Sam had put on a yoga CD, which Agnes and he had agreed on when the time came.  
     I slipped out of the room and ran down the icy marble stairs to collect Nate and call family.  
     “How’s she doing?”  Nate asked.
     “Amazingly well.  I’m shocked.  I have to call mom, Jillian, and Lou, let them know what’s going on.  Is the coffee done?”  I asked feeling as if I could use a cup. 
     “Yeah, here you go babe let me get if for you.  Jules, I hope we can do this ya know?  I think it would be incredible to have a child with you.  What do you think?  Nate said handing me a steaming coffee mug.
     “Nate, yeah, I have thought about it—but I don’t know.   I want to paint—I want to get on with my life before I have to be responsible again for a baby.  Lou is a great kid but it was tough being alone.”
     “You wouldn’t be alone this time, baby.”  Nate said snuggling behind me.
     “Let me get these calls done. Can you call Lou for me and I’ll phone mom and Jills?”
     “Sure.” 
          My mother was hysterical as I knew she would be.  Agnes was like another daughter to my mother.  Agnes’s parents were older and very strict.  Everything was off limits—the living room furniture was purely for show—you waved to it as you walked past.  Their lawn, abundant with revolving blooms dependent on the seasons, was always edged and pristine as if royalty were about to drop by at any moment.  What Agnes complained the most about was the unnerving silence.  Conversations were clipped and speaking above a loud whisper, discouraged.  “Americans too loud.”  Agnes’ parents would say, “No need waste energy.”   Her mother was the first to pass, from breast cancer, and within a year, heartsick,  her father died from unknown causes.  
     Agnes would burst into the bedlam of our house and read a book, content to with the sounds ricocheting around her.  After Agnes’s parents passed, my mother became obsessed with Agnes as if she had adopted her at the age of thirty.  
         “Jules, can you come quick.”  Sam had called down.   Jillian and my mother were on their way to the hospital.  We figured we’d all be there around the same time.
     “Coming.”  I yelled back as I raced back up the windy staircase.  “How ya doin...”
     “Jules, I feel like I want to push—can you please check me.”  Agnes said through staccato puffs of breath.
     “Sure.  But honey remember, I’m not a baby nurse.  Nate is down stairs, he has delivered dozens of babies—in the ER.  Would you..”
     “No!  Ah, geez.”  Agnes was gripped by another contractions.  She breathed with Sam.  
     “Okay, let me look.”  I threw on gloves and tried to assess the station of the baby.  “Ag, I think we should call an ambulance—that baby is starting to crown.”  
     “I don’t want a circus—I just want.”  Another contraction, more breathing.
     “Agnes, this baby is not going to wait—I’m calling.”  
     I ran back down the stairs—“Nate, call 911, the baby is crowning.  And then get the hell up there with me—we may not make it to the hospital. “
     “Okay, stay calm.  I just had a delivery three days ago in the ER if it comes to that.”
Nate dialed the ambulance while I left a breathless message with my mother and Jillian-- then ran back upstairs.  Agnes was entering her final stages of labor.  In that brief assent my mind transported back in time as it often did and I imagined myself on an 18th century surrey the sounds of horses clopping under a starry sky as I scurried to deliver a young mother’s baby.  I was giddy with delusions of being a traveling doctor during that era saving babies and mothers throughout the countryside.  My thoughts went briefly to painting a series of women laboring—capturing the breath, the grimaces, the joy. Jillian and my mother bolted threw the front door and I snapped back in reality.  They had misunderstood my directions to meet us at the hospital, which as it turns out was one of those unexplained events that in hindsight you call fortuitous.  
     “Ag, do you think you can hold out?  The baby is crowning.”
     “Jules, I need to push—now—Sam, Sam”  Agnes didn’t scream she merely demanded his presence.
     “I’m here Agnes, come on we breath—focus on my lips—okay one, two, goodt goodt.”  Sam was taking charge as a true birthing guru.  He had a gentle authority over Agnes, as if he put her in a trance and she would obey his every request.   
     My mother and Jillian were now in the room as well—the birth of Agnes’ baby was eminent—this little girl was determined on her own unique schedule.  Nate was at the foot of the bed, I was to the left, mom and Jillian where lingering near the walls.  I had spread out towels over the bed—Agnes wobbled into a squatting position—flanked by  mom and Jillian to help hold Agnes upright while Sam spoke to her.
     “Okay, Agnes, easy-- push when you feel your next contraction...” Nate said in a soothing tone.  Agnes by this time had lost all modesty or concern about who was there.
     She became focused, quietly listening to her body’s cues.  She kept her gaze on Sam and I—breathing.  I couldn’t help being incredibly proud of her, more than any other, at that very moment.    Naturally there was discomfort—and her body began to shake in tiny tremors, but Agnes did not lose command over her breath and the connection with her baby—they were already communing with one another.
     “Ah, ah, ah, ah—Agnes began to sound as if she was having a very intense orgasm, ah, ahhh, ahhh, ahhh.”
      “Good Aggie, yes I see the baby’s head...” Sam said.  He wiped away the tears but couldn’t keep up the sudden flood cascading over his cheeks.  “Oh my godt, my godt, my godt...”
     “One more good push Agnes and she’s out that’s it...” Nate instructed as we heard the ambulance pull into the driveway.
      “Agnes, we’re sailing down the creek, laughing, relaxed, the wind blowing and... ”  I thought memories of warm summers would divert her pain and help her relax.
       “Ah, ha ha—yes—yes...”  Agnes smiled giving deep exhales that reverberated through the room.
     “Honey she is almost out, slow slow...”  Sam and Jillian were in Agnes’ face talking her through and she responded like a person hypnotized yet present as if she were hovering over her body, distancing from the discomfort—watching with ease.  The blood and the liquids spewed like a river surging over swollen from a torrential rain.
     And then—she was there---this wrinkled wet beautifully raw baby.   She opened her little round lips and whimpered a cry like the sound of a bleating lamb, then escalated to a  full-fledged wail—I wrapped her in yellow and white baby blankets that were intended for the hospital ride home.  All of us, my mother in tears as Jillian bit her lower lip-- were mesmerized while cooing to Agnes what a beauty.  That she looked just like her—gorgeous—black hair matted with a few patches spiking upward as if trying to escape the moist scalp.  
     “Oh Agnes she is perfecto, ”  my mother said as she waved her hands over the baby.
     “Agnes, she is—just the spit image of you—you are amazing...”  Jillian said.  
We were all frozen in time until the jarring of the front door drew our attention.   Agnes still had to deliver her placenta, that mass of bloody lush sustenance that sustained all of us when we were attached to our mother’s body—dependent on every breath she took.  
     “Hello…”  One of the EMT’s shouted.
     “Hello, up the stairs.”  Nate called back.  He had taken charge of the situation like a sergeant organizing his platoon.  Sam was mesmerized with the baby; leaning over Agnes’ calm demeanor—singing an Arabic lullaby with tears plunging over  his lower lids.  He rubbed Agnes’ cheeks and whispered in Arabic.
     “I really don’t want to go to the hospital.”  Agnes said.  Her voice threadbare her breath still heavy.  “I don’t want her to be exposed to all those germs and fluorescent lights.  
     “I know I knowAg.   I will stay—you don’t worry—we go and in a day or so boom we’re home.”  Sam said sounding more like a concerned husband than a friend.  
     “Honey they have to check everything you know.”  My mother said in her baby voice.  Whenever she was uncomfortable or didn’t know what to say—my mother would drop into a voice that sounded  as if she were three years old—high pitched and paused.
     “I know Isabella.  Jillian will you can you come with me?”  Agnes asked.
     “Of course.  Between Sam and I you’ll be fine.”  Jillian said.  
     “Agnes, you won’t be there for more than overnight—you know that.”  I said kissing the top of her head.  “And little Isabella can dazzle your co-workers.”
     “I know Jules—it’s just that she is so incredibly beautiful…” Agnes began to sob.
     As the EMT’s placed Agnes on the stretcher I thought back to my own birthing experience.  I could only remember the utter joy I felt when seeing my baby for the first time.  It is a moment that every woman who has a child, whether physically or through adoption, will never forget.  When I held Lou I felt as though every cell in my body was rejoicing—no one but my baby existed—and I was in awe of her.  Now, it was Agnes, my friend since the second grade, who was experiencing the age-old nirvana of birth.  Watching Agnes holding her newborn Isabella Maria, I thought what a universal privilege it is to be a mother.  
    When the stretcher descended, Sam scurried down the stairs with Agnes’ suitcase. Jillian followed with Isabella’s baby bag.  My mother and Nate and I agreed to go home, shower, and meet back at the hospital.  Nate had to work—but said he’d swing by beforehand.  I told him I would text him Agnes’s room number as soon as we knew where she landed.  Although I felt bleary eyed from the early morning wakeup call; I felt a surge of excitement coarse through me.   A new life had entered our worlds and I carried with me a feeling of anticipation.  Isabella Maria would impact all of us, I predicted, in ways we could never foresee.
                                              CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
“I looked beyond the hurt and saw a striking resemblance to truth.”           Kaitlin Dorothy

      “You could have called Nate. I need to go.  Dinner!  No, no I don’t want to have dinner.  Where?  Why would you make reservations without talking to me first?”  
    “Okay, okay.  I get that the ER was slammed--yea, yea, yea.   It’s just that I feel overwhelmed. I wanted this but I’m nervous I won’t live up to it. Maybe I just had beginners luck or something.”   I was relieved to confess that part of my irritation stemmed from my anxiety over winning the Central Coast New Artist award.
     It felt cathartic to be honest that I could not create a painting at the drop of a hat.  The Central Coast New Artist Recognition, an award the Monterey, Carmel, and Big Sur Artistic committees dole out once a year, was worthy of a dinner celebration.  I knew Nate was being considerate.  But between Agnes having the baby and the discovery my grandfather, I didn’t have time to digest it all.  How did this happen? 
     After the flurry of my show I felt as if I was seventeen again interviewing for my first job.   A job interview I still remember—a chance to waitress at Café Coco’s.  I was petrified the day I started my training.  Scared that I would collide into someone with steaming mugs of coffee but this time it was my art that I feared. All my uncertainties marched in front of me like band leaders and I felt drawn to follow each one of them.  “You are too old for a new career.  You should forget about all of this craziness of being a working artist.  You are not your grandmother-- you’re not that good.”  
     “Juliana, I can’t say I understand, I have not had a big publishing gig to compare to. But I love you and I just want to celebrate your accomplishments baby.  Come on--?” Nate pleaded again.  His voice dropping to a sensual whisper, one that always made me want to rip his clothes off.  “Besides, we haven’t had any love time.” 
     “Ah, you’re right Nate—I’m sorry, I’m sorry—I just have to let go of all of my teenage anxieties.  Can we swing by and see Ag and the baby beforehand?”
     “Sure, sure of course.  I’ll pick you up around seven okay?  That will give us plenty of time to see little Isabella.”  
     “Okay Nate.  Thanks.”
     “Don’t worry it wasn’t beginners luck.”
     Nate and I still lived separately for I remained leery of making the same mistakes, didn’t want to rush things.  Sam confided he was worried that I would move out before our meeting with the INS, after all we had come this far.  I reassured him knowing that both of us weren’t ready for that.  Sam and I still enjoyed our time together.  We laughed easily and there was little pressure to be anyone but myself around Sam. Not that I had to pretend with Nate—but I did feel as though I couldn’t sit around in ugly sweats around him and feel attractive.  I could have a mud mask on my face and an oil treatment on my hair and Sam would exclaim, “Look how adorable you are.”   Sam was also incredibly supportive of my art.  He was already plotting my next show and keeping tabs on my painting schedule in secret, like a parent checking their child’s toothbrush to be sure they really brushed.  If more than a few days passed and I hadn’t been out to my studio, Sam would say; “Why why you toss away your art, huh?”  And I would launch into my reasons for not having time.  
     The truth is that painting is a solace for me and once I step into the canvas, it is as if I have stepped into a time warp where the only thing that exists is the color in front of me.  The palette pulls details out scanning for what is or is not portrayed.  The painting begins to whisper a story and like two lovers guiding each other the painting itself shows me what it needs. My portrait of Nona began as a simple face forward piece to articulate her cheek bones and eyes.  As I continued it evolved into Nona working in her precious garden: the auburn hair windblown, the sun casting yellow hues, the purple and pink flowers. Painting is similar to casting away on a sailboat waving good-bye to the fading shore.  It is jarring to return to the mundane rhythms of life when I am involved in a painting.  It is easier to stay away all together until I have time to vanish again like a mistress stealing off in the dark of night.  I wondered if other artists felt as I did.  Do they have this need to submerge themselves into their work, to hibernate from the world and its demands?
     I could feel my desire to paint brewing.  It became more difficult to stay in what I refer to as my desert space.  That time when I am sorting through my next piece—in my head—making observations.  Although nursing would seem to have no place for artistic inspiration—I often saw faces and characteristics that fascinated me.  Barberia, a patient who came in and out of the hospital like some people go to work, was one of those whom I took notice.  She was half African American, half Jamaican, and one hundred percent hypochondriac.  But she had a vibrant personality that dispelled the typical traits of a sickly woman.  Her face, angular, with thick eyebrows and lips, was flawless and the inspiration for my latest group of paintings I finally decided to call, Female Resolve.    I wanted a series that brought out the feminine strength of various women through their faces.  The Barberia painting was just about finished. I painted not her replica but rather an interpretation of a woman who had survived the tribulations of a racist world.  I wanted people when they looked at this painting to nod their heads and whisper, “ah yes—a defiant face this one” and experience the emotions behind the scene.
   It was almost seven when I heard Nate’s car in the driveway.  
     “Jules, hey it’s me—wow!”  Nate held a dozen red roses in his hands.  “You look gorgeous.”
     I had donned a strapless dress that fit snug around the hips with a demure flair just above the knees.  The shoes Ag had brought back from Paris cinched the outfit.  I had swirled my hair on top of my head with drips of curls dangling at the base of my neck.  I felt overdressed but didn’t care.  It was fun to play dress up sometimes.  My usual attire was more tomboy-ish—sneakers, hiking boots, and a well-worn tee shirt.
     “Thanks.  Roses, I love them.  You didn’t have to…”
     “I know I didn’t have to I wanted to.  I am so proud of you.”  Nate grabbed me with his free hand and pulled me close.  
     “Ah, I can’t kiss you.”
     “Why?”
     “I just put on my lipstick and”
     “Too bad.”  Nate kissed me hard and emerged with a moustache of Maybelline number twenty-five—envy red.  
     “That looks good babe.”  I said going to the kitchen for a napkin and a vase.  “So we’re going to Casanova’s?  Finally!  I have always wanted to go there—it’s the oldest restaurant in Carmel.”
     “Yea, yea I know—we always talked about going there and never made it.  Well, things are different now I’m listening better-- and besides only the best for the new artist in town.”
     “I have heard the food is outrageous.  I looked at some of the reviews; ‘Carmel’s most romantic restaurant.  A must visit for epicureans.’  Ah, can’t wait!   We should hurry though so we can get to Agnes and the baby.” 
     “Yea, okay let’s go.”  Nate said with disdain lingering in his tone.   I had the feeling that he didn’t want to stop by to see the newfound family but I didn’t care, I wanted to see them and that was all that mattered.  I was learning to put my needs up in the head of the line; in a balanced way not an angry arrogant way. I had begun to realize that I had been as much of the problem as Nate when it came to communicating what I wanted.
     As it turned out, Isabella was asleep and Agnes was exhausted.  She told me how beautiful I looked and asked would we mind stopping by tomorrow?  Jillian and Sam had just left and she was getting ready to doze off while the baby was sleeping.  We said our good-byes and headed for Casanova’s.
     “Agnes looks great.”  Nate said.
     “She does—amazing what women’s bodies can do.”
     “Umm, I agree.  Sam seems to be smitten by Agnes don’t you think?”  Nate asked.  I sensed a deeper question behind the question—his voice articulating the “don’t you think.”
     “I think they are great friends and he adores the baby.”
