Eighteen Months Ago

I’m in my father’s study, gazing out over the backyard. The grass holds memories of the years I lived in this house with my parents. I see myself playing jump rope and turning cartwheels with Nolan whenever he came to stay with us on weekends and most holidays. Although Nolan and I don’t share a mother, they’re both the same kind of self-indulgent woman. But my mind won’t let me bellyache about my mother right now.

All I see is Nolan and me in our favorite spot—kicking a ball between us, throwing a baseball, and playing on the Slip-n-Slide. We are eight and ten, then ten and twelve. We’re running back and forth in front of this window with our dog, Harry. I’m giggling, Nolan is rolling over laughing, and Harry is barking—it’s the perfect song to finally get what we want.

Then our dad appears. Bill Patrick. He’s standing exactly where I’m standing now. His 6’4” height makes him look like a beautiful giant. It’s early fall and a little nippy, so he’s wearing his cream turtleneck sweater. He’s taken a break to suck on his pipe for a while.

Nolan and I stop and wave at him. He waves back and laughs when Harry tackles Nolan and licks all over his face. My brother and I could always rest assured that we made our father happy.

I take my eyes off those memories and see new ones in the lake beyond the grass. My dad would watch as Nolan and I swam or rode the jet skis. When we became teenagers, he’d go boating with us on Sunday afternoons. We weren’t the kind of kids who got too old for our old man. The older we became, the more valuable he was to us.

My dad was our pillar of wisdom. He taught us how to solve our problems, and when we couldn’t come up with an answer, he didn’t browbeat us until we did. He loved us. He hugged us. He stood beside us through the darkness until we found the light.

The last thing John, my ex-husband, said to me was that having our son was my wish, not his. Therefore, he doesn’t need to have anything to do with him. I’ve been in a daze ever since then. I left the lawyer’s office, got into my car, and drove until I ended up here. This room still smells like citrus and fine cigars—the same scent my dad carried on his clothes and skin.

Less than an hour ago, I signed divorce papers and said good-bye to a relationship that I thought would last forever, but I’m only heartbroken by the absence of my father. I try to think of what he would say to me at this very moment, but nothing comes to me. Even if I latch on to his odor and his energy in the air, I get nothing.

I hug myself tighter and the words, “He’s never coming back,” escape me.

My dad isn’t here to give me what I need, and I still have no idea what that is. I’m about to sit at his desk and wait it out until an answer comes to me, but I’m struck by a prevailing need to escape.

As the late afternoon sun drops to the other side of the world, I turn my back on the window. This house used to be one place I could go to find clarity, but now the air smothers me. The silence is creepy, and my heart wants my feet to run as far and fast away from here as I can. So I rush out of the house that was once my father’s but now belongs to a ghost.

As soon as I make it to my car, I call Elsa Leoni, a friend of mine who lives in Bari, Italy.

Elsa picks up on the second ring. “Is this Liza?” she says in a colorful English accent influenced by Italian, British English, American English, and her native Scottish heritage.

Hearing her voice makes tears roll from my eyes. She’s on the other side of the world, and I just know I’d feel much better if I were in her company.

However, I smile hard to keep myself from blubbering. “Yes, this is she.”

“Come stai?”

I can tell her a lie or admit the truth. “Non sto bene.”

“No?” she says in a sympathetic tone.

I turn down Ashe Street. I’ve taken this road probably a million times. The sight of the same large trees and small lakes threatens to choke me to death. Maybe because they remind me of how I felt making the drive up this street many times before, knowing that I was either going to see my dad or had already seen him and was feeling much better.

“I was wondering if your offer still stands?”

“Absolutely,” she says.

“I think the baby and I are ready to be somewhere else, at least for now.”

“Then come! When?”

I wasn’t prepared for her excitement, and I’m so happy to be accepted with such wide-open arms. “As soon as possible.”

There’s a loud voice on her end of the line. Now Elsa is speaking, but she sounds muffled. She must’ve put a hand over the phone.

“Liza, I must go. The cameras are not working in one of the studios. Call me when you arrive, and I will come for you, okay?”

