Stori
POSITANO, ITALY IS a scene I’ve viewed many times. Films, photographs, paintings, have all touted its grandeur. But nothing short of reality does this justice. Tile roofed houses dotting steep cliffs, an aquamarine sea gently lapping the pebbled beach, and the sight of flowers spilling from every ledge tickles my senses.
Sun beats through the windows and it’s barely ten a.m. We’re in the Mercedes van sent to pick us up, while the van with our luggage follows behind. The streets are narrow and winding, and Italian Vespa’s zoom past squeezing between us and the stone walls lining the roads. The Dragoni villa, in the family for generations, will be our home for the next few nights. Then the party’s over. It’s been without doubt the most beautiful time of my life. This kind of happiness had eluded me before. But you don’t long for what you don’t know. Now the idea of being without him is becoming unthinkable.
Today Oliver and I will have the afternoon to ourselves and he has plans, a surprise. The Dragonis are going to fulfill a wedding tradition when they attend Mass together as a family and share a meal with the officiant the day before the ceremony. Thankfully we’re not invited. We’ll meet back here tonight for rehearsal.
“Prepare yourselves. You’re about to be smothered in Italian hospitality,” Fig says from the furthest row back.
“Forewarned is forearmed,” Caroline adds.
“It was gracious of your grandmother to invite us to stay.”
Luca looks back from the front and gives us an impish grin.
“Nonna Rosa. She’s going to love you two.”
“Definitely,” Caroline chuckles at the thought.
“Why’s that?” Oliver asks.
“She’s the family matchmaker who’s always looking for a good love story,” Zarah says.
Oliver takes my hand and laces his fingers with mine.
“Then she’ll love us,” he says turning to me.
A weak smile is all I offer, but only because I’m not sure how to react. Did he just acknowledge the word love in relation to us? Stori, you sound like a schoolgirl. When Oliver sees my expression, he gives a little laugh, amused by my reaction. He leans in and gives me a kiss that ends my internal debate.
We take the final few turns and reach the ornate iron gates leading onto the property. An age-old carved plaque, wound with trailing ivy, reads Villa Della Grotta. Reaching for the button the driver announces our arrival. The gates swing open, and over the speaker I hear an excited woman greeting us in lyrical Italian.
“That’s our mother. Cosima,” Fig says.
“I guarantee father is on his cell,” Luca says quietly, gazing out the window.
The van takes the incline up to the entrance to the house. We pass the Italian Cyprus trees lining the driveway and the huge planters of rose colored bougainvillea on either side of the structure. The Villa is three stories and the dulled golden color of a fading sunset. I can see it extends to the side and hugs the hill in a tiered garden which reaches down towards the sea. There’s no other property blocking the view or access to the small beach I see a sliver of below.
“This is fantastc,” Oliver says.
Removing his sunglasses, he takes in the estate. Oliver fits perfectly in this setting. I can picture him as an Italian count in a bygone era, romantic and brooding. I’ll be his countess, ready to please him. It doesn’t escape me that I sound nothing like my feminist self now. It almost makes me laugh. But I give myself wide berth to be whomever I choose in my fantasy life.
The double front doors swing open. An elegant looking woman steps out and throws open her arms in greeting. I’m carried back to my high school days. I remember that face.
“I miei amori, benvenuti!”
We pile out of the van and Fig and Luca head for the arms of their mother. They envelop her in affection. There’s a whole lot of fast talking Italian flowing between the woman and her sons, but she doesn’t ignore her daughter-in-laws or Oliver and me. She gestures to us all to come take part in the love fest. Oliver, Zarah and I don’t know what’s being said, but we obey.
“Come, come!” Fig calls.
First Caroline greets her mother- in-law with a polite two cheek kiss. They exchange a few words, but it looks warm and welcoming from both sides. I’d say she’s tailored her greeting to Caroline’s personality. Then she holds out her arms to her new daughter-in-law, who not only kisses her cheeks, but gives her a big hug.
“Mama Cosima!” she says.
When Cosima touches Zarah’s spiky hair, she starts talking in Italian. Zarah just laughs her charming lilting laugh and gets her cheek pinched. Then the attention is turned to Oliver and me.
“Welcome, bambinos! You may not remember me, but I’m Cosima, Figaro and Luca’s mother,” she says in a thick accent.