     “Anyway, so when is the next show?  Sam is your new manager it seems.”  
     “Don’t have a definite date yet—but there may be one in Italy— Dante is trying to—“
     “Dante, ah yea, sorry didn’t mean to cut you off.  I just thought you’d have another show here since the award and all.” 
     “Oh yes, I am.   The Carmel-by-the Sea Art Festival is next month and they will be exhibiting my work at the new gallery, Mountain Song, off highway one.  That is why I am stressed—I need to finish my new series and with…”
     “Relax Juliana—you don’t have to be stressed tonight.”
     “Nate, you cut me off again.”
     “Sorry—I…”
     “No problem.  Anyway, this new series is called Feminine Resolve and I need to complete it before the festival and it’s been challenging lately.”
     “I know—just focus—like when you’re at the hospital and you have no time to think—just do.”
     “Nate, painting is not like that—you can’t prioritize like a laundry list it is not task oriented it is inspiration oriented and sometimes it sneaks away when you need it most.  At the hospital—the energy is do do do.  With painting, I have to let go and float out to sea with my canvas.  I wish it was as easy as giving someone their medication and being done with it.  It is a whole different process—slower, ya know?”
     “Jules, look, I wish I could relate.  I need to slow this brain of mine down at times too believe me.  But I guess I am just a simple task oriented person.  I don’t have creative drives like you.”
     “You love to mountain bike you love music. And, what about your writing?  You’re an amazing writer.”
     “Yea, but biking is recreational and music I don’t make just listen to.  I keep procrastinating with my writing.  I think I’m a work-a-holic like my mother was.”
     “I don’t think you’re a work-a-holic—well maybe a little.  But you’re great at what you do.  Not everyone can be an ER nurse and handle trauma patients.  You can keep your cool.”
          “Anyway enough about me, I want to hear all about your series.  Let’s get a drink first so you don’t have to be interrupted. Forget about me for once—right!”  Nate said as he parked the car.
     “Okay.”  We both smiled and I felt content.  
     Casanova’s is a cozy farm house that had been renovated into a restaurant.  It exuded warmth with the dark hardwood floors, ceiling beams and a fireplace that glowed in the corner. Lit candles twinkled in the window ledges and on every table was a small brilliant bouquet of flowers resembling an English garden.  Hanging on the walls and door jams were dried lavender and green sprigs interwoven.  Casanova fused old fashion charm with classic Carmel sophistication.  The history was interesting as the original house had been owned by, Aunt Fairy Bird, a slight African American woman, for over fifty years.  The current owners kept her legacy alive as well as their own Belgium origins in the re-modeled version.  Soft Parisian music added to the romantic ambiance and mingled with the mouthwatering smells of garlic and fresh herbs plucked from the garden behind the restaurant 
     We were seated by a window as the fading sunset splashed colors of red and pink across the sky.  It was truly breathtaking and I was happy to be with Nate distracted by the surreal surroundings and the tantalizing aromas.  We started off with a Les Abeilles Rose from Georis winery,, which was down the road in Carmel Valley.  The owner of Casanova’s had hand dug a wine cellar back in 1987  fourteen feet deep holding over 30,000 wines from around the world.  Our waiter, who was French, told us that if we wanted a tour it could be arranged.  We thanked him and said perhaps another time.  He did his best to articulate his words while describing the specials. 
     We decided to start with the Plateau de Fromages that featured French local made cheese and in season fruit.  
     “This menu is incredible.”  I folded my napkin over my lap.  “I could have one of everything.”
     “I know.  What are you thinking?  The fish sounds amazing.”  Nate sipped his wine.
     “I know it does, in fact I think I’m going to get the seared salmon with the ratatouille pasta in goat cheese pesto—my god that sounds orgasmic.”
     “Speaking of orgasmic…”
      The waiter came by and asked if we were ready.
     “A yes we are…Juliana.”  Nate extended his hand in my direction.
     “I will have the seared salmon please.”
     “Ah beautiful choice Madame.”  The waiter nodded in approval.  “And for you sir?”
     “I think I am going to go with the slow braised Venison…”
     “My personal favorite!   That comes with caramelized brussel sprouts, crispy sweet potatoes, drizzled with a huckleberry demi-glaze. C’est bon indeed.”  The waiter spoke as if he were writing for a cooking magazine.  His voice thrilling over the huckleberry glaze.
     Nate and I both ordered the Salade d;Automne made with baby beets, robiola cheese, Big Sur watercress, honey roasted pecans, and red wine vinaigrette.  The wait staff was well trained in European style serving.  They did not rush the customers and gave each meal its deserved respect. 
     “Excuse moi, may I suggest la Petite Vignes Merlot with your main course?”  
     “Sure that sounds wonderful—I was just reading that is has a touch of ‘wisteria, violet, and wild mushrooms’ what a combination.” 
     “Could we try it first please?”  Nate asked.
     “But of course sir.”  
     “Thank you Nate.  This is truly amazing—I feel like I am in Europe somewhere.”
     “I’ve been wanting to take you here and propose—but you’re already married.”
     “Viola sir.”  The waiter had returned with the wine.  He set down two glasses and poured  a small sample.  It was a soft mellow merlot with a hint of butterscotch.
     “This is beautiful.  Merci, yes Nate?”  I attempted my French accent sounding more like an imitation of Professor Kluso.
     “Yea, it’s excellent.  We’ll take the bottle thank you.”
     “ Bon soir—enjoy.”  The waiter left after filling our glasses half way.
     “Propose?”
     “Yes propose. “
     “Hmmm.  The wine is fantastic.”  I took another sip hoping to change the subject.
     “When does the divorce happen with you and Sam?” 
    “We are still waiting to hear from INS when our meeting is.”
     “Then after that?”
     “It takes I think we have to wait a year and then we could file…”
     “A year! What do you mean could?”
     “I mean reality is we need to be married for at least one year before we file. But once we go to INS and have the meeting—we don’t have to live together anymore.”
     “A year.”
     “Nate, I am not the one who left this relationship.  Look, why all of a sudden this big push to marry?”     
     “I’m getting anxious aren’t you? I hate going home without you most nights.  What if I moved in with you and Sam in the  meantime—“
     “Are you crazy?”
     “No!  Why would you say that?  Sam and I are cool—so you’d be living with your husband and your boyfriend.  So what?”
     “No Nate—I don’t think Sam is ready for that honestly.  He worries about INS—thinks that they have spies.”
     “That is ridiculous.  Is he in love with you Juliana?”
     “No it’s not that.”
     “But you slept together?”
     “Nate—you know this is beginning to feel like an inquisition.  I am supposed to be celebrating remember—relaxing?”
     “I’m sorry, you’re right.  My imagination took over for a minute.  Okay tell me about the female…”
     “Feminine Resolve.”
     “Yea, the feminine resolve—which you have plenty of by the way.”
     “I will take that as a compliment.”
     “Of course baby.”
     I explained as best I could what my intentions were for the series and Nate listened nodding his head in between sips of wine and chucks of cheese.  “That sounds interesting baby” was all he could muster.  I doubted he truly grasped the concept of capturing the spirit of women through their bone structure and telling their stories via expression--but that was okay—at least he listened.  After my women’s history lecture we changed the subject to other mundane topics before discussing meeting Lucca.  
     “How’s your mom handling the wait?” 
     “She is dissolving like a lump of sugar in coffee.”
     “I bet.  Do you want me there when you make the call?”
     “No.  I think mom and I can handle it.”
     “Will you let me know as soon as you can how it goes?”
     “Of course, of course.”  I failed to mention that my mother requested Sam be present as he was the one responsible in a roundabout way for reuniting the three of us.
     “Juliana, can we go back to the marriage thing at some point?”
     “What do you mean?”
     “I mean talk about it?  I mean you and Sam married for a green card but we would be married for love.  I know you still harbor reservations…”
     “Nate, I don’t harbor anything I just need time and to trust again.  Of course we can talk about getting married. We were engaged once before remember?”
     “I remind myself daily believe me.”
     As the darkness outside settled in, the Carmel sky grew gray with silhouettes of the cypress trees waving under the star studded sky.  We finished our meal with—Dolce di Cioccolata, a warm chocolate cake with house made Armagnac ice cream.  It was divine and I swore I had gained twenty-five pounds after eating such a scrumptious meal.  Nate suggested we walk it off at Carmel beach—it was a fairly warm evening with no fog.  I agreed.  We ended the night making love in the sand—on a trusty blanket Nate kept handy for such emergencies.  
     “I gotta go Nate—it’s late and…”
     “Shhh.  Just a few more minutes.  You look so beautiful.  I want to soak you in.”
     “I look disheveled and have to work tomorrow.”
     “Shhh.”  
                                                            CHAPTER NINETEEN
 “In the end we are left with ourselves—we must learn to look at our own reflection and smile.”                                                                                              Karen Marie

      Isabella and Agnes had been released from the hospital less than twenty-four hours after their arrival.  Both Sam and Jillian had taken shifts tending to menial tasks while Agnes nursed her newborn and gained her strength back.  It had been almost seven months that Agnes had been confined to bed, which is plenty of time for muscles to atrophy.  The baby slept, ate, and cried only when she wanted more of her mother’s milk or needed her diaper changed.   Her pointy black hair jutting out from various angles, her soft pudgy face and perfect heart shaped lips made baby Isabella an infant replica of her mother—minus the pudgy face.  
     Sam stayed with Ag during most of the day, creating his pastries for deliveries around the city then returned in the evening.  He was planning for his mother’s visit as he had promised re-arranging his menus and itinerary around Agnes and the baby. When he spoke of Ag and baby Isabella—his entire face lifted from forehead to jaw.  He was in awe of them both and admitted he was “ in love with little Issie.”
 In the meantime, we had gotten a letter confirming our INS meeting for September 19^th at eleven am.  This gave us exactly two months to prepare.  
     “Jules, I think we need to hang out more—you think?”
     “Yea, it has been a while.  We both have been so busy.  After your mom’s visit…”
     “No no no we don’t have to wait—my mother she wants to meet you of course.  Can you go with me to pick her up—one week she comes at two pm to San Jose.  I hate that drive.  If you can’t no warry---Feisal  said he could.  I wish I could bring the baby.”  Sam said.  He murmured when he said “baby” as if Isabella Maria was there in front of him making baby bubbles.  He was smitten with her and had no intentions of hiding it.
      “Ah she is so adorable—in a few months you can probably take her places, right now she is too young.  I remember when Lou was born, for the first month I wanted to keep her all to my self—I hoarded her.”
     “You must a been a beautiful mama—what is hhoardt?”
      “You know keeping everything to yourself.”
     “Ah like those people who never throw one ting out.”
     “Kind of.  Anyway—give it time and you can take little Issie with you places.”
     “Did you hear the asshole of a jerk wants to fly in to see ‘his childt?’”   
     “Yea but…”
     “That  bastard.  To tink—he walks out and wants to sneak back for a peek.  I told him no, no, not!”  Sam’s face reminded me of an umpire fighting with a player that was ousted.  He was ready for battle.  “I told him, I will lash him with my tongue if I see him.”
     “You talked to Hank?”
     “No—I shouted behind Agnes—he wanted to know who is dhat.  Who is dhat is none of his business.”  
     “He is beyond a bastard.  Yea--but she told him maybe didn’t she?”
     “Maybe —he is not.  She say to me she just tell him no way—he lost his right when he left. Pft pft.”   Sam spit the ground without saliva—an Israeli  gesture of spite.
     “Sam.”
     “Ya”
     “It sounds like you are falling for Agnes…”
     “No no no my love…I have fallen for Isabella.  Okay, we need to talk about your next show—in Italy!”  Sam said smacking his palms together.
     “Okay, yes yes.  I spoke with Dante and first we have to get through the meeting –you know?  I think it was better that we waited until Dante had a chance to explain everything to him.  My god, he may have had a cardiac arrest hearing such news over the phone. “
     “Ya, I agree—goodt he waited.  Tomorrow though right?”
     “Yes—my mother is beside herself she keeps crying.  She has made enough food to feed him for a year.”
     “Ah that tis godt—foodt feels the heart.”
     “You mean food feeds the heart.”
     “Ah ya that tis it.  My mother—can you go?”
     “I don’t know Sam—I really need to paint and I don’t want her to get the wrong idea about you and I.”
     “Oh my godt—Juliana, tsk tsktsk--she knows that tis marriage for friendship and to stay.  She tinks that you are an angel—it is still difficult in my home.  She has to fly first to Nazareth…”
     “Nazareth!  I would love to go the Holy Lands.  I mean I know I don’t go to church any more but I still pray.  And to walk on the same stones that Jesus did—wow—it would be magical I think.”
     “It tis magical Nazareth.  So much history and beauty but now people are crazy—the whole worldt has gone mad.”  Sam said shaking his head.
     “So your mom has a lot of travel?  Nazareth—then where?”
     “Then she must go to Roma she will stay with a friend two days then to New York, then finally to California.  She will be so tired!  I know this-- and she is not as strong like before.”
     “Alright Sam, I’ll go with you.  I’m excited to meet her.”
    “Ah—tank you tank you.  You two will love each other I know this.  You hungry?”
     “A little but I know you are.”
     “Always.”  Sam laughed.
     “Let’s get pizza and go see Isabella and Agnes.”
     “I promised her I would make dinner…”
     “You hate to cook and you are badt.”
     “I know!  Pizza sounds perfect.  I pay.  Oh we should order minestrone soup and garlic bread—and a salad, Ag loves her salads.”
     “You call and I drive.”
    I had not visited Agnes since my dinner with Nate.  I had been anxious to see both her and the baby.  Sam and I arrived around six o’clock. Agnes had set the table out on the deck—it was warm enough still that we could eat outside.  Baby Isabella was dressed in a little gap outfit that swallowed her up.  Agnes was already grooming her daughter’s fashion attire.  She had enough clothes for the child to last through ten childhoods.  While bedbound Agnes had taken to online shopping.  She shopped for baby clothes like Rosie the Riveter organized women during the war.  
     “Ag can I hold her—she is so precious?
     “Of course.  Oh this pizza smells incredible—do you think it will be okay for my milk?”
     “Yea why not?  I ate everything when I was nursing Lou.”
     “That was so long ago Jules.”  Sam piped in as if he knew the new regulations for breastfeeding.
     “The rules haven’t changed that much.”  I said feeling indignant. How would a man, who had never had children, have an inkling what to eat while nursing a newborn?    
     “Since when are you an expert on breastfeeding?” 
     “I know I know—just joking.  Tell me Isabella who is your favorite –Uncle Sammie—huh.  Yes.”  Sam cooed over Isabella ignoring my question.
     “Okay you two no squabbling.  Jules, you’re right-- pass me a piece of pizza.  God I feel like having a glass of wine as well.”  
     “Agnes—don’t go coo coo—you don’t want to get Isabella sick.”  Sam snapped.
     “For god sakes Sam—shut up.  You are being prim.”  I snapped back. “White or red Ag?”
     “Half a glass of white.”
     “How am I a pimp?”
     “Prim—over protective, fussy-- prim.  One glass of wine and a piece of pizza is not going to make a baby sick.”  I said.
     “Prim—I like that werd.  Fine fine fine— pig out Agnes” Sam said smiling like child left unpunished.
     Nona loved that word—she was the only person I ever heard use prim on a regular basis. She loved to find English words that no one spoke much anymore and stick them in her vocabulary.  
     “Tell your uncle Sam we’ll have to call him uncle Prim.”  I whispered to Isabella.  “Here hold this bundle of sweetness while I get her mother a glass of wine.  I handed the baby to Sam while Agnes devoured her pizza.  “There is salad and soup too Ag.”
     “Okay thanks—just want to relish my pizza first.  So Hank is coming by in two weeks.  I didn’t have the heart to deny Isabella her father.”  Agnes said slurping up cheese and sauce.”
     “You mean the sperm donor.”  I shouted from inside as I poured Agnes a glass of Napa Valley Pinot Gris. 
     “Look I don’t want him here.  But I don’t want to have to lie to my daughter one day when she asks if her father ever wanted to see her.”  