I cover my mouth with one hand and nod. “Okay,” I say, miraculously without crying.

When I get back to my house, I pay the babysitter and send her home. Then I pack Aiden’s things, bringing enough blankets, bottles, bibs, and onesies to last at least two weeks. Next I pack for myself, taking enough for a few weeks at least.

I go online to search for a comfortable first-class ticket to Italy. I find a flight that leaves in four hours, book it, and call Elsa with my flight details. I’m blessed that Aiden is such a good baby. He’s in the living room, strapped in his convertible stroller, captivated by the purple dinosaur dancing, singing, and playing with kids on TV. I dart from one end of the house to the other, making sure I’ve left nothing important.

I’m antsy until the cab arrives. I don’t want anyone to catch me. Deep inside, I feel as if I’m sneaking away from my life. When the taxi arrives, it’s as if I remember to breathe again. Like a busy ant, I race all three pieces of my luggage out to the curb, along with Aiden’s convertible stroller. The driver helps me pack everything into the trunk.

“You plan on coming back?” he asks with a laugh.

I bite my lip while pondering what he said. Do I plan on coming back?

I don’t have to answer now because the driver smiles and says, “That’s it. We’re ready.”

I get in the backseat and strap Aiden in beside me. As we ride out of the neighborhood John and I so meticulously sought and found, thinking that we would raise our family here and live happily ever after, all I can do is try to answer the last question asked of me. It may have been rhetorical, but it was vital.

Am I coming back? The answer is yes. I have to come back. What else can I do? Where else can I live? Who else can I be but sprawling colonials, trimmed grass, and mounds and mounds of trees that have outlived generations?

Eighteen hours later, after a layover at JFK, flying into Rome, clearing customs, and taking a shorter nonstop flight, we reach Bari. God must’ve known John would be a deadbeat human being because Aiden is a fantastic travel companion. All I had to do was feed him, burp him, change him, and remember to keep his ears plugged so that he could tolerate the altitude. But for the most part, he remained asleep for the eighteen hours.

Elsa and her husband, Giovanni, are already waiting when I reach baggage claim. They’re both waving. Elsa always reminds me of Gwyneth Paltrow because of her short blond haircut, gracefully long neck and limbs, and effortless but chic style. I push Aiden’s stroller toward them, and Elsa waits with open arms. My feet turn heavier and my eyes burn. I feel like crying and confessing all of the stuff that’s been hurting me, but I still can’t articulate what that is. Regardless, when I make it into her arms, I feel as if I’ve finally reached the finish line.

Elsa lives in a flat near the TV station she owns and operates with Giovanni. They occupy the entire top two floors of a seven-story building, which is one of the few older residential buildings in the city with a nice-sized elevator. As we ride up with my baby and luggage, Elsa tells me for the umpteenth time that I need to get some food and sleep. She laid out the plan in the car ride over, and we follow it.

I kiss Aiden and hand him over to Elsa. She kisses his cheeks and calls him a sweet bambino. She promises to bathe him and feed him. She and the kids will play with him because they’re happy to have a fresh new baby in the house, and when he’s all tired out, their nanny will lay him in the crib beside my bed. I’m so mentally and emotionally drained that I follow Elsa thoughtlessly to the room she has prepared for me.

“You go bathe, and I will have your luggage and food brought to your room,” she says, stroking my cheek.

“Thank you.”

She takes my hands. “We will try to make it all better, but first, you must rest. It does not look as though you have had much of it.”

“I haven’t,” I confess.

“And you’re thin.”

I nod. Although I just had a baby, during the pregnancy, I wasn’t able to gain much weight because I was busy at work, and after delivering the baby, I lost more weight due to stress.

Elsa leaves me alone, and the first thing I do is go into the attached bathroom and take a hot shower. With each passing moment, my eyelids get heavier. After my shower, I put on one of the fresh white nightgowns hanging on the wall rack. Elsa keeps them and all the essentials of living ready and waiting for her guests; it’s like staying in a luxurious five-star hotel.