“Of course we remember you,” I say, extending my hand and laughing at the fact that Oliver and I were just called babies.
“I’m so happy you were able to join us. It would have been tragic for the bride and groom if their best friends were absent. Bela coppia, and still sweethearts. Come in. Meet the rest of the family.”
As we enter the house, the twins’ grandmother is waiting just inside with a wide smile on her face. She leans on a cane. She’s a wisp of a woman with a thick head of white hair that probably adds three inches to her diminutive height. The twins react like they haven’t seen her in decades, and she loves every minute of their fawning. She’s older than I thought she’d be, maybe mid-eighties.
“This is Nonna Rosa!” Luca says to Oliver and me.
She smiles as if she’s seeing long lost family. Then she starts talking. In Italian. To us.
“Nonns! Stori e Olivero no . . .” Fig says.
I think he’s telling her we don’t speak a word of her language. She just waves him off and continues with her soliloquy. She comes right up to Oliver, reaches up and cups his chin in her firm grasp. It sounds like she’s admiring and then lecturing him, and I think I heard my name. He’s not sure what to do. Everyone finds this amusing, even Cosima who gently leads her mother in law into the open space just past the entry. She gestures to us to follow.
We walk into the most wonderfully authentic old world room, with tall ceilings and massive paintings which Oliver is eyeing. Mr. Dragoni enters from outside. Luca was right, I see him pocket his cell. I always thought he was a good looking man and the years have done nothing to convince me otherwise. The Italians have a lock on the best heads of hair. His is thick and a beautiful salt and pepper color. He’s coming from the expansive gardens and outdoor space visible from here.
The Mediterranean is on display in a one hundred and eighty degree show. It’s out of this world gorgeous. There must be twenty people working in the back, transforming the already one of a kind space into a wedding site. They’re attaching flowers and moving flowering trees. They’re covering arches which line a pathway with pale roses. Wow.
Zarah runs out to see for herself. As she passes her father in law she gives him a quick peck on the cheek.
“You made it! I was afraid you were having too much fun to show up for the wedding,” Mr. Dragoni says to the passing figure.
He laughs a bit, but I sense he’s one hundred percent serious in his statement. The twins embrace their father and exchange a few words in Italian. He says something sharp to Luca, who’s face darkens a bit. He returns an equally pointed response. Fig isn’t too happy with what was said either. Wonder what that’s about?
“Santini,” is Cosima’s one-word warning, accompanied with a serious expression of her own.
Caroline and Zarah offer kisses which are warmly taken. Then he turns to us.
“Welcome.”
“Nice to see you again, Mr. Dragoni,” Oliver says, extending a hand.
“And thank you for having us,” I add.
“No more Mr. Dragoni. His name is Santi,” Cosima says hooking her arm through his.
“That’s right. Now let’s go have our breakfast on the veranda. You must all be hungry.”
He leads us outside, under the bougainvillea-draped loggia, where one lone figure sits in the shade. She’s ancient looking, a tiny figure in black, who’s wrinkled from forehead to fingers. Her shoes are so tiny they look like they’ve been made for a doll. A smile brightens her face when she sees the twins.
“Bisnonna!” Luca says.
The twins surround her chair and give her delicate kisses on her mouth and cheek. Her wobbly hand touches each of their faces. Italian love talk is exchanged.
“This is Fig and Luca’s great-grandmother, Bisnonna Sophia,” Santi says.
This woman must be a hundred years old, but she’s living in a villa surrounded by her loving family, so I’d say it’s a good life.
For the next few hours we all enjoy each other’s company, the feast of food and the happy knowledge there’s about to be a wedding. Cosima catches Fig and Zarah up on the details of the planning. I see the magic in Zarah’s eyes as she talks about tomorrow’s plans. Then in the space of one sentence the spell is broken.
“What were you thinking, Luca? I just want to hear your excuse,” Santi says apropos of nothing I’ve heard.
But Luca doesn’t look confused. He knows exactly what his father is referring to.
“Like I told you earlier, it wasn’t my doing,” he says firmly.
Everyone at the table is uncomfortable except for Santi and Luca. They’re both too pissed. Santi shoots his wife a look before she has a chance to protest. He gets up and walks to the ledge of the picture window under the loggia and grabs a folded newspaper. He tosses it on the table in front of his son.
“I’d say this is proof enough.”