     “I will be here—he is not going to get by for free.”  
     “Sam what do you mean not get by for free?’  I asked handing Agnes her wine.
    “He must pay Agnes—an apology—after what he didt—tsk tsk tsk leaving your wife and baby—he…”
     “Sam, I understand what you are saying but Isabella only has one father and I can’t deny her.”
     “She has me she don’t need what you call him Jules—sperm donor--?”  Sam said laughing.
     “I know but the reality is if one parent talks bad about the  other—you don’t allow your child to decide then eventually they get pissed at you and seek to find the love of the other parent that the shit talking parent denied—you understand?”
     “No not really.”  Sam said shoving practically an entire piece of pizza in his mouth.
     “Jesus Sam, the pizza is not going anywhere.  Kids will end up resenting you—if I denied Isabella her daddy—she’d hate me later in life and I couldn’t bear that.”  
     “Ag, here you go—no you are right.  I have seen that happen too.  Plus little Isabella may need her sperm donor’s money and he can at least donate that.”
     “Yeah and there’s that.”  Agnes said taking a sip of her wine.  “Oh my god this tastes amazing.
     “I just don’t understand American men…”  Sam said.
     “We don’t either.”  Agnes and I laughed as we had said this in unison.
     “If you want support Ag—let me know.  New subject—tomorrow is the day!  Mom and I are so excited but nervous.”  I said.
     “It’s meet the grandfather day—that is right.  Your mother must be out of her mind.”
     “She is.”
     “How is Nate by the way?”  Agnes asked.  It seemed a bit calculated as we didn’t usually talk about him with Sam present.
     “Fine he is fine.”  I said wanting to change the subject.   “I have two more paintings almost completed—you know I have a showing at the Carmel Festival right?  Oh and Sam—did you tell Agnes about our meeting?”
     “What the INS finally got back to you guys?”
     “Yes—my godt—I am nerved to just think of it.”  Sam said reaching for more pizza.  
     “It will be fine—it’s not until September 19^th we have oodles of time.”  I said.
     “That is great!  The sooner the better then you can divorce.”  Agnes said reaching for her wine glass.
     “Everybody into divorce here too.”  Sam laughed.  “No we have to stay married at least a year more…”
     “But we don’t have to live together any longer Sam…”
     “Yes we do Jules the rules…”
     “Sam no you don’t.”  Agnes joined the debate.  “The INS is not like Russian spies—once you have your meeting you are pretty much free.  You could live with Isabella and I and Nate and Juliana can take over your rental.”
     “Is that vat you say Juliana?”  Sam used his wounded voice that always irked me.
     “I haven’t even thought that far ahead.”  I said confused as to why Agnes seemed determine to drag Nate into the conversation.  “I mean yea, we don’t have to live together probably after the INS meeting.”
     “Forget about it—this pizza my godt it tis good.  I will have my mother to try it.”  Sam said.  
     Baby Isabella, who had been quietly listening to the conversation, squeaked out a little whimper which gained momentum into a full falsetto.  Perhaps the aroma of pepperoni had caused the sudden outburst.  Sam jumped but Agnes was already attending to her baby’s needs.  The discussion simmered as Agnes nursed .  We resumed a less emotional topic—Louisa.  She had called to say she was on her way and was there anything Agnes needed?  I told Agnes and Sam about Lou and my desire to do a mother daughter show hopefully when we went to Italy.  Agnes said she hoped that she and Isabella will someday share the kind of relationship Lou and I have.  I assured her she would—just find the time to get silly with her and enjoy her discoveries.  
    “And remember to learn from her, don’t be a know-it-all you listen to me mother—children teach us more than they or we could ever imagine.  Remember Ag, Nona saying—‘Children are the world’s greatest teacher.’”  
     “I know, I know—Nona also said ‘What is wrong with mamas that don’t protect?’  Right now all I want to do is protect.  Protect her from disappointment and hurt and…”
    “That tis why you have me baby Issie—your favorite godt father.”  Sam said.  “I will kill for you—not for real person just for hurt.”
A gust of wind blew and the front door creaked open.
     “Hey where is everyone?”  Louisa shouted.
     “Back here Lou.  Come grab some pizza.”  I shouted back.
                                                          CHAPTER TWENTY    
“Our truest life is when we are in dreams awake.”                       Henry David Thoreau

     It was Monday night, when I woke from a prophetic dream that was as real as my Nona’s funeral.  Nate and Sam, Louisa and I were somewhere close to a coastal campground—a lagoon that led to the ocean.  With a blue green sky above and the turquoise sea in front of us, a baby suddenly lay beside me whimpering.  She was about three months old with a thick head of black hair.  The whimpering became a frantic cry and I instinctually knew that the infant was hungry.   As I massaged my breasts for a trickle of milk, I panicked as there was nothing.  Both breasts had shriveled looking like prunes protruding from my chest.  I squeezed over and over to try and extract nourishing liquid, realizing that the infant was mine, a baby girl, and that I must feed her or she would die.  Louisa, who was in the dream about age seven,  asked me her name as Nate scooped her up and began to run.  Sam and I were screaming for him to bring the baby back but he only ran faster in the direction of the sea.  Suddenly as I turned to Louisa—she was gone dissolved into the sand and Sam, who had gotten up and was chasing Nate, also had vanished.  I began running towards Nate and the nameless baby, who was flailing her tiny arms and legs and crying as I yelled for Louisa and Sam to come back.  
     It was three o’clock in the morning when I gasped myself awake happy the dream was over and that it was indeed just a dream.   But I needed to go back to sleep; in four hours, I would be headed to my mother’s house to make a phone call that would change our lives forever.  We were going to be speaking for the first time to Lucca.  Dante had warned us that Lucca's English was rusty and for that reason he would stay on the line to interpret when necessary.  My heart was racing from the nightmare; my thoughts lingered over what the phone call would be like.  “I wish you were here with me Nona—“ I whispered into the darkness.  I thought about what it would be like to hear and see the man that I had heard so much about but never knew still existed in the flesh.  I wondered what the timbre of his voice would be like.  “Sleep damn it sleep.” I admonished myself trying to quiet my mind. 
     The last time I glanced at the clock it was five am and I had only an hour left to glean a little more restless sleep.  When the alarm rang, I felt as if someone had crept into my room and injected me with a tranquilizer.   Groggy, I dragged myself to the shower.  I barely remember dressing or driving to my parent’s house.  Thankfully my mother had a fresh pot of strong coffee brewing.  I could smell Italian roast as I fumbled with the front door key. 
      “Mom?”  I called closing the door behind me.  
     “Juliana, oh I am so nervous.” My mother said bolting through the kitchen door. “Come have some coffee.  Ooph, I slept horrible, how about you?”
     “Terrible—had one of those real dreams that turns into a nightmare.  I lost a baby my milk had dried up…”
     “Don’t tell me you’re pregnant?”  My mother interrupted.
     “No mom, it was just a dream.  It was more about Lou and Nate and Sam.  Anyway, I need coffee.  It is almost seven.  Where’s dad?” 
     “He went to work early—didn’t want to be here.  He has been strange lately.”
     “What do you mean strange?”
     “He has been too nice.  Taking me to dinner telling me I’m pretty.  I don’t trust it.  Do you think he has terminal cancer?”  My mother asked in a hushed tone as if my father was lurking around the corner.
     “Terminal cancer!  Mom, you are ridiculous.”  I said spewing my coffee.
     “Do you think he is cheating on me then?” 
     “Mom, maybe he is just being nice for a change.  You know mellowing with age as they say.  My god, enjoy it.”
     “I can’t it’s unnatural.  Your father is an eternal grump—why the sudden switch?  It is uncomfortable.”
     “Don’t think about that right now—you are about to speak to your father for the first time.  Forget about dad—everything is fine.”
     “Oh Juliana, I’m so scared.  I hope he doesn’t think I sound old.”
     “Mom, your father is older than you—he will not think you sound old.  Breathe—come on.  I just wish Nona was here.”
     “She is.”
     “I know I know…I mean in the flesh.”  The phone rang.  My mother and I looked at each other.
     “Oh my god this is it.”  She fiddled with her hair pulling the side pieces forward and swishing her bangs to the right. “Do I look okay?”
     “Gorgeous.  Do you want me to answer it?”  
     “Please.  I can’t breathe.”
     “Hello.”  I cleared my throat and smiled.
     “Juliana Buongiorno!”
    “Buongiorno  Dante.  How are you?”
     “Bene grazie.  —Nonno Avanti.”
     “Buongiorno mi figlia.”  My eyes welled with tears.  It was a sweet slightly out of tune voice that sounded hesitant like hearing a person you have been writing to for years but never spoke to.
     “Non, Nonno, Anglesey non Italian per favored.”  Dante reminded his grandfather to speak English.
     “Ah si, scuds  my English not so gouda. I happy to hear you voice Isabella.”  
     “No Nonno,  questo e Juliana la tuo nipotina,” Dante said explaining “This is Juliana, your grand-daughter.   I felt a surge of adrenaline as my heart rate sped up.   My mother had both hands cupped over her mouth nodding her head right to left, tears spilling down her cheeks.
     “Ah Juliana, you sound much a like Alessandra—scusi”  
There was a silence that suddenly unfroze time and I felt as if I were in a paused black and white film watching Nona and Lucca embrace one another after all these years.
     “Juliana, give him a minute—he got a little upset but doesn’t want me to tell you that.  He wants to talk to his daughter—but is afraid you understand?”  Dante explained.
     “Yes I completely understand—my mother has been a wreck.”  
     “Okay he is coming back.”
     “Juliana.  I sad to think a dat I not see you yet—you come to Italia, yes?”  
     “Si.”
     “You calla me Nonno—okay?” 
     “Si Nonno.  I will come to see you.  My mother is here.  I will put her on the phone okay?”
     “Si si si.”
     My mother was opening and closing her fists like a boxer warming up for a fight.  Standing as if her feet were cemented to the floor she staggered towards the phone each step labored.  I waved her over coaxing her along like a puppy learning a new command.  She took a deep inhale and clutched the phone slamming it to her ear.
     “Buongiorno Papi Zio. Mi chiamo Isabella.”  My mother said in a staccato rhythm.  “He is not answering Juliana!”  She whispered to me.
     “Mom you just introduced yourself like a stranger---he knows your name.”  I whispered back.
     “Hullo Isabella—I, I am soa soorrey that we…scusi scusi—my Englese not good yet—you come a teach me.”  Lucca said.   “I so happy a that I find you so sad a though—Alessandra not a here—I am soa soorrey Isabella.  Pleasa call me Poppi—okay?”
     “Okay, Poppi.”  My mother said squishing the phone to her breasts slapping her free  hand over her mouth sobbing silently into her open palm.  I felt a compassion for my mother that I had never known before as I put my arms around her shoulders and motioned for her to continue.
    “Poppi, so much we have to catch up on.  I cannot wait to see you—in a few months Juliana and I will be there.  I promise.”  
     “Si, you come a and I a give you my house.”  
     “No, no, no you don’t have to give us your house.
     “Nonno means you can stay with him he has a cottage that is for guests.”  Dante explained.
     “Si.  That would be lovely.  I am a very good cook Poppi.”  My mother lifted her face towards the ceiling.  She sounded like a school girl reporting her university grades.
     “Ah, tis bene ah good—you come and a cooka for me I give a you home vegetables.  I good garden.”
     “I can’t wait.  Mama loved to garden too you know.”
     “I know—she love a the plants—Isabella—I wanta you to a know—I looka for you and your mama.  Alessandra she mia una amore—you understand?”
     “Si.  I understand.”  My mother began to cry again.   Tears dribbling down her blouse.  Her shoulders shrugging up and down.
     “Non non—don’ta crya  Isabella.  I no make you crya.  I sad a too but we shoulda be happy—si?  We find eacha other.  You come and a we talk long si?”
     “Yes, Poppi I know.  It is good but I wish…”
     “I knowa—I too wisha my Alessandra here—she here a though in my a heart stilla.”
    “I know, I know.”  My mother straightened her spine.   “Do you still paint Poppi?” She sniffled into the tissue I had handed her.
     “Ah, non—it a long a time that I pick a up the brusha.”
     “You must paint with Juliana—she is good.”
     “Si, perhaps a.  I go now and we talk again a and soon you a Juliana here in fronta of me.  Ti amo.”  
     “ Ti amo troppo.  ”  My mother handed me the phone.
     “Ciao nonno.”
     “Ciao Juliana.”  The voice weary, softened to a hush.
     “Juliana, I will call you later—okay?”  Dante said.  “That was good—now we need you both to get over here soon.”
     “Yes, soon.”
     “Ciao.”
     “Ciao.”
     My mother and I stared for a few moments each dissecting our own thoughts about the conversation, then embraced one another in silence. We walked back to the kitchen refreshing our coffee absorbed in a sundry of emotion.
     “You alright mom?  That was amazing. When did you learn ‘I love you too’ in Italian?”
     “I have been practicing.  I can understand a bit you know. Yes—I am okay—it was surreal to be honest.  This voice talking to me—my father—I can’t wait to get over there Juliana.  He sounds so sweet so kind.  Funny, I pictured the voice of a young man like the way I imaged him, the way my mother would describe him to me; a dapper Italian man in a silk suit wearing a grey fedora sitting next to one of his paintings.  Strange---life.”
     “I understand mom.  I don’t know what I expected.  He does sound adorable, kind.  I thought about Nona and imagined them talking in Italian.  I couldn’t put a face to the voice either—like you said I always pictured him dark, handsome—strong.  But he is old now. I mean not old but not young.  Not like the picture Nona had painted for us.”
     “You know Juliana—I want to take care of him.  Like a daughter is supposed to do you know?”
     “Yea I know mom but…”
     “I know your father he will be a baby put a fight, complain ‘What about me?’”
     “Too bad, you’ve done everything for him—it’s your time now.  He’ll…”
     “Fall apart I can tell you this.   The man can barely make a sandwich…”
     “That is because you cook all the time and no one is allowed in your kitchen.”
    “Are you saying it is my fault that your father is a child?”
     “Sort of but no.  Anyway forget about dad, he’ll be fine.  He is currently in love with little Isabella.  We need to start planning our trip.”
     The phone rang and I instinctively knew it had to be Sam.  He had desperately wanted to be with my mother and I during this monumental event.  “I will drive you at least Juliana.”   Sam was a family man at the core of his being and understood the impact of losing loved ones even if it was merely temporary. 
     “Juliana, how did it go is your mother standing?”  It was my father
     “Of course dad!   It went well..difficult..but…“
     “I have a surprise—will you be there for a while?”
     “Um, yeah I mean for another hour or so then I have to…”
     “I’ll be home before that.”

                                                         CHAPTER TWENTY
"Forgiveness is the fragrance the violet sheds on the heel that has crushed it." - Mark Twain

     My mother made her signature omelet; stir fried sweet yellow onion with sliced baby portabella  mushrooms, slivered red peppers, diced early girl tomatoes and local goat cheese dotted with black olives.  While she worked on breakfast, we discussed the trip to Italy and the possibilities that lie before us.  Cooking was therapeutic to my mother.  I likened it to me needing a bike ride or someone needing to practice yoga during duress.  Preparing food gave my mother the opportunity to process thoughts.  As she chopped onions into little bits I could see her shoulders relax her harried emotions calmed with the whisking of eggs and milk.  Adding pinches of oregano and parsley reduced her fears and rooted her confidence. Adjusting her tattered apron, she stood tall moving gracefully around the kitchen.  As the black iron skillet sizzled with shredded potatoes I could see the rose color returning to my mother’s cheeks.  She was revived, renewed, and ready to gallop into her new destiny—Italia.
     “Smells good.”  My father called out.  Neither my mother nor I had heard him come in.
     “George.”
     “Dad.”
     “Yes on both accounts.  Sit down Isabella.”  My father bellowed in his usual commanding way.  He didn’t mean anything by the volume of his voice—it was habit.  And now that he was hard of hearing, it was as if everyone was growing deaf along with him; he projected his voice like a tenor in an opera house.  