When I leave the bathroom and go back into the bedroom, I discover a fresh cheese and pancetta panini and a cup of hot tea waiting on the nightstand. I crawl into the comfortable white bedding, take a few bites of the sandwich, two sips of hot tea, and before long, my eyes are closed and I’m fast asleep.

I spend the next three weeks crying, sometimes while nursing Aiden, but many times as I lie in bed alone. I cry a lot with Elsa after she gets home from work. We sit on the balcony and talk, drinking decaf coffee for me and red wine for her.

Tomorrow I’m to fly back to Minnesota. Today’s weather is perfect, and when I opened my eyes this morning, I felt as if all the tears had drained out of me so I could finally step back into my body. I found myself alert at breakfast. Elsa even commented that the color had finally returned to my complexion. After our café lattes, breads, cheeses, and fruit, we decided to take the kids to the sea.

Now Elsa and I are sitting on a blanket in the sand. I’m probably the only woman who hasn’t gone topless. At first seeing women without bikini tops was jarring, but then I remembered this is Italy. Not even the children are traumatized by the slew of nipples and slopes.

“You know I’ve been cooped up in your lovely house for the last three weeks.” I take a deep breath, tasting the salty air. “I would’ve loved to have gone to Rome, Bologna, and Milan. Then down to Cannes. I’d cruise the Italian Riviera all the way to Naples.”

Elsa stops rubbing sunscreen on her shoulder. “Then stay, and you and I will do it.”

I raise an eyebrow, intrigued. “That actually wouldn’t be so bad. Three more weeks. That’s it.”

“Or however long it takes.”

I gaze off to picture how wonderful that would be. “I would definitely have to bring Aiden.”

“And my nanny.”

I quickly face her. “Your nanny?”

“Yes.”

We look at the shore, where Floriana, the nanny, has Aiden dangling in front of her in a sling. His legs are still a little stiff, but every now and then, they kick happily. One of Elsa’s kids dives into the water, showing off for Aiden. I chuckle.

“But doesn’t she have to tend to your children?”

Elsa shrugs. “My mother-in-law will watch them.”

“And what about Giovanni?”

“He will stay and do my job, and we will go, yes?” She watches me with a smile.

I study her expression. “You’ve been such a good friend.”

“And so have you.”

My eyes water, and I sniff back tears as I hug her.

“Remember how we first met?” I ask, still holding her.

“You were my favorite student.”

We let go of each other. “You were a good such professor, and I was just trying out a media class to see how it felt.”

“I always say you missed your calling.”

I sigh shallowly. “My dad used to say…” I bob my head as I imitate him. “‘Go into business. You’ll be more successful.’ So that’s what I did.”

“And now here you are,” she says.

I furrow my eyebrows, then release them. “Yes, here I am. A twenty-seven-year-old single mother and divorcee.” My shoulders slump because I’m feeling sorry for myself again.

Elsa rubs my back. “That is not what I meant. Here you are, alive and enjoying the sun. You have a beautiful son, a beautiful face, and the rest of your life ahead of you.”

She’s been saying things like that to me for the last three weeks. They’re beginning to seep in, although I have a long way to go in order to believe them.

“Okay then,” I say, getting back to her earlier question.

“Okay?”

“I’ll go. We’ll go.”

She shakes her fist in a cute way. “Yes, yes, yes! Now take your shirt off.”

I look around the beach. “You’re right.” I untie my bikini top. “It’s time for me to get with the program.”

We laugh as my milk-engorged tits join the rest of the world.

* * *

Three weeks of traipsing across Italy turns into a month and a half. I take Elsa to visit places she’s never heard of. We’re at the Castillo di Rizzi outside of Naples, a castle that was obtained by Orlando De Luca as a payoff of a gambling debt in 1589. In 1601, Orlando died, and his sons, Dino and Vitale, dueled to the death for ownership of the castle. Vitale won. It was later discovered that he was not Orlando’s real son but the result of an affair between Enzo Rizzi and Orlando’s wife, Beatrice, who was Enzo’s third cousin.

“You have known a lot about the places we visited,” Elsa says.

We’re walking through the estate’s famous tomato garden, shaded by the spiraling tree limbs over our heads.