As I’m sitting next to Luca I can see what Santi is referring to. There on the front page is a big picture of Luca in the thick of the fight at the St. Tropez nightclub. He’s got this grin on his face. It looks as if he’s assaulting the woman who jumped on Oliver’s back. The angle makes it look like he’s the aggressor and doesn’t include Oliver or Fig. The headline’s in Italian but I see the Dragoni name in capitals.
“Let me see that,” Fig says.
Luca turns the paper for all to see.
“That’s completely misleading!” Fig says loudly.
“That was my fight and my fault,” Oliver adds.
Zarah and Caroline and I join in the heated discussion making sure Luca doesn’t take the blame for what he’s not responsible for. Santi holds up his hand to quiet our responses.
“Alright, alright. You’ve got some good friends, Luca.”
Oliver gets that instantly angered look on his face.
“It has nothing to do with our friendship. I was defending Stori, and it got a little out of hand. Fig and Luca came to help when that woman jumped on my back”
Santi looks Oliver over for a moment before he responds. He wags a finger.
“I bet you’re a hot head like my son.”
The expression on Oliver’s face is doing nothing to disprove Santi’s opinion. But before things can go any further, Cosima saves the day.
“Why are we wasting time talking about unimportant things? Let’s show everyone their rooms and we can all relax for an hour before we have to leave for church.”
Chairs scrape back across the mosaic floor and we all rise, before she gets the last word out. There’s not a person here who isn’t happy to leave the table.
“I’ll make sure Oliver and Stori get the tour,” Fig says.
The three of us make it upstairs and in our room before Fig fills in the blanks. He sees the look on Oliver’s face.
“I know. My father and brother get on each other’s nerves. Luca always gets the blame.”
“That fight had nothing to do with him,” Oliver says.
“We know that, but believe me my father isn’t going to change his mind. It all stems from things that happened when we were young. Luca was never what my father considered a business man. And he loves to have fun.”
“What’s wrong with that?” I say.
“Nothing. And really, he’s the most creative thinker of the three of us. But my dad’s missing that. He still thinks he’s the twenty-year-old who’s only interested in partying. They’re just two different personalities, nothing more.”
Fig shakes his head in disgust. “I’m hoping he allows Luca to move to New York. I’d love to have him with me. He’s an asset to the company, but I don’t think he’s been given the opportunity to shine. A continent away from my father would do it.”
Oliver nods his agreement and places a hand on Fig’s shoulder.
“It’ll work out. Hey, tomorrow’s your wedding, brother. Let everything else go.”
“You’re right. I’m going to go let my bride comfort me,” he laughs.
As he walks out the door he calls back, “Don’t get lost, you two.”
When the door closes, I start questioning Oliver.
“Just where are you taking me?”
“Close.”
He holds me in his arms. An eyebrow lifts. “You’re going to need your bathing suit.”
“Sounds good. Should I bring a towel?” I say trying to get closer to the truth.
“You need to wear tennis shoes. Don’t worry about a towel. I’m coming prepared.”
That was the last bit of information I got. We waited till we heard the Dragoni’s leaving the villa, then we made it downstairs, me in my bathing suit and tennis shoes, Oliver in his. He’s carrying a duffle bag, but it’s zipped so I have no idea what’s inside.
“We’re just going down to the private beach, come on,” he says taking my hand in his as we walk out to the back.
The sunlight instantly warms my skin when we pass from under the loggia into the gardens.
“Do you know how to get down there?”
“I know all kinds of things,” he teases.
We begin following a tiled walkway that leads to a set of stairs. Flowering trees accent every tier of the staircase all the way down to the beach. Now I see the sand and protected inlet just for the Dragoni’s private use. Rocky cliffs with lush green vegetation spilling over the top rise on either side and almost come together at the furthest point. Only a small boat could pass through. That’s why the water is so calm here. It takes us only a few minutes to reach the bottom step. But just as I’m about to kick off my shoes, Oliver stops me.
“Not yet.”
Before I have a chance to question, he leads me onto a narrow slate path that runs to the right. It goes all the way to the wall of the inlet. But it doesn’t end there. It continues forward to the front of the rocks where it looks to disappear in the ocean.
“Where’re you taking me?”
He lifts the long strap of the duffle over his head. Now both hands are free.
“To Paradise. We’re going to go slow. There’s a handrail. Use it. I’ll lead.”