     “In a minute the potatoes will burn if I don’t keep stirring.  What is it?  You’re sick is that it.  Tell me now I can take it.”
     “Sick?”
     “Well?” 
     “No of course I’m not sick.”  My father gestured to me as if asking is my mother gone mad.  His eyebrows bent inward; his hand and fingers spread wide.
     “Well I guess you don’t want my gift then?”
     “Gift?” 
     “Gift?”
     “Yes gift.”
     “Why are you giving me a gift?  Are you guilty of something?”  My mother scraped the potatoes and eggs on a platter and set them on the table.  She took off her apron and sat.
     “Okay George, out with it.  Juliana is my witness.”
     “Fine.  Here.”  My father slid an envelope across the worn wooden table He tapped it twice.  “Open it.” 
     “What is this your will or something?”
     “Mom, just open it for god’s sake.”  
     She looked at the envelope and reached for it as if waiting for a deadly diagnosis or a message saying your child has been killed in battle.  When she finally unsealed the envelope and looked at the contents I realized what my father had given her.
     “Oh my god George!”  She flew out of her seat and threw her arms around his broad shoulders.  He grinned like a man who had just succeeded in diffusing a world war.
          “Dad, that was so thoughtful of you—wow!”  I picked up the two airline tickets in disbelief.
          “They are good for the next six months.  You go to Italy and see your father.  And you your grandfather.”
          “But don’t you want to come too?”  My mother asked piously from pure guilt.  Prior to my father coming home she was denouncing him; “He will not stop me this time.  I have had it with him—I will go to Italy alone if I must.  No in fact, I don’t want him to go.” 
          “I think first you and Juliana should meet with your Poppi—I would be in the way and complaining. I’ll go the next time.”  It was the first time I had witnessed the softer side of my father.  As a child, he fretted over all of us and gave his love as much as he was able or knew how to.  Never one to say ‘I love you’ outright, he would respond with a ‘me too’ when told.  I always knew under his armor of detachment stood a man in need of knowing he was king. He was a man who shuffled his fears and insecurities around to keep them from tearing down the rugged exterior. Our family was used to my father’s finesse for sarcasm—it was his protection in any emotional battle.  
         “Dad that is so sweet so understanding of you so unlike you.”
          “I’m not being sweet just practical.  Let’s face it, you would resent me there Is?”
          “No, not resent you…”
          “Juliana, your mother is fibbing to save my feelings?”
          “Yes, Mom we talked about it..”
          “I never said…”
          “You did.”
         “Will one of you finish a sentence?  I don’t want to go period.  Isabella you know that it will be too much.  Go get sorted out—and I’ll meet your father.  I look forward to it really.”
     “Dad.  Thank you.  Come on let’s eat—mom’s eggs are getting cold!”
     “You not working at the hospital today?”  My father inquired scooping up omelet and potatoes.  “You’re the best cook Is.  I’ll starve to death when you’re gone—you know that.”
     “You’ll survive.”  My mother quipped back.
    “That you are mom. Yea—told them I would be late—today is an extra day for me this week anyway.  Money for Italy.”  
          “George, thank you. I am really grateful, really.”  My mother said.  
     We ate as mom and I reiterated our phone conversation then moved on to Louisa and baby Issie.  Mom thought Agnes had lost too much weight and that the baby was too fat.  I finished and carried my plate to the sink.
     “Honey you go—I know you are running late.”  My mother insisted.
     “Okay.  Love you both.”  
     “You take care of your mother over there.” 
     “I will but we’re not leaving this instant.  Bye dad.  See you mom—thanks for the breakfast” I gave them both a hug and left. 
         
     Pulling into the hospital driveway I was filled with dread.  I sat in the parking lot staring at the redwood trees. Evidence of a gorgeous day peeked out of the fog that was lifting I didn’t feel like facing strangers who were sick, grumpy, and in need.  I called Sam to talk.  Nate was at work and I knew would be unable to talk and that would annoy me.  We had been dealing with old issues that continued to linger unresolved for lack of time to talk about them.  Nate seemed distant when I spoke of my new found grandfather.  It was as if I was discussing a new bread recipe, reacting only with quiet grunts and nods
     “Hullo.”
     “Hey Sam it’s me.”
     “Oh my godt!  How didt it go?”
     “It was amazing.  I can’t even describe the feeling.  I want to leave for Italy.  Ugh, I am supposed to be at work.  I have no emotional stamina to face patients.”
     “Call in sick. I will come get you.”
     “I can’t.  I need the money and…”
     “I bring you lunch we can drive to Big Sur. Come come.”
     “Let me call and see how busy they are.  I guess I can say I don’t feel good and if they don’t really need me..”
     “Okay, okay.  Cough a little when you talk.  Call me back, I wait.”
     “Okay Sam, thanks.”
     As it turned out the floor was fairly quiet with several pending discharges and few surgeries on the board.  “We’ll be fine without you Juliana—feel better.” Although I felt a pang of guilt it melted away almost instantly and I was relieved to not have to play nurse today.  There are those times in my life when I want to escape and work is a welcomed distraction.  Concentrating on which medication to give who, checking IV’s, and monitoring post-op patients steered my mind away from nagging thoughts such as, is Nate sincere this time?  Or how will it be when Sam’s mother is here?  Will I feel uncomfortable or suffocated or, or?  It is like housecleaning—typically it annoys me to waste my time de-dusting and sanitizing.  Yet, at times these rote acts are therapeutic sort  of symbolic of cleansing the chaos.  
   But today was not one of those instances.  I wanted to wallow in my own thoughts and emotions and extract myself from reality.  I needed to exam and dissect my feelings, mull them over with someone to get a perspective on them.  When I called Sam, he was delighted.  He met me at the house so I could change out of my scrubs before heading to my beloved Big Sur.  Sam insisted on driving which was perfect--I could completely disconnect while gazing out of the car window.  Big Sur was a counselor of the highest order—a tranquil listener who with the scent of the sea and the soft azure colors never failed to bring clarity to my most turbulent thoughts.    As soon as we came to the Bixby Bridge, a wave of emotions rolled over me and I was consumed with sadness.  A deep profound sadness over the three lives that were cruelly kept a secret.  My Nona, my mother, and my grandfather.   All the wasted time they could have loved one another—my Nona could have returned to her “artiste de mare” her artist by the sea and they could have painted and I too would have painted with them.  
       “Talk to me Juliana.”  Sam patted my thigh.  “I never see you so quiet.”
     “It is all so tragic Sam.  A part of me wishes I never found out that Lucca is still alive—isn’t that horrible?”
     “No not really.  I understand—it twould be difficult for me too—if boom there was my grandfather who I think died now is here.  It twould be hardt. Let’s go sit by the river, yes?  I brought good bottle of vino andt a blanket—we relax.”
     “Yea that sounds perfect.”
     “I just can’t stop imaging Nona’s face her reaction if she were here.  I keep thinking how much happiness she would have felt.”
     “I know, I know.”  
As Sam pulled into the parking lot at Big Sur River’s Inn, I noticed bright orange and turquoise umbrellas open on the back patio and the scent of barbeque drifted in thin trails of smoke.  A sultry saxophone hummed, harmonizing with the muffled sound of voices. There must be a gathering of some sort I thought.  Sam scooped up the blanket and wine and we walked towards the back deck behind the restaurant where a small crowd was mulling about.  
     “I wonder what is going on?”  I asked more to myself than Sam.
     “I donno.  Look rose petals.”
     “Where?”
     “There—over by the trees.” Sam pointed to the two trees who shared the same trunk sort of like Siamese twins. About four feet upwards they parted ways and fanned their ancient branches dangling them over the water.  The cool creek water slid over stones and bubbled in spots like baby rapids eventually making its way out to the great Pacific Ocean.  The creek banks had rich brown dirt that carried a distinctive clean scent.  This was a favorite and sacred spot for couples pledging their lives to one another.  Sure enough, there was a path of rose pedals leading to a heart shape set directly under the luminous redwoods.  About twenty folding chairs had been placed horseshoe shaped around the makeshift altar.  Baskets of purple and yellow flowers sat on the outer edge of the isles.  
     “Oh Sam, look.”  There stood a bride in a simple white wedding dress.  She had pink roses in her hair which was in a loose pile with baby ringlets draping done her neck.  Her gorgeous brown skin glowed against the whiteness of the dress and the pearls she wore around her neck.
     “Are you going to cry?” Sam asked.
     “No I am not going to cry.”
     “Yes you are.”
     “So what if I do.”
     “But you don’t even know these peoples—and you cry?”  Sam chuckled.
     “It’s not funny—leave me alone.”
     At that moment a waiter came by to let us know there was going to be a short ceremony and to avoid sitting directly in the immediate area.  People were scattered, some in the river sitting on the oversized wooden chairs dipping their toes in the water.  Others were on the grass sipping wine or eating.  Children splashed about on rafts or were carrying stones stacking them into towers or castles.  Their squeals when a stone tumbled over reverberated across the creek and into the arms of the wise redwoods that stood guard along the grass.  It was indeed a magical place to wed—the communing of nature and those who traveled to gather, to relax to ponder or to marry.  
     The white folding chairs filled with guests as the three person quartet stopped and started to play The Wings  by Gustavo Santaolalla;
                               “You give me the wings to fly
                                 You are the clear blue sky
                                I’m floating so free, so high
                                Falling with grace, for you am I
                               You give me the wings to fly.”          

The singer sang in hushed tones as people turned in the seats watching for the bride and groom.  A young Indian man linked elbows with the woman in the wedding dress and slowly as if to keep the moment from passing too quickly, they walked towards the rose petal heart.  I began to sob as I thought of my Nona and Lucca and my own wedding to Sam and how I yearned one day to have a wedding for love—for forever.
     “Shhh, Juliana.  Don’t cry you make me sad.  This marriage tis happy no?”
     “Yes.”  I whispered.
     “Come let’s sit down.  Have a glass of wine—I godt your favorite.”
     “Farri Carono Sauvignon Blanc?”
     “Yes. Shhh, come come.”
     “Oh that was sweet Sam.  I want to watch though.”
     “Watch a wedding you don’t know the people?”
     “Yes.”
     “Okay sit.  I pour you a glass.”
     “I wish I could hear their vows.  Do you think it would be rude to go listen?”
     “Juliana—yes of course tis rude.”
     I could hear murmurs but not make out the words and the person conducting the ceremony asking them to repeat the sentence she uttered first.  A simple call and response—I strained to hear details but could only here bits of “do you and forever, your name in the night, yes.”
     “How long do you think they knew each other Sam?”
     “Who?”
     “The couple getting married.”
     “I donno.”
     “Guess.  I think three years, engaged for one or maybe just six months.”
     “Why do you care?  Who knows—maybe it tis arranged the marriage—they look Indian.”
     “Not all Indians have arranged marriages.  I knew a nurse who had been happily married to her husband for over forty years and it had been an arranged wedding.  It may not be a bad thing you know.”
     “Ya but could be disaster too.  Do you think you will marry again after we get our divorce?”
     “Who say we get divorce?”  Sam chuckled.  “I don’t know future—maybe.  And you?  You gonna marry Nate Juliana?”
     “I don’t know Sam, I really don’t know.  I love marriage though---I think it is a beautiful concept—too bad it fizzles.  Then somebody is left empty handed.  I am tired of committing to a man and receiving a fraction in return.”
     “You talking me or Nate—who gives just faction?”
      “Fraction.”
     “Frrraction.  Who?  I give the world you know that.”
     “You are different.  We are different.  This relationship is friendship—you know.  We were never lovers.”
     “I tink that is best to be first friends than lovers.  You never gave us a chance to grow I tink you are scared of Middle Eastern.  I understand.  We had sex—once—I wanted to have more but Nate boom stole you away.”
     “I didn’t know you felt that way Sam.  And the Middle Eastern thing is bull and you know that.  That is sexy to me—you are my Arabian Knight.”
     “Ah.”
     “I thought maybe you and I but we are not destined for lover and then Nate yea.  We fit each other.”
     “How you fit—sex fit?  That’s it just sex?”
     “No.  Not just that.   We have lover’s history you know?”
     “What tis lover’s history?  He walk out on you—I would never walk from woman I luv.”
     “He apologized.  I know I know I get confused but it is intrinsic love you know?  You can really command it or own it.  It morphs silently and you only notice the change afterwards.”
     “You never give me chance or time for us—I luv all of you—not just body Juliana.”
     “Things have to happen naturally Sam.”
     “Like this.”   Sam suddenly leaned down and kissed the back of neck and nibbled on my ear.
     “Careful.”
     “Why?”  Sam traced his fingers down my spine.  
Spontaneously I let myself go and kissed him.  His sweet soft lips felt warm and sensual.  We kissed for a moment.  “I can’t just do dis, I can’t Juliana.”  Sam whispered in my ear.
     “Me either, I know.”  
I snuggled into Sam and could feel his arousal.  I knew that it was not fair to him, I knew deep within I could only commit to one man at a time.   
     “Are you excited about your mother’s visit?”  I sat up, crossed my legs and faced Sam. He took my cue hesitantly and did the same. The three piece ensemble played a version of Frank Sinatra’s Fly Me to the Moon.”  A lazy breeze grazed our faces while the sun now sat directly over us. “You excited your mother will be here soon?”  I repeated.
     “Ah yes—one week.  It doesn’t fuzzle for everyone.
     “Fuzzle?
     “Fuzzle it doesn’t do that for all married people.”
     “You mean fizzle.  And yes I know there are many happy married couples.  But we are changing the subject remember?”
     “Tell me about the conversation—I been dying to hear details.  You only tell me little.”
     “Oh Sam it was incredible.  His voice sounded sweet you know…”
     “How does voices sound sweet—like caramel?”  Sam chuckled.
    “You know  kind—mellow with age.”
     “I know.  I am teasing.”
     “My mother, she became like a little girl.  She has been learning Italian.  He has a hard time with English—he said he can’t wait for us to come out.  He talked about Nona and how he has been looking for us and never forgot us.  Just so surreal—so sweet—so sad.”
     “But at least he foundt you.  It tis not too late—when are you going?”
     “Soon.  Ah, I am tired I didn’t sleep well last night.  Had nightmares.  My  mother said she imagined her Poppi like how Nona would describe him.  Young and strong—but I am sure he is not that way any longer—so much time has marched past.”  
     “He will be the same—just kissed with age that tis all.”
     “I want to paint with him.  Oh—I forgot to tell you.  My father, he surprised us with two tickets.  Couldn’t believe it.”
    “George told me he may do that.  Goodt for him.  He tries your dad—I like dhat about him.  What about your sister and brothers will they go?”
     “Mom and I will go first—then we can plan a reunion with everyone. Agnes and the baby have to meet him too.  How is little Issie?  I haven’t seen her in few days.”
     “She is goodt—so cute I luv her.  But I don’t want to give Ag wrong idea.”
     “What do you mean?”
     “I was there much much much but—I don’t want to be Poppi you know?”
    “Does Agnes want you to be?
     “I donno.  I —don’t want to hurt her—that bastard who left—“
     “Agnes is strong Sam just be honest with her  like you have been with me.”
     “Ya, I know.”
     “Ummm, that breeze is incredible.”
     “Close your eyes if you want.  Come come lay down—I will behave.”
     “I think I will, just for a sec.”
I felt as if my eye lids each weighed a hundred pounds.  The wedding had finished just as the sun’s rays had warmed the afternoon air that along with the wine lured me sweet slumber. As I drifted away, t could feel Sam stroking my hair whispering something in Arabic.
                                           CHAPTER TWENTY TWO
     “All that appears to stay the same suddenly is gone.”                      Angela Maisto

     I had been working feverishly on my latest series Feminine Resolve—trying to finish up for the Carmel-by-the-Sea Art Festival, which was in less than two weeks.  Sam’s mother, Aamira was visiting.  She lived up to the meaning of her name, ‘full of life’  and although she is undeniably adorable,  she does not speak a lick of English and my Arabic is atrocious.  She began following me out to my studio speaking in her native tongue trying to straighten up (it was usually in organized bedlam).  I had to ask Sam to please explain to her this was an art studio and it was supposed to have a scattered unkempt look.  