“I do a lot of reading before I travel, and I’ve done a lot of traveling in my life.”

She grunts thoughtfully.

“What?” I ask.

We make it to a stone bench and sit. Together we turn to observe a statue of a naked boy standing in the bowl-shaped fountain with water spraying out of the cup in his hand.

“What do you know about this?” she asks sarcastically.

“Well… it’s the cup that Vitale drank from after he shot his brother to death.”

“His half brother.”

I raise a finger. “That would be correct.”

We chuckle softly.

“Have you considered staying?”

I sit up straight. “In Italy?”

She goes on to tell me about a government grant they’ve been given to produce an English language show that will promote tourism.

“You have instructed me thoroughly during our travels, and our journeys would make the most interesting program.” She taps me lightly on the shoulder as if another great idea just came to her. “And you will be the talent.”

I blink, taken aback by her proposition. “Wow. I don’t know what to say. I never considered living outside the United States.”

“You can consider it now.”

I open my mouth to staunchly refuse the offer, but then I close it. Before my father died, I quit my job as the chief executive officer at the Minneapolis branch of our family-owned enterprise, North Star Holdings, because I planned to start my career as a stay-at-home mom. Funny… when I shared my plan with my dad, he said the longest journey I’ll ever take would be from my head to my heart. Then he asked if I was sure leaving the business was what I truly desired.

“Of course!” I said, slightly irritated that he questioned my decision.

But now I don’t know. Flat-out saying no to Elsa’s offer doesn’t feel like the right thing to do, and I’m grappling with saying yes.

“I fly back home tomorrow,” I say.

Elsa gives me a tight-lipped smile, studying my expression. Finally, she throws up her hands. “Well… I tried. Now”—she hops to her feet—“let’s not be late for dinner.”

I’m still trapped in indecision, but we really must get going. It’s our last night in Naples, and we’re slated to have dinner with a few of her friends who are in the area.

I finally break out of my mood. “Sure. I’m ready.”

Above the Apennine Mountains, the perfect sunset paints the sky with pink, red, and purple. The hosts of tonight’s dinner are Marco Santi, the sexy and famous Italian pop singer, and his lovely wife, Gianna. We’re on their yacht in the harbor. Elsa’s husband Giovanni is also here. He drove from Bari to Naples to drive us back in the morning. Every moment has been perfect—having drinks on the deck, gathering around the table for dinner, the good conversation, and the fantastically gorgeous guy sitting across from me.

His name is Salvatore. He has perfect dark wavy hair and sky-blue eyes. His chest is wide, biceps strong, and he has perfect posture. My father used to say confident men have perfect posture and only wimps slouch.

They’re speaking in Italian, and on a scale from one to ten, my Italian is about a six. As usual, when an American is at the table, the topic of conversation veers toward me and my place of origin.

“What do you do in America?” Marco asks.

I explain how I used to run part of my father’s business.

“Then you are a rich American girl?”

I shift in my seat. My father taught me to never dangle my wealth in the faces of others, especially since it could be taken away as fast as he could snap his finger.

“Our family business has been very successful,” I say.

Marco smirks as he studies my expression. “Beautiful and humble—those are new American qualities.”

I roll my eyes a little. “Grazie, I think.”

They always like to dump on the Americans. However, I never get offended. My countrymen have thick skin. We’re strong. We can take it.

“She is for sure beautiful,” Salvatore says, dazzling me with his hypnotic blue eyes.

I cough after forgetting to breathe. Gianna makes a comment about how crazy the politics are in America and waits for my response.

I shrug halfheartedly. “Politics is always crazy.”

“But not as it is in America.”

I run my fingers through my blond hair. I’ve been taught to never discuss politics or religion in polite company.

“She has a point,” Salvatore says, then goes into a story about an elected official who wipes tax burdens for a certain percentage of the amount owed.

Gianna counters by saying that it’s not the same as a US President.

Salvatore winks at me. “It is exactly the same!”

I blush, knowing he’s chosen to stand up for me.

He and Gianna go back and forth until Marco pulls his guitar from under the table and sings a song about making love instead of war. The song ends, and we applaud. I’ve never been this close to a person who sings so passionately, and my eyes tear up.