     Sam and I had taken her around highlighting the places we both loved: Big Sur,  Carmel, and the breathtaking bike path in Monterey where the sea lions gather to bark concerto like on the rocks.  Agnes and the baby, as well as Louisa joined us on that particular excursion.  Afterwards, we all went to lunch at the new Mediterranean café  that sat along the water. The hummus was the best I have had—lemony and fresh with hints of herbs.  Aamira had a falafel and a goat gyro which smelled delicious and she offered to give me half.  I refused explaining I had plenty.  We laughed at the baby as she was in that phase of nonsense babble and pointing to things.  She would bang on the tray of the high chair squealing, delighted over something we could only guess at.  
     Lou asked Sam if she could interview his mother for a project she was going to have in her Communications class in the fall semester.  Mother and son, chirped a resounding “Yes, yes, yes.”  Sam and his mother repeated particular words three times—yes was one of them.  They both had wide expressive smiles and teeth as white as a freshly painted wall.  The connection between them was palpable and I loved it. They laughed easily and clapped their hands in unison over things they enchanted in: baby Isabella, the food they would eat, or the passing of sail boat in the bay.  
     Aamira had completed her Chemo treatment and last month was given the all clear for cancer.  Sam stuffed her full of healthy meals.  Every night he poured over his menu gathering fresh herbs and vegetables while his mother listened to her Palestinian music—it sizzled through the room like a gyrating belly dancer.  Zajjaleen, a group in Israel that has revived the old folk songs reverberated through the house.  The melodies beckoned me to dance as they floated from the opened windows to my studio.
     While dinner was simmering I went back to work on my seventh piece—which I called “Anne.”  It depicted an Irish woman who had raised her ten children and now wanted to go back to Sligo, a gorgeous area along the west coast of Ireland.  Her face had the sternness of a woman who had toiled twelve hours six days a week to provide for her children—ensure they had a so called better life. Her eyes though were soft—alive with the idea of going back to her beloved Ireland.  As I spread the grey hues around her face to get the contrast of shades and shadows I wanted, I was jolted by a loud knock on the door.  I had resorted to locking my studio while working in order to keep interruptions to a minimum.  I had not bothered on this particular day to fix my face or hair as I had literally got up, made coffee and went straight out to my studio to work taking only short breaks to eat, Aamira and Sam insisted.  My hair remained tousled half in a hair tie and I had on my favorite overalls (baggy and torn) with a wrinkled tee shirt underneath—it was my favorite painting attire.
     “Just a sec.”  I yelled to the door.  I stuck my brush in my hair where it lodged jutting out over my left ear.   
     “Hi.”  
     “Nate.”  He was also looking disheveled an unusual occurrence for Nate.  He had baggy tee shirt and faded jeans on with a baseball cap turned bill backwards.
     “Can I talk to you for a moment?”  He pulled the brush from my hair and handed it to me.   His abruptness started me.
     “Sure, come on in—I was just trying to finish this last piece. The festival is around the corner.”  I sat the brush down on my easel.  “Do I get a hello kiss?”
     “What the hell is going on Juliana?”  Nate’s jaw clenched.
     “What are you talking about?
     “You me--Sam.  We haven’t seen each other for almost ten days now.  Every time I call you are busy.  You talk to Sam rather than me.  Why?  What is going on?”  Nate stared his face drained of blood and unshaven.   
     “Whoa, slow down. You have been swamped as well.  And I didn’t call you the other day because because  it just seemed as if this whole thing with my new found grandfather didn’t mean much to you.”
     “What are you talking about of course it does.  How can you say that?”
     “When you call you never ask me anything about it and I thought fine—I won’t bore you with it.  Plus you told me you were mentoring a student and had taken on more hours.  And—you went on a three day mountain biking thing.  So what is your problem?”   Suddenly the Israeli music stopped and I heard Sam yelling for me.
     “Has he become your real husband Juliana—I mean this is too fucking much.”
     “Don’t curse at me first of all.  Second of all—no—Sam’s mother is here, I promised to spend time with her, you…”
     “Why she is not your real mother-in-law, right?  We can’t even have a damn conversation without Sam in the middle.”
     “Sam and I have been friends for a very long time and…”
     “Long my ass—not longer than you and I.”
     “If you are going to keep talking to me in that tone—I don’t want to..”
     “Juliana, look, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.  You are torturing me though.  I did go on that trip, it was planned a while back and it was with a bunch of docs from the hospital.  I told you about it.  It’s just that a nurse I work with told me she saw you with some guy in Big Sur.”
     “Yes—it was Sam for gods sake.  I had just had the life changing conversation with my Poppi Zioio and…”
     “She told me you were kissing him.”  Nate looked at me the corners of his eyes frowning the lids opened wide as if afraid of the answer.
     “Sam is affectionate—you know that.”  I fidgeted over my side pockets trying not to break his stare that would be a sure sign of guilt.  The day in Big Sur with the rose petal wedding sprang to my mind.
     “Kissing in public on the lips is more than just being affectionate.  Are you sleeping with him as well?”
The studio door swung open—it was Sam.
     “Hey guys you want a glass of good Cab—I got one just opened.  How you doing Nate?”  Sam asked.
     “Great Sam, you?”
     “Goodt goodt—come my mother she is in the kitchen—she cleans up as I cook—she’s coo coo about that.” 
     “Yea okay in a minute.  Juliana and I are sorting something out—kinda need some privacy.”  Nate squared his shoulders like a gun slinger about to face off a duel.
     “Sure sure—dint mean to disturb you.”  Sam glanced at me briefly and walked away.
     “Are you sleeping with him?”
     “Of course not!  Well you haven’t been sleeping with me!  Juliana---I love you and I don’t want to lose you again.  It makes me uncomfortable you hanging around with your so-called husband all of the time.  How could you kiss him?”
     “Look it was innocent okay.  There was a wedding—we were talking and it was just a quick peck—I was thinking about you—I was an emotional lunatic that day.  And you weren’t available.”  I cast my eyes to the floor examining the swirls of cement.  Nate pulled my head up and gathered me to him.  He kissed me hard and fumbled to undo the bib of my overalls.
     “Nate…not here.”
     “Why?”  He whispered back.
     “Come on—Aamira and Sam are waiting.  Look, tonight I will come over…”
     “I can’t wait much longer Juliana.”  He swooped his lips down on my neck and pressed his body against me
     “I had to wait Nate.”
                                              CHAPTER TWENTY THREE
      “No one has ever loved the way everyone wants to be loved.”    Mignon McLaughlin

     “Why do you have to decide?”  Jillian asked throwing her hands in the air.  “Isn’t it possible to love two men?   They do it all of the time, love more than one woman that is.”
     “Now I never for a thousand years thought you’d say something like that Jills.”  I said stunned by her about face from her Christian dogma.
     “Me neither.”  Agnes said as she lifted her shirt to feed the baby.  “You know Jules—Jillian is right though.  You care deeply about Sam—but are you in love?  You love Nate but do you care deeply about him?”
     “That makes no sense Ag.”  I said.
     “Yes very confusing to me.”  My mother agreed.
     “Look it really is simply.  Isabella forgive what I am about to say.  It boils down to hot steamy sex with Nate or consistent love and security with Sam.  That is the bottom line—am I right Jules?”
     “It’s a little more complicated than that.  You could develop hot steaming with Sam if you stopped with Nate.  Will Nate be there if you get fat and wrinkly?”  Jillian asked.
      Since baby Isabella’s arrival—Jillian and Agnes were like sisters that had been separated at birth and now were re-connected catching up on each other’s lives.  They spent a lot of time together either taking little Issie to the park or hanging out at Jillian’s place.  The friendship was a solace each with their own reasons.  Consequently, Jillian had quieted her overzealous affinity for judging people.  She began to embrace the gray in life realizing that not everything is black and white, good or evil. 
     “Sex is not everything for Juliana.”  My mother said saying the sex as if it were a profanity.   “I mean of course it is important but so is eating well.”  Thankfully my mother went to the kitchen to look for something to eat.
     “There is homemade hummus and chips in the fridge mom.”  I shouted.  “Look this is not all about sex for god’s sake.”  I protested.
     “Liar.  Jules look—it is natural.  You have an animal passion for Nate. While your mother is in the kitchen—is he huge or what?”  Agnes asked  “I mean he must be—he does have an incredible body—how’s the girth?”
     “Agnes!”
     “Oh come on sis spill the measurements now I’m curious.”  Jillian laughed.
     “He is perfect okay.”
     “And Sam?”  Agnes and Jillian asked simultaneously.
     “It was only once and yes he is equally as perfect but I never let myself go with Sam—I mean it was just that once besides a kiss here or there.  He does kiss amazing.”  I couldn’t believe the conversation had diverted so far from the origin of this gathering.  We had been planning my mother and I’s trip to Italy.  We all had a go at talking to Poppi Zioio.  He and my mother had taken to speaking to each other once a week.  These were little snippets of conversation as they slowly began to get to fill in all of the empty blanks.  Because of his English and my mother’s Italian they were short talks yet they helped my mother feel at ease calling her father, Poppi.
     “So, we fly into London on Monday the eleventh and catch a Ryan air to Milan where Dante is going to meet us.”  I said reiterating the plans we had made in an effort to swing the topic back to a nonsexual non focused on my life topic. 
     “Nice try Jules.  Really though why is Nate now giving you an ultimatum?  He left in the first place.  He has not suffered enough as far as I am concerned—and not to mention—you just did an award winning festival and the guy never showed up to support you.  But Sam did.”  Agnes sounded like a trial lawyer making her case to the jury.
     “He was on call—I felt bad for him he wanted go.  He sent me flowers and took me out the next day to a great dinner.  Am I making excuses for him? No  I don’t think so and how long is he supposed to be chained to his past.  At some point, I, we, have to let that go.   I just don’t want to focus on this anymore.  Mom and I leave in one week for Italy.  I am sick of thinking about men right now.”
     “Hi mom.”  Louisa had just opened the front door.  She was in a haggard shirt and cut off blue jean shorts carrying a heavy sack that looked like a body bag.  “Do you mind if I do my laundry?  Hry everyone.  Where’s Nana?”
     “She’s in the kitchen.  I think I have stuff still in the washer just toss it in the dryer for me.  You look nice.”  I said in a sarcastic tone.  It is funny how children pick up our quirks and signature peculiarities.  Lou had my affinity for excessive causal dressing that flirted dangerously with imitating a modern Dickens character.
     “Fair enough Jules.  Besides getting away from both of them may give you clarity.”  Jillian said.
     “Thanks Jills, yeah, clarity.”
     “Yea.  But before we leave the men conversation—did I mention my latest?”  Agnes said.
     “No—who?” I asked.
     “Vasnath Kamir.”
     “The radiologist at the hospital—the tall Indian guy?”  I knew exactly who she meant.  He was a soft spoken, handsome Indian doctor who had trained at Boston U and had been working at the hospital for a few years now.
     “Wow!  How did that happen?”
     “Jillian and Joe introduced us.”  Agnes explained.  “Don’t know if it will go anywhere.  He actually lost his wife to a car accident five years ago—hasn’t dated much since.  He is super funny—now one knows that as he is pretty serious at work ya know.” 
     “That is great Ag.  Has he met the baby?”
     “Of course—he adores her.  He wanted children.  I don’t want to jinx it by talking about it though.”  Agnes said.  She clung to particular superstitions and discussing new love was one she took seriously.  I remember when she met Hank—she had been dating over a year before she let on that he was her boyfriend.
     “So what did we miss?”  Louisa asked as her and my mother came into the room.
     “Don’t ask.”  I warned.
     The rest of the afternoon we caught up with one another, opened a few bottles of wine and basically sipped the time away.  It was six pm when we finally dispersed pledging to get together again after mom and I came back from Italy.  As the door closed I knew it was time to face Nate—he had called twice and left me messages to please call him back.
     “Hi it’s me.”
     “Juliana can I see you?  You are leaving soon and we won’t see each other for a while.  I bought you something.”  Nate said.
     “Oh yeah?  What is it?”
     “No way—you have to see me to get your present.”
     “Okay then you win.  Of course I want to see you.  Let me pack a quick bag and I will come over.”
     “No need to.  I will pick you up in an hour—if that is alright? “
     “Yea that is fine.  Gives me enough time to shower.”
     “No don’t shower –“
     “Really?”
     “Really.”
                                        CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR
       “I am warning you I stink.”  I said to Nate as I closed the door after saying good-bye to Louisa.  
     “Good.  Do you want me to say hello to Lou first?”   Nate asked.  He too looked as if he hadn’t showered.  I could see the damp line of perspiration under his shirt outlining his arms and abdomen.
     “Nah, she is getting ready for a date—don’t worry about it.  Yum you smell good.”
     “Are you joking—I just finished biking I am a sweaty mess.”
     “I know.  I love the way your sweat smells.”  I said burying my nose in his arm pit.   “Pheromones I guess.”
     “You are such a hippie at heart.”  Nate grabbed me and gave me a long kiss. “Come on I can’t wait to show you your present/”
We hopped in his Jeep which was loaded down with mountain bikes.  One was caked in mud the other as clean as if it was brand new just off the floor of a bike store.  Nate turned in the opposite direction of his apartment.
     “Where are we going?”  I asked confused.
     “You’ll see.  Patience Juliana, patience.”  Nate tapped the top of my left thigh.  “Can’t spoil the surprise now.”
We drove in the direction of Carmel Valley.  The sun began to set gradually as a hint of red and orange evolved in the sky a time lapse of color.  The jeep jostled about punching over pot holes that had been recently fixed.  My curiosity about where the hell we were going grew.  I reminded Nate that I was dressed like a homeless person and had not showered.
     “I hope this isn’t a cruel joke and you are taking me to some fancy weirdo place.”  
     “Patience’s Julian patience’s.” Was all Nate would say.
     “Well you are being so mysterious and not talking.”
     “Look we are almost there relax.”  
We turned down a tiny road that led to a dead end. I could hear the shushing sound of waves.  Nate pulled into the driveway of a  house that had a deck overlooking the ocean and a side view of the Carmel hills. It was Spanish style with two palm trees flanking the sides.  Huge birds of paradise plants lined the front porch.  He got out and opened my door.  
     “Okay this is it.”  Nate said.  It was obvious no one was home,
     “What is it?”  I asked.
     “Your surprise.”
     “What is this a bed and breakfast—it looks abandoned.”
     “It’s your house.”
     “My house-- what do you mean?”
       “I bought this house for us Juliana.  That is why I have been working like a dog taking extra call shifts.  Come on you gotta see what I did.”  Nate sounded like a giddy child.  I had never seen him this way.  I stood flabbergasted—not knowing if I should be thrilled or pissed.  “Come on Juliana—come look.”
     “Oh my god Nate…this is unbelievable.”  I staggered towards the front door half afraid to go in.  In the entrance was a small water feature with a faint trickle sound.  The living room was already furnished with white couches and oversized pillows in bright oranges and turquoise.  They were the same sofas Nate had seen in passing and had causally asked if I like them.  At the time I said yes not knowing he was secretly shopping for us!  The kitchen had open French doors that led to the deck with a full view of the ocean.  On the deck was a portable fire pit and below the deck was small studio—which Nate had made for my art.  Two regular sized bedrooms one furnished with all of Nate’s things from the apartment were located to the left of the living room and to the right was the master bedroom.  Nate had not furnished that yet as he said he wanted me there and to pick out whatever I wanted.
     “But I still need a shower Nate.”  I laughed.   “I can’t believe you did this—I mean I mean I don’t know.”
     “In the bathroom there are towels, hair stuff, and I even bought you some comfy clothes to put on.  I am cooking you dinner, you are going to sit, relax, and enjoy the sunset.  Look.”  Nate pointed to the sky as it turned to a brilliant red with bands of yellow jutting in uneven lines.
     “My god Nate—it is beautiful, truly beautiful.  I am in shock I mean shock!  When did you buy it?”
     “A few months ago.  I had been saving for a house for the past five years.  A doc at my work was selling for a really fair price—he was diagnosed with cancer, wanted to see the world—didn’t have kids and offered it to me.  Oh Juliana—isn’t it perfect?  Oh, and the other mountain bike on my jeep—is yours.”
     “Are you trying to buy me Nate? “  I half teased half meant it.
     “No, I just thought you would love this place and I know you have to stay sometimes at Sam’s until the divorce but now you have a real place to call home.  Go take a shower—get relaxed.  I love you.”  Nate said as he scurried out to unload my new bike.
     I went to the shower—which had an all glass door with a bench shower and all of the shampoo, soap, and conditioner I use.  As the warm water pelted over my body—I realized I was feeling as if I was going to pass out.  It was too much—too much deciding on my future without my permission.  But what the hell was I going to say—without sounding like an ungrateful bitch?  I decided to just enjoy tonight—I was leaving for Italy in a week and would be gone for ten days.  I’d have time to think this all through.  I got out of the shower and put on a new pair of yoga pants and a big sweatshirt Nate had picked out.  They did indeed feel comfortable.  
     “Babe—here you go.”  Nate handed me a glass of champagne and we cheered to the house.  “And to our future Juliana.  This would be a perfect place for a family you know.  I mean there is almost an acre here—“
     “Slow down there Nate—now you are really freaking me out.  Let me just get used to the idea of a house first.”  
     “What don’t you like? You can paint or change anything you want to—this is yours.”
     “I like it all—it is just overwhelming.  I mean I thought my surprise would be like a new CD or something---I didn’t expect this grandiose…”
     “But it’s not really grandiose—I mean it’s a modest house three bedrooms two baths.”
     “That’s not what I meant.  It’s just that you bought me a house—a house without my permission I mean we haven’t really talked about all of this.”
     “It is our house not yours or mine but ours Juliana.  I thought you would love it—I thought…”
     “Nate, I do love it!  You know what, let’s not talk about anything negative tonight—let’s just celebrate your hard work and your being able to keep a secret.  I am impressed.”
     “You have no idea how many times I wanted to tell you.  Come on let’s go light the fire pit and sit outside.   Did you see the kitchen—it’s amazing—the island thing and the hanging pots.”
     “Nate—I don’t cook.”
     “I know but I do.”
     Nate and I spent the evening listening to our favorite radio station, KFOG out of San Francisco the music lead us through stages in our lives both personal and as a couple.  We laughed and reminisced; Nate spoke of the upgrades he planned for the house.  I suggested colors and décor that would enhance the ambiance and feel of living near the ocean and among the majestic hills of Carmel.  A part of me felt a panging guilt throb through my core; how could I not feel as enthusiastic over this “surprise” as Nate.  The nagging voice in my head repeated “once again he didn’t listen to you,” sounding like a child tattling on a sibling, it tapped me on the shoulder.  I tried to dismiss it but the nag refused to leave.  Nate was busy searing a fresh salmon with chopped garlic and stirring his homemade curry rice.  I acquiesced to my cooking aversion by offering to make a salad.  As I chopped and diced Nate rattled on about the art studio he built for me and how we needed to make our mark in every room.  
       We sipped glasses of Rosato, a dry Rose known as “sass in a glass” and sat out on the deck marveling at the beauty that lay at our fingertips.  The little tattler continued to pester me with reminders: ”What about your dreams Juliana?  What about painting in Italy?  What about your art?”  After dinner we walked down to my future art studio where on the wide bench we made love as if it was our last time.
                                          CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE
     “Hello, Sam you home?”  I shouted as I came through the front door after an exhausting day at the hospital.  “Sam?”
     “Hey mom, Sam is at Agnes’ house watching the baby.”  Lou said coming out of the bathroom.
     “Hi—I thought you had to work tonight?”  
     “They needed me to switch to day shift.  Just got here a few minutes ago.  Are you getting excited?”
     “Nervous.”
     “Mom, why?  You and Nana are going to have an amazing time in Italy. Nothing to be nervous about.”  Lou said with the confidence of a person unfamiliar with disappointment.
     “Well I know it is exciting—I guess it is an excited nervous.  God it felt good saying goodbye to work for a month.  Had annoying patients today and worked with two registry nurses who I swear acted like they had just graduated.  Glad it is over. ”
     “Yea, it’s hard working with lame or worse-- lazy people. So what was the surprise from Nate?  Did he ask you to marry him—oops you’re already married!”  Lou smirked.
     “Ha.  No he bought a house.”
     “A house?  For the two of you?”
     “Well kind of—it is gorgeous at the mouth of Carmel Valley—has ocean views.  He even built an art studio for me.”  
     “Then why do you not sound excited?”  
     “I don’t know?  I just was not expecting that—and I am not ready to settle down.  I like the living situation here…”
     “You mean with Sam?”
     “Yea I mean Sam and I are so comfortable with each other—when I don’t see him, I kinda miss him.  It’s weird.  But anyway—I have a lot to do before I get shackled to one spot.”
     “So will you paint while you’re there in Manarola?”
     “Of course.  I was going to ship some brushes and canvas over but Dante told me that Lucca er Nonno has everything I need and more.  To think in a few days I will be painting beside the man Nona spoke of so often.  It still is dreamlike to me.”
     “I know it is crazy to think about.  Is Nana packed—she is probably bringing her entire wardrobe?”  Lou laughed.
     “Oh she is—I have tried to tell her she won’t need her winter wool jacket but she says she “likes to be prepared!  So absurd.  How long is Sam gone for do you know?”
     “He said he’d be back by nine ish.  Why?”
     “Just curious.  I want to see him before I leave.”
     “Hmmm.  Do you love both of them?”
     “Me?  What Sam and Nate?”
     “Yea.  It seems you care about them both—but differently.”
     “I do.  So many things about Sam irritate me—but he is incredibly genuine—and he has grown on me.  He hears me and supports and I love that about him.”
     “And Nate?”  Lou asked raising her eyebrows.
     “Nate—is passion and raw but—he does not listen and I don’t know—I get confused.  Sometimes I want to run away from men altogether—just go to Italy and paint with my new found grandfather with no distractions.  But life is filled with distractions.  I guess that is what makes it complicated or exciting depending on how you look at it.”
     “I mean Nate is hot for sure—but just be careful that he doesn’t bail out again and leave you stranded.  I still don’t trust him.”  Lou said brushing her hair.  “Sam is solid and I think his accent is adorable and sexy.”
    “Nate is not going to bail—and if he did—this time I would not be devastated.  I have changed.  This last art show really boosted my confidence.  I’m happy and now, with Sam’s help, people are taking note of my work.  Do you want to run over to Ag’s and see little Issie?”
     “Yea that would be great—then I gotta go.  Promised my girlfriends I’d join them at Perry’s.”  Lou said.  “Michele Kats is singing there tonight.”
     “Tell her I said hi.  Let me change and we’ll go.”

     I threw on some shorts and a tee shirt and off Lou and I went.  It would be the last time I would see the baby for a while.  Agnes had been venturing out more and already looked as if she never bore a child.  She had worried that getting back into shape would be horrific but I knew she would be fine—she had only gained twenty-eight pounds through her pregnancy.   We got to the house and knocked on the front door before waltzing in.  I knocked as a courtesy only since Agnes had given me the keys to her house long ago.  But this evening the house was open.  It was a warm evening with little wind an unusual thing here in Monterey, especially in the summer.
     “Agnes?”  Lou called out.
     “Back here—on the patio.”
     “Coming!” I shouted
     “Now look what you do you wake Isabella.”  Sam said in a loud whisper his smile defying the claim.
     “Hello sweet baby.”  I said.  “Look at you.”  Sam had the baby in one arm while gently tapping his tablah, a round Arabic drum his mother had brought him from Israel. 
     “You came to take her away from me?  I was singing to her, Yalla Tran my mother sang to me this every night.”
     “A lullaby by Uncle Sam.  Come here precious.”  I said scooping up Isabella.  She squirmed in my arms as if irritated that I had plucked her from her first row concert seat.
     “Sam, that is so sweet.”  Louisa said.  “What does it mean?”
     “It is calling baby to sleep. My mother sang it to all of us.”  He began to sing drumming a soft melody.  “Nami yalla…”
      Lou’s cell phone rang startling Isabella.  She began to cry.
     “See she misses her uncle.”  Sam teased.
     “Hello.  Hey, what’s up?  Really. Sure okay—I can be there early.  I know me too.”  Lou said closing her phone.  “Mom I hate to do this to you but my friends are leaving earlier than planned because the place is apparently already packed out.  Can we go soon?”
     “Why don’t you take the car and go boom—I take your mom home—dthat okay Juliana?”  Sam asked.
     “Oh yea, that is fine.  I am all ready for tomorrow.  Go ahead honey—go have fun.  Are you spending the night tonight?”
     “Yea, I won’t be that late—I want to see you and Nana off. Bye little Issie.”  Louisa gave the baby a kiss and flew out of the house.  
     “So what you think of Nate’s house?”  Sam asked.
     “Ah you knew about it?”
     “Of course, he told me.  I know he is trying to uh you know like fish?”  Sam made a reeling motion with his hands.
     “Have you seen it?”
     “No need.  Do you like?”
     “It is very beautiful great area—ocean view.”
     “Can I ask you question?”
     “No—of course you can what?”
     “Do you love Nate Juliana?”  Sam asked while staring at me as if wanting to peel away my confusion.
     “I think I do Sam but there are things that I don’t know.”
     “Tings what tings?  I must say to you now—since you go away tomorrow.”  Sam interlaced his fingers together and leaned forward.  He had a worried look, his brows collapsed towards one another, his lips pursed as if he were about to whistle.  
     “I am only going for three weeks not eternity.”  I said knowing secretly that in the nooks and crevices of my unconscious, it may be longer.   I was open to letting fate take me by the hand to lead me to that very place my Nona had told me to go, ‘and paint like a reckless lover--perhaps I would be unable to leave.
     “I tell you what you know.  In here, you are deep.”  Sam patted his hand to his heart. 
      “I have fell in love with you come: you know right?”
        “Sam, I love you too.  I sometimes think that you and I, we could live and grow old together comfortable but Nate and I…”
     “Juliana you don’t give me chance—we make love once—I mean we kiss but not the same.  We could be good I tink. “
     “I admit and I know we could be good together—you listen—really listen and I love that.  I just, there is a part of me that can’t walk away from Nate—or thinks I can’t or couldn’t, yet a part of me wants to.  It makes no sense I can’t explain it. Besides, we are married right?”  I laughed and rocked Isabella.  “You deserve a real wife—“
     “I don’t need real wife.  Maybe I come to Italy and see you what you think?”
     “That would be great.  But I am going there to paint as well you know?”
     “I know, I know.”
     “Can we just drop all of this?  Let me focus, let’s not wreck the friendship. Okay?”
     “Okay.  I will stop.”
     “Thank you—it is beginning to get on my nerves!  You know, I thought you had fallen in love with Agnes—all those hours you two spent together while she was in bed.  I thought that it would be great for the two of you to be together—you already adore Isabella.”
     “I do luv Agnes—but not the same. She is on a date tonight—just friends.  We should put her to bed.”  Sam said pointing to the baby asleep in my arms.
     “Yea before she wakes up.  Good night my little precious one.”
     I climbed the long marble steps to Agnes’s room where a crib in the corner was set for Isabella.  Squishy toys that squeaked hung around the crib and several blankets that my mother had made where folded at the foot.   Agnes still didn’t trust that she would wake up the middle of the night if her baby cried and so she kept Isabella close.  After putting Isabella to bed, Sam and I waited for Agnes exchanging trivial conversation about my impending trip.    I told him my plans to coax Lucca to paint again and how I hoped I could find Nona’s earlier work.  Agnes came home and we said our good-byes.
                                              CHAPTER TWENTY SIX
“Fai mal’e ‘pensaci ; Fai ben’e scordeci.  You do bad remember it; you do good forget it.”                                                                                            Old Italian Proverb

     Louisa had to forgo coming to Italy; she had a full load at school and couldn’t afford to miss the first two weeks.  Although my mother and I were initially disappointed, we understood and agreed, school had to come first.  Lou had two semesters left before graduating in May.  She had worked hard these past four years, having to work and go to school was not easy.  I helped her as much as I could, but the fact remained that my daughter had a parent who although saved some for her college, was perpetually teetering on financial disaster. I had adopted my family’s philosophy—we were hard working but never had stock piles of money nesting in a bank somewhere.  We were a family of spenders—“why suffer through years of deprivation until retirement?”  My parents would say in hushed tones; live while you can, plan a little but don’t get hysterical over a few pennies tossed frivolously in the fountain of fun.
     As the pilot announced the beginning of our dissension, my mother and I buckled our seat belts and conversation quieted.  I think we both wanted to thumb through, for the last time, our thoughts and expectations.  We would land in Firenze in approximately thirty minutes.  The stewardess was coming around for the last time to collect leftover trash and to ask people to turn off all electric devices.  Heighten nerves jiggled through my stomach even though I knew it was a day to be happy not riddled with anxiety. But there was no denying, I was nervous.  Nervous for my mother that she would be disappointed or that her Poppi would be too old—walking with a limp, hunched wearing huge black framed glasses over an enlarged nose.  Nervous that all the pictures I had petitioned in my head would run together like a soggy watercolor.  Although Dante had sent photos of the house and Manarola, (Poppi Zio didn’t want his “fotographia” flying to America without him) pictures often capture the eye of the photographer leaving out essential details.
     I rummaged through my good-byes—to Sam and to Nate both had ended with tears and a wish for my safe return.  I could hear Nate as if he was sitting in front of me at this very moment.
     “Juliana, come back to me don’t fall in love with some hot Italian dude. I want to marry you and then we can travel—just like you have always wanted.  We have a house to come back to now—you have security for once in your life baby.”  A sadness for Nate—a weird sort of melancholy seeped up out of nowhere as he kissed me.  The type of sadness that you feel when you hurt your best friend’s feelings or break a “I promise not to tell” pledge. Sam and I had said our good-byes with Agnes and the baby and I had called Jillian.  Sam had whispered, ”Don’t misplace that you are my wife.” I laughed and promised to remember.  His jaw was set and his face furrowed with that worried look Sam gets.  A lump formed in my throat and as unexpected tears spilled over my cheeks, he clapped his hands and smiled.  “Good, you will miss us I see now!”
        We all knew the potency of this visit and that all of our lives would forever change—but we weren’t sure how.  Jillian and Joe were waiting for news about a baby they were hoping to adopt—a little girl from a pregnant teenager.  Agnes was now a confident mother and Jillian a seasoned auntie more prepared for a child of her own.
     I glanced at my mother who was fingering her rosary and whispering the Hail Mary Full of Grace.  I turned back to capture the cotton ball clouds splashing across the sky—I snapped a picture then returned to my thoughts.  My father had taken us to the airport and was his classic stoic self.  But I knew he worried about my mother and cared for her beyond all words to tell it.  He had bought a shiny pearl rosary for her, the one she now praying with.  “Give this to your mother will ya?  And Jules take care of her.” My father had said.
     The plane bounced down the runway just as the sky turned a golden blue.  My mother clutched my forearm and squeezed her eyes shut with her the rosary beads dangling in her other hand.  The plane rolled to a stop and she shouted “Grazie a voi, Dio!”  
     “Thank God Juliana we are here—in one piece!”
     “I know, I know.  Come on get your seat belt off—Italy awaits us.”  
     “Let me tuck this rosary in my bosom—can you believe your father bought that?  He hates anything to do with church.”
     “But he loves you.  Dante said for us to go directly to the baggage claim and he would meet us there remember?  Oh mom I am so excited.”
     “I feel like I have to vomit I am so nervous but happy too.”
     “Well please don’t vomit—breathe—you’re fine.”