He goes into a new song about a woman he has never told that he loved her, but he does love her and he’s saying it now. Finally, I break down and cry. I can’t control myself. I’m waiting for the music to stop and for everyone to scrutinize me and try to figure out what’s going on. But the music doesn’t end, and Elsa puts her arm around me. I continue weeping on her shoulder.

Last night, Marco Santi made music until we sang and danced ourselves tired. Salvatore had to leave earlier than we did, but he asked that I look him up if ever I return to Italy. He also lives in Bari.

This morning, we woke up bright and early to make the drive back to Elsa’s flat. A deep, pervading woe overcame me as I packed Aiden’s and my things. I was half hoping Elsa would spend more time convincing me to stay in Italy, but she and Giovanni had to rush off to the station as soon as we got back. They had some sort of crisis. So I take a cab to the airport.

The airport is busy today. I can’t find a cart to stack my luggage on, and since I’m not supposed to leave my luggage unattended, I drag suitcases and bags as far as I can in order to not lose sight of them. I’m inching toward the ticketing agent, and every muscle in my body hurts. Also, Aiden is bawling in the stroller, something he hardly ever does.

“It’s okay, sweetie,” I say, knowing that my attempt to comfort him is falling on deaf ears.

Heck, I’m miserable too. It’s hot, and I’m sweating like a stinking armpit. A woman takes pity on me and tells me to stay put while she goes off to locate a cart for me, so I give Aiden his bottle. That quiets him. When the woman is back with a bright shiny cart that will fit every piece of my luggage, I thank her profusely and try to pay her for saving my sanity, but she refuses to take my money.

“Grazie,” I say, trying not to whimper.

Who would’ve thought my trip would end with me in such misery? Finally I make it to the line—and it’s long. Each step forward makes my heart feel heavier. Soon I’ll be on the airplane and on my way back to Minneapolis.

But why?

Nolan and I are close, but he’s busy trying to keep my father’s company from falling into the wrong hands. I’m not going back to be a wife and a mother. I’m next in line, and I feel as if my head is finally meeting my heart.

“Next!” the woman behind the counter says.

My feet do not move. I look at Aiden, and his eyes are closed. He’s on his way back to sleep.

The woman behind me taps my shoulder. “You may go.”

I make a quick decision and step out of line. “I’m sorry.”

She nods and rushes to the next representative.

I’m breathing heavily, trying to figure out what I just did. What did I just decide? I dig my cell phone out of my purse and call Elsa. This will be the determining factor. If she doesn’t pick up, then…

“Pronto, Liza?”

“Elsa. Does your offer still stand?” I hold the phone closer to my mouth, turn away from curious onlookers, and lower my voice. “The television show about traveling.”

“Yes, indeed!” she sings.

“Then I want to do it.”

“Where are you?”

“In the airport.”

“Then you’re not leaving?”

I shake my head. “No. I’m staying.”

* * *

I’m at the restaurant, facing Salvatore. My life has moved rapidly forward since I decided to stay in Italy. I moved to a small villa on the hillside, which is about twenty minutes from town. Floriana, the nanny, left Elsa’s employ to work for me. I reconnected with the man across the table from me about two weeks after I decided to stay. One dinner turned into two dinners, and then two to three, and three to four.

Then he asked me on romantic excursions. Sometimes out to sea, and others to Rome and Naples. When he made love to me, many times, it was never a great experience—really not even an enjoyable one. I so desperately wanted him to be a great father for Aiden, but he spent no time with my son. And why would I burden my child with this man? He’s a burden to me!

Salvatore only likes to talk about himself. He flirts with almost every attractive woman we see. He flies off the handle when I don’t give him his way or do what he wants. When I first cut my hair and dyed it back to my natural color, his head nearly exploded. Now he says that I’m attractive, but I used to be beautiful. And here’s the sad part—I let myself tolerate this. For the first time, I’m trying to get him to sympathize with my pain, and instead, he’s asking me for money.

I look deeper into Salvatore’s eyes. He’s waiting for