We shuffled like children wading through a cafeteria line staring at the back of matted hair and crumpled clothing.  This portion of the plane ride had taken eight hours—the first leg of the trip was a mere six.  My mother and I headed straight for the ladies room to freshen up after she praised the pilot three times as if he were a saint that saved her life.  We ditched our sweat stained flying gear for fresh outfits tossed cold water over our faces and dabbed on some make-up.  My mother unveiled her new non-wrinkle navy pants and a white lacey shirt that showed her bosoms—discreetly. I put on a pair of light jeans that I dressed up with a hot green blouse I had borrowed from Agnes, and my heels from Paris.  We both lathered on a deep red lipstick and left the bathroom feeling ready for Dante.
     He was there as promised waving a welcome sign and looking more handsome than I had remembered.  His dark hair sleeked back emphasizing the square jaw and Romanesque nose.  The yellow polo shirt a contrast to the olive skin and the jeans that framed his toned physique gave Dante a sophisticated sensual style.   
     “Ah Juliana eh Isabella—saluti!”  Dante said.  The Italian rolling and extending of the vowels, made my name sound angelic.
     “Ciao, ciao Dante.”  My mother said smashing into him for an embrace.  
     “Bounasera Dante.  It is so good to be here!”  I said in my limited Italian.  Despite the fact that I had not studied the language formally, I knew enough to eek by and could understand more than I could speak—thanks to Nona.
     “You a must be a tired--huh?”  Dante said.  “We get a your suitcases and go.  Poppi has a feast waiting for you—including his homemade wine—which he only bringsa out for special occasions.”
     “Oh Dante I am nervous-do I look okay to you?” My mother said spinning in a circle.  She had worked hard at watching her diet and had managed to shed ten pounds before our trip.  I was impressed but told her—even with the extra ten pounds she was gorgeous and I meant it.  My mother was a full figured woman with a stunning face, full lips that did not go un-noticed by other men.  
     “Ah bella Isabella.  You look a fantastica.  Okay pick outa your baggage.”  Dante said.   We managed to snag the luggage fairly quickly considering the plane was packed and there was a crowd gathered all trying to spot their suitcases and bags.  
     Soon we were on the highway headed for the thin ribbon of road to the Cinque Terre.  Dante drove an old fiat that was fit for navigating the windy roads leading to the village of Manarola.  Although my mother and I eventually wanted to explore Florence and Pisa, both of which were on the way, we were too anxious to get to Manarola.  The tourist destinations would have to wait.
     “So we willa return here to Firenze—you musta see the David and the shopping—ah it tis bene.  Poppi he is a nervous—he worry you think he is too old—ah  my English not so good when I come back to Italy—I needa practice.  Juliana you help me eh?” 
     “Your English is far better than our Italian Dante.  Yea mom and I want to come back and see the art school Nona, Alessandra,  went to and the place her and Nonno met.  It is so gorgeous here!  The weather is unbelievable.”  I marveled.
     “This is a sign I think.”  My mother said.  
     “Yes a sign you are going to have a good time Isabella,” Dante laughed.

It took us about two and half hours to finally arrive in the town of Monterosa—the first of the villages in the Cinque Terre.  Here, Dante parked his car at a garage and we hopped on the local train.  It was the best and only way to travel to Manarola the smallest of the villages that make up the Cinque Terre.  The train reminded me of the trains my father would set up at Christmas time under the tree.  It puttered along the curve of the mountains announcing its arrival with a shrill whistle.  As we walked off the platform, I immediately felt as if Nona was standing beside me crying and clapping that I had finally arrived  in her “piccolo vinicino de mare”—her small village by the sea. 
     “Oh my god!” My mother practically screamed.  “I am dying from the beauty—it hurts my eyes.  Dante this is more than your photos ever revealed.  Wow!”  She threw her hands over her mouth as if she had just heard “surprise” at her own birthday party.
     “This is beyond beautiful I never imagined—it is staggering.  The colors—I see why artists flock here.”  I said scanning the green and pink houses that clung to the cliffs overlooking the turquoise sea.
     “Si Juliana, this a place is for artisti and lovers.”  Dante smirked. 
        I felt the blood rush to my face when Dante looked at me as if I was a school girl.  It somewhat bothered me and I vowed to myself to squash any crush immediately.  I didn’t want or need distractions here, I wanted only to immerse myself with art and my heritage. In some way I felt I that I was embarking on a pilgrimage. I hoped for clandestine finding of the paintings—those sacred paintings Alessandra and Lucca sold in order to escape to America.
   As we walked I drank in the sun drenched village with stone archways and hillsides bedecked with wild flowers and vineyards.  I heard the soft lull of the sea as it washed over the rocks below.  The lore of the narrow alleys and steps and the clanging of the church bell as it rang out high in its white washed steeple.  My senses were flooded with the smells of fresh bread and garlic floating from the windows and doors of the houses and cafés we passed.  The lilt of the Italian language echoed throughout –all reminders of Nona.  I smiled inwardly at my sense of awe.
     “How much longer Dante do we have?”  My mother asked opening and closing her fists repeatedly.
     “There—you see that a color house dangling over the water thata tis Poppi Zioio’s place.  Come.”
     The house was covered with bougainvillea  that sprawled up the pinkish orange wall where an old fishing boat sat collecting rays.  The bougainvillea drooped over the front window of Lucca’s house and onto to a stone overhang.  The house rested like an old dog content in its ancient stone foundation.  “This house was built long before my grandfather.” Dante told us like a tour guide providing historical facts.  A sweet aroma from the unkempt rose bushes caused me to pause for an extra sniff.  The red and white queens of the garden in full bloom seemed proud and prepared to be admired.  The land around the house was hemmed in by herbs: rosemary, oregano, huge basil plants, and grape vines.  
     “Are these the grapes Lucca,er Nonno uses for his wine?”  I asked.
     “Yes—he also has a small vineyard over the hillside—it is steep but a tomorrow I show you—the view is bellisimo.”  Dante said pointing to a terraced area of grapes that seemed to be growing ladder like to the sky.
     We walked to the front door a huge wooden structure with a large black knocker hanging on its’ center.  Dante knocked once and waltzed in.  The floor was a cooper color tile worn in spots.  The caramel yellow colored walls were decorated with art pieces that hung throughout.  The furniture a dark brown leather, was slightly worn but still elegant and facing the west was an enormous window overlooking the sea.
     “Nonno—noi siamo qui!”  Dante shouted.
      “You said we are here?”  My mother asked.  “Is my father deaf?”  
     “No no he hears a good and si, I tell him we a are here.  Poppi Zio a presto!”
     In the corner of my eye I see a man with silver white hair striding towards us.  His hands are clasped in front of him.  He wears a pair of black trousers and a pink shirt.  He is taller than I had imagined, fit with broad shoulders wearing a pair of stylish eye glasses.  I glance instinctively at my mother who has her arms extended--sobbing.
     “Ah Isabella!”  It is him—Lucca, Nona’s long lost lover, husband, my mother’s father—my grandfather.  Standing there—his voice breaks tears stream down his face and he makes no excuses for them—he is real and tangible.  He embraces my mother as if he has known her all of his life.  He cries unabashed.  Dante and I clasp hands and watch as if we are children watching something miraculous for the first time.
     “Poppi…”  My mother whispers.  I think for a moment she is going to faint as her knees buckled and she wraps her arms around his shoulders.  “Poppi, Poppi, Poppi.”  She repeats.  They sway back and forth for several seconds.  
     “Isabella…Isabella…belliisimo ah I so glada so glada.”  Poppi said grasping my mother’s hands then returns to hugging her rocking right and left.  Suddenly a loud wolf like howl reverberates through the room as a dog the size of a bull mastiff with the head of a springer spaniel comes traipsing towards us.  “Ah dis is a Massimo. Massimo dis a Isabella.”  Poppi io pets the dog on top of the head.  Massimo sniffs the air and licks my mother on the leg as if cleaning her.
     “Ah, see, he a likes you Isabella.”  Lucca smiles.  
Everyone laughs.  I send a mental thank you note to the dog for easing the intensity of the moment.  Lucca up until that moment had devoted his attention to my mother. He turned and looked at me as if I were a ghost come to life.
     “ Oh mio sembri Alessandra—oh mio Juliana”  Luccaio said grabbing both of my hands.  “You looka just like a your nonna—my Alessandra.”  He hugged me tight and I could feel the power of spirit flowing between us.  I could hear the voice of my grandmother “please remember” echoing  through the house.  My mother was sobbing on Dante while he patted her back like a baby needing to burp.  The sight of that made me giggle.
     “Mom, Nonno we should all be happy!  This is amazing to find one another--!”
      “Ah si si si you are a right.  Come we have a much to say to fill up a on” Lucca said.  “We need  musica and vino.”  He asked us all to go sit on the deck that overlooked the sea while he got things ready.  My mother insisted on helping him—it was wonderful to see her this happy.  My Nonnoio was a beautiful man.  He was a kind open hearted person and I thought no wonder he and Nona fell in love.  They were kindred souls.  
     I immediately felt at ease with him as if we had been hanging out for years.    Beautiful Italian music with the sounds of the mandolin and harp suddenly began to play.
     “Ah his a favorite—music that is.  The meeting it went a good si?”  Dante said to me while we waited.  “He is a gooda man—easy you know?”
      “Yes—I feel as though I have known him my whole life—I know that sounds cliché but…”
     “What is a this ‘cliché?’”  Dante asked.
     “You know ummm, a stereotype—a saying that is over simplified or used a lot or”
      “Okay si, I understand.  Our Nonno is very a famous in the Cinque Terre you know?  He has helped a many people here.”
     “My mother she is so happy Dante”
     “And you?”
      “Oh yes my god this is surreal.  I really want to get Lucca to paint with me—in the place he and my Nona painted .”  
     “He has not painted in a long a time Juliana.  But, I think you could persuade a him!  How is you’re a husband?”  Dante asked then looked away.
     “Sam?”
     “Si.”
     “We are not married for traditional reasons Dante—I married Sam so he could stay in the country—otherwise he would have gone back to a dangerous situation.”
     “Ah—I didn’t know.”  
     “But I care about him—he is a good man.  It’s sort of complicated.”
     “How complicated—you love another?”
      “Sort of…” I said relieved that Lucca and my mother were yelling from the kitchen.
      “Okay—here we go—Poppi’s wine—deliciouso some local cheese and fresh bread to start us off”  My mother said as if she had lived here for years and Dante and I were visiting.
     “Juliana you like a vino si?”  Lucca asked.  “You’re a Nona and I we make a wine and verdure ah no come si dice in Inglese, Dante?”  
     “Vegetables Poppi.”
     “Ah si.  We make  vegetablos with a the vino.  Alessandra did she still make a these a things?”  Lucca asked.
     “Oh yes Poppi.  My mother was an amazing woman—she grew vegetables, loved the sea…” My mother explained.
     “And she continued to paint—she was always and artist, Nonno—like you.”  I added.  Dante winked at me—knowing my plot.
     “Ah she did!  Bene, bene—I no artista anymore.  You a Juliana—you now are the familia artista—eh?  Dante he a tell me this.”
     “I learned from Nona Alessandra.  She told me all about you--you know.  She told me that you and her were the artists by the sea.”
     “Ah si si—a long time ago.  “
     “Maybe you could paint with me—that would be so wonderful Nonno—we could…”
     “Ah no non.  I forgetta—I don’t thinka I can .”  Lucca paused.  “But maybe—maybe I try.”
     “Poppi should I bring in the rest of the food?”  My mother asked.
     “Ah si Isabella—I help a you.  Come”  
My mother and Lucca went back to the kitchen and I was once again left alone with Dante.
     “Ah, I think you may have a gotten to him Juliana.  I want to see him a paint again—he is so good you know?”
     “I hope he will—I have never seen his work.”
     “Ah you will—you will.  He has something good to show you—and your mother—you will be a happy.”
     “What is it?”
     “No, it is a surprise I can nota, how do you a say, spill a the beans.”  Dante laughed.  He was truly a gorgeous man, physically and from the little I have been with him—inwardly as well.   The coastal breeze tossed his coal black hair to the side.  He had a bit of a five o’clock shadow—something I suspected he always had.  His thick lips and chiseled jaw reminded me of Nate.  
     “So how about you—tell me about you.”
     “Me? Ah I am boring—no painting, no writing.  I play musica –the mandolin—I love.  My wife and I we are…”  He moved his hands apart and I understood he was saying they were separated.  “But we are calm—for now.”
     “Relationships are hard.  They demand attention you can’t just leave them alone and expect them to survive.”  
     “Yes that is so.  My wife she is a French—I think we are too different—I need too much a attention perhaps huh?”
     “No, I think it is hard when people deep deep down are too different.”
     “So who is the lucky a man you love besides a Sam?”
     “His name is Nate.”
     “Ah the one who came early before the show began—si. He is a good?”
     “Yes he is great but—we are different.  I don’t want what he wants.”
     “What does he a want?”
     “He wants a house, a family and does not really get my art.”
     “A casa is good but I understand—you are a gypsy si?”
     “Ah yea a little I guess.  Not that I don’t want a house—just don’t want to feel trapped.”
     “You must a listen to your heart—and live what is in there.  That is what I am a trying to do.  Find what is in my heart Juliana.”    
The words he spoke hit me as if I had heard some prophetic declaration for the first time.  But that was it—I needed to stop being afraid to live my way—not Nate’s not Sam’s but mine.  
     “Here we go.”  My mother and Lucca had returned with an array of food.  There was everything from the drab to the elaborate—pickles to marinated fish, pasta cooked with pesto and tomatoes.  We ate the afternoon away while sipping wine in the warmth of the Mediterranean sun.  
                                         CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN
“Never stop introducing yourself to new situations; it broadens your perspective on everything you do.”                                                                         James Paul

     Lucca had a quaint apartment behind the house for my mother and I to stay in.  The windows had boxes of flowers underneath of them and the kitchen although small was darling with a large farm style sink. One side of the apartment faced the terraced vineyard and the other the sea.   It was attached to the house and at one time and had been the home of Nona and Lucca.  We both slept as if we had dropped into a coma.  
     The next morning my mother and I felt rejuvenated and ready to tour the Cinque Terre.  Lucca and Dante, after cappuccinos, showed us around all five villages. It was glorious.  I felt as if I was a young girl transported to a magical land with mysterious powers.  We hiked, took the little local train, and ended with  a boat ride back to Manarola.  The azure sea glistened in the warm afternoon sun with a slight breeze that carried away concerns replacing them with pure bliss.  We had spoken to Louisa and she couldn’t wait to come over as soon as her school was finished.  Agnes too was anxious to see all that my mother and I were describing.  Even Jillian conceded that she wished she had joined us.
     I spoke briefly to Sam and Nate—gave them a quick overview and begged off—there was too much to see to linger in conversation.
     It was about four in the afternoon when Lucca took us to his favorite outside café for a glass of wine and some mussels and clams.  It was there that we began to speak about the past. Tourists were few that day as it was the middle of the week and Manarola was not as sought after as the other villages.   Diving in and out of 1943 the year that Lucca was arrested and sent away, my mother and Nona escaped to America; and the year that Lucca and Alessandra saw one another for the last time.  The conversation would ricochet back to the present.  Lucca asked many questions.  My mother explained in detail, how they ended up in Monterey and how Nona had eventually married a man, Frank, whom she loved as much as she could.  But no one could move into the space she held for Lucca—her truest of loves.  Lucca listened captivated reconstructing the past one year at a time.   
     It was dusk when we finally decided it was time to go.  And besides, “I have a something to a show you a both.”  Lucca said.  As we strolled home the conversation quieted.  I was running through my own thoughts as I suspected everyone else was doing the same.  Or perhaps we were saving ourselves for round two.  We got back to the house and freshened up in our little apartment.  I was getting attached—my mother was as well. There was something unique and familiar—like coming home to your old room when you were a kid and seeing it again after years of being away.
     There was a knock on the door. 
     “Come in.”  My mother bellowed.  I was just coming out of the bathroom—trying to tame my hair—but it was useless.
     “Ah Poppi.  We were just…”
     “I wanta to a show something a now—eh?”
     “Si.  Yes let’s go.”  My mother waved her hand at me.
     We walked across the dirt road and up the hill towards the vineyard.  There  midway stood an old stone cottage.  It was surrounded by overgrown elm trees and an enormous gray and white rock facing the vineyards.  Lucca slowly approached the door and glanced at us briefly before opening it. It was dark with a slight musty smell.  He flicked on a  yellow light.  I waited for my eyes to adjust.
     “Oh my god, Poppi—whose are these oh my god…” My mother’s voice trailed off.
     “I know who—it was Alessandra—these are Nona’s paintings!”  
     The room was packed with artwork some in frames some still on easels.  There were brushes and palettes and oils in every color.  It was the art studio, my grandmother had often spoke of.  It had been where the two lovers had painted long ago.
    “Si—these a paintings a here—they are the founda ones.”  Lucca said pointing to a group of paintings secluded from the others.
     “I don’t understand Poppi.”  My mother said.
     “I do mom.”
     “Isabella, this a pictures are a the paintings your mama and I sell to a purchase you a biglietto.”
     “Ticket to America Isabella.” Dante said coming through the front door.  “Yes these we just recovered not long ago—a collector found them for us a we search for many a years and could not find them.  It twas almost the same a time I find a you and Juliana.”
     “Momma—“ My mother mouthed as she walked towards the paintings.  “I vaguely remember these or perhaps it may be I remember  because of her describing them to me many times.  The child and mother, the sea—I can’t believe it.”
     “Nona.”  There was a sense of completion rather than sadness.  We had found the part of Alessandra that had lied dormant but was now in front of us.
      “Tomorrow—Poppi—you must paint with Juliana.  You can do that for your Alessandra.”  My mother said as she came over and grabbed her father by the hand.  “It will be like before.”
     “Yes Nonno—we can work side by side it would be wonderful—it was Nona’s dream.  She always said, “go to my village and paint like a reckless lover.” 
     “Si.  Maybe you help a me—I want to a finish this.”  Lucca pulled out a half completed painting of Nona as a young girl.
     “Yes—we will do it together.  We will do it for Alessandra.”
     “Si—si.”  Lucca smashed his palms together then held my cheeks—something Nona always did.  I laughed aloud.   We walked back to the house and the conversation again returned to  stitching specifics of the past and present together.—as if we had stopped only for a few seconds from the discussion earlier in the day.  
      The night sky was packed with flickering stars that seemed to wink their excitement for all that had happened.  I excused myself and went to call Nate.  He had left me several messages the last one sounded urgent.
    “Hi.”
     “My god—hey you finally called I thought something happened?”  Nate sounded sincerely worried and it was good to hear his voice.
     “Much has happened—but it is all wonderful.  Nate.  I need to stay here for while.”
     “What do you mean stay?”
     “I want to stay longer than I intended.”
     “Longer?”
     “Yes, longer.”
     “How much longer is longer.  You have a home now Jules—I won’t lose you again.”
     “I have a home here as well.”
     “What are saying Juliana?”
     “I am saying for now—I am staying here in Italy.  I have a place that is as real a home as any place I’ve ever lived.”
     “Juliana, I love you.  How can you do this?”
     “I am not trying to hurt you or give you an ultimatum Nate—but this feels right and for once I am going to listen to myself…”
     “Don’t you think this a bit irrational?  What about your job, Louisa, your family?”
     “No it is  the sane-ist thing I've done in a while.  I can live here for free and work on my art.  Dante knows a place I can show my work and I’ve saved…”
     “This is about Dante isn’t it?’
     “God no, Nate—it is about me—nothing to do with a man for once in my life.”
     “Can I come see you?”
     “Yes of course—look I miss you but I have to do this-- I want to do this.”
     “When?”
     “When what?”
     “When can I come over?”
     “Give me a month or so…”
     “A  month Juliana!  I need you.”
     “Nate. Listen, I am not saying I don’t want to see you for god’s sake.  I will call you tomorrow.  It’s late. We can talk more tomorrow.  You know that I’ve been trying to live the life of an artist for a long time.  Now, I have been given that opportunity, I can’t just walk away from this, I can’t.  It has nothing to do with anyone except myself.  I have been my own road block for too long.  This is the place Nona told me about. She warned me—that I would not want to leave.”
     “I love you.  Don’t forget that.  I bought this house for us not me.  I’ll wait, I want us to be what I know we can be. I can take some time and come to Italy and stay with you.  Hell maybe I can kick start my writing again there.”
     “Nate, I need to do this alone.  You should write now, you are good.  I love you.  This has nothing to do with loving or not loving—I merely need time; give me time to paint like the artist Nona saw me as.  Then we can be that couple everyone envies; the one that hears each other and still holds hands when their skin is sagging around their ankles.” 
     “Your gorgeous skin will never sag  but if it does I will still make love to it.  Have you spoken to Sam about this?”
     “Yes, he told me I was crazy but he understood.  Basically he gave me his blessing but of course he is coming for a visit, he…”
     “Wait a minute, why does he get to come and I don’t, that is absurd..”
     “Nate, it’s for the marriage thing, he worries, you know Sam.  Besides he will only be here for a weekend and he will spend most of his time with my mother---he adores her. ”
     “Promise you will come back to me Juliana?’
     “I haven’t left Nate —I have simply discovered.”
                                                CHAPTER TWENTY EIGHT
“There is nothing like returning to a place that remains unchanged to find the ways in which you yourself have altered.”                                                               Nelson Mandela

     One year had passed since my return to Monterey for the meeting with INS.  Although Sam and I were a wreck the day of, we were armed with wedding photos and pictures of us in Italy; we felt prepared.  When we were finally called into the agent’s office, we were the last couple of the day. My stomach grimaced and Sam was sweating profusely.  Agent Bill was apparently looking forward to lunch though; he never asked any of the questions we were ready to answer.  Clutching hands, there was no awkward unfamiliarity between Sam and I and within fifteen minutes the entire ordeal was over. That evening I stayed with Nate in the new house and we discussed my return to Italy—it was something I had to do, alone.  We agreed that he would visit on a regular basis but would only stay for a week at a time.  I didn’t want distractions I wanted to paint.  In six months Louisa would join me as there was plenty of room in the apartment and she would be finished her studies.
  It was an amazing year. I painted with my grandfather almost daily and it was as if he had never stopped.   Lucca’s sense of color and perspective returned to him with ease. He would often play haunting Italian music that touched every cell in my body. The violins sounds floated through the studio like secret lovers dancing in the moonlight.  Lucca began to call me his little ciave, which means key in Italian.  When I asked him why he said, “You unlocked the artista Juliana.”   We usually would paint in the late afternoon and into the evening depending on the sun and how we felt. The vigorous sea air stirred my creativity and I knew was the cause for Lucca’s verve despite his age. He had an intriguing outlook that permeated never growing skeptical of the “la bellezza della vita”  the beauty of life.  Each morning Dante would join us for café and the most delicious breads that Lucca would make when he wasn’t painting.  Life fell into a rhythm like the rocking of a docked boat rising and falling with the water.  It was the first time in my life I felt content.  When Lou joined us, the circle was complete.  Lucca had arranged a job for her at a local restaurant, Trattoria Dal Billy (the most well known in Manarola) as she needed to work and save her money.  The rent and the art lessons were free.
    My mother reluctantly returned to Monterey but visited as often as possible.  My father accompanied her on one of the trips and he too fell in love with Lucca, the land, and Italy in general.  He understood why my mother couldn’t stay away; she had been away too long.  Agnes, whose baby was now walking, was anxious for my return and I knew I could not stay in Manarola forever sanctioned from the rest of the world.  It was time for me to face my life again and make decisions.    I had promised Nate one year; I was two month overdue.
     I bid farewell to Lucca and Dante, reassuring my Nonno that I would return in plenty of time for our debut exhibit at a new gallery in Monterossa.  We had completed all of the pieces we merely had to wait until the gallery opened its doors.  The painting of Nona as a young girl, titled The Alessandra  was going to be a featured piece with details of the story behind the artists. The gallery found  Lucca and I through Dante, who coerced the manager to visit our studio.  He was fascinated not only with our paintings but the story behind it as well.  Louisa would stay behind working at Trattoria Dal Billy and completing a few pieces she wanted to show.  She had flourished at the restaurant.  The owner adored her and the locals often requested her as their server.  It was a favorite for the tourists—the views were stunning and the sea food was always caught that morning.  Because Lucca knew the family, we -ate there often.
     I landed at San Jose airport where, Agnes, little Isabella, and Sam picked me up.  It was incredible to see Agnes and the baby, who was now toddling about.  She looked the spit image of Agnes and was muttering words and blowing kisses with her chubby little fist.  When we got to the house Jillian came by and we had a long lunch catching up with one another.  Joe and she were in the middle of adopting a little girl, Suzette, from China.  They hoped to have her in their arms for good by the end of the month.  Jillian looked radiant, truly happy and I told her so.  
     Sam and I went to visit Nona’s grave and spruce it up with fresh flowers.  We spoke of the year ahead and of the divorce that we would eventually get.
     “I can’t help it Jules, it makes me sad dthat we will not be married.”  
     “Sam why?  You have a new love interest—we are forever going to be friends.”
     “I don’t know why.  I tink I got used to you being my wife.” Sam laughed.  “Will you marry Nate?”
     “Not sure. “
     “Ah, I suspect you will.”
     “Maybe but the terms have to be right, you know?”
     “What do you mean terms?”
     “They’re like insurance for Nate and I being together.  The terms  have to be good for both of us.  Speaking of, I need to get going, he is picking me up in twenty minutes.”
     Sam dropped me off at the house.  He was still living in the same place with the furniture just as I had left it.  He had taken in a roommate to help with the rent and as it turns out they were now dating.  I teased him about falling in love with roommates and he laughed, something Sam always did with ease.  It was wonderful to see him again; our friendship was intact and I felt relieved he had found another woman to put his attentions on.  He deserved a woman to adore him.
     Nate picked me up and we went to the house in Carmel.  I had had those familiar butterflies but they flew away the minute he kissed me. It was good to smell his skin and feel his body press against me. 
He had been busy updating the house and the landscape around it. There were flowers and fruit trees scattered around the front of the house accented by gorgeous Japanese maples towards the back. 
     “Wow, the place looks amazing Nate.”  
     “Well, I figure I may have to put it on the market so why not upgrade when I can.”
     “You are already thinking of selling?”
     “I will if I have to.  Juliana, if you don’t want to be here, neither do I. I didn’t buy this place just for myself.  I bought it for us.”
     “I’m not sure Nate—I mean I need to go back for the art show and then I don’t know, if it does well I may be able to stay.  I know I need to decide I can’t keep living in limbo.”
     “Let’s not talk about it now.”
     “Really?”
     “Really.  I don’t want to ruin our time here together, we’ll figure it out.”
  I stayed for eight days with Nate, feeling content—making love having friends and family over for dinner.  The house began to grow on me.  I painted a little in the studio but felt more inspired to contemplate,  hang out and to visit my favorite beaches and woods.  It felt good to do a lot of nothing. The day I left, Nate and I cried and he swore he would visit soon.  He asked me to think about what it is that I truly want.
     I arrived back in Manarola eager to paint again.  Lucca had prepared a feast for my return.  We sat overlooking the sea catching up and discussing details for the upcoming exhibit.  I was now somewhat fluent in Italian, only stumbling here and there for words I had not memorized.  Lucca and Dante kept up their English as much as possible with lessons I gave them.  Lou had found a new friend, who was Irish Italian and exploring his Italia roots. I chuckled it was as if the merry-go round of life was in full swing.   I felt as if I had returned home.
     A week passed and I had not heard from Nate.  For a brief moment,  a panic came over me.  This is what you wanted I found myself saying but the truth was I missed him. I wanted him to be here with me—I didn’t want to live in America, at least not for now. It was around eight in the evening, the sun was setting coloring the sky a pink when the phone rang—it was Nate.
     “Hi baby.  What are you doing?”
     “Um, nothing—just thinking about you actually.”  I said.
     “Good.  What are your plans for the week?”
      “Um, getting ready for the exhibit and…”
     “I’ll be there.  Museo del Mare right?”
     “Yes.  You will be here?”
     “Yes.  I bought a one way ticket to Italy.”
     “Nate are you serious?  What about the house?”
     “We will figure it out; I have options and money tucked away.  I told you, I want to grow old with you—no matter what it takes. I can’t live apart any longer.  I love you.
     “Nate, I…”
     “Juliana, do you love me and want to spend the rest of your life with me?”
     “Yes.”
     “Then it’s settled.  I will see you in two days.”  
     I hung up the phone dumbfounded but elated.  It was as if I had been unshackled by an anchor. I smiled inside realizing, I had everything I had searched for. 
                                            CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
     As it turns out Nona was right when she predicted that it would be difficult to leave the Cinque Terra; it was a sacred paradise to me. After the exhibit at Museo del Mare, which Nate was there for, he stayed with me Manarola.  Lucca and I had much success and although he did not paint as much as I did; he was steady.   We had carved a name for ourselves, I was grateful to this gentle kindhearted man.  For although he had endured tragic losses in his life he remained generous; he really was the cause for my success as an artist.  
     Nate and I had rented a small house on the cliffs in between Dante and my Nonno.  Between Lucca’s apartment and our place there was plenty of  room for company.  Nate had left the Carmel house to a rental agency who occupied it with a new lawyer and his wife.  For the time being it was okay but we really wanted someone that loved the place for all of its beauty and love that went into it.  We figured at some point we would return to live there again.  Or perhaps, if we could swing it financially, do six months in Italy and six months in the states.  We traveled through Italy as much as we could.  He had started  travel writing and was collaborating with a guy Dante had introduced to him.  They were writing a book entitled, The Musica of Italia.   Everywhere we traveled he photographed and wrote about the music and its origins.  Mario, the partner would do the footwork finding him places to shoot and write about.  I could not always go with him on all of the excursions but my trust in Nate had been restored.  I was free of feelings of inadequacies  that had nagged me in the past.  
    Italy’s charm  and laissez faire life style lured both Nate and I into her arms.  We had no idea how long we would stay but at the moment we were in no rush to leave.  When I discovered I was pregnant,  I thought he would want to return to California.  But he surprised me. “Juliana, this is the perfect place for us to have a child.  We are happy here, besides your Nonno would be so sad if you left.”  There was the issue of not being married and Nate really wanted me to take him as his husband, officially.  We threw a quaint ceremony on Lucca’s deck, overlooking the Mediterranean.  Dante played his mandolin and after the very brief exchange of vows—we brought out Italian folk music which can tease even the shiest of dancers.  Nonno and my mother  cooked a world class meal that was pared perfectly for several varietals of wine.  It was truly the wedding I had dreamed of—casual and intimate with an incredible backdrop.  Agnes was not able to come as it was the last minute but promised to visit soon.  She too had discovered love again.
     After Sam and I had divorced he became  smitten with, Jemma, a Brazilian singer he had met in Monterey.  Jemma adored Sam and the two had gotten serious quickly.  He was also planning to come to Manarola, he hoped, for his first official honeymoon.  Nate and I told him that he could rent our place in Carmel if he wanted that we would give him a fairer than fair deal.  The house Sam and I  had lived in was being sold and he was desperately looking for a place. Sam and Jemma had opened a small café, Isabella’s  that featured pastries of Israel and sandwiches my mother created.  It was a perfect job for my mother ; she had people to cook for.   He often took little Issie with him as she adored her “Uncle Sammie”  and was thrilled that she had a restaurant named after her. 
       On November 22 I gave birth to my second daughter.  Things were different this time around;  I had the father by my side and I was able to have a home birth,.  Nate was incredible during the labor going beyond what I had ever thought he was capable of.  I could hear the lull of the sea—and it helped me relax.   Louisa was there to cut the umbilical cord with Nate.  We had decided there was only one name we could call our daughter; Alessandra Lucca.  When I told this to my mother she naturally sobbed.  She had wanted to come for the delivery but I asked her to wait a few weeks; let us bond as a family.  Lucca wept when he saw his new great granddaughter; he proclaim; “Ah another artista by the sea.  Alessandra.” 
                                                             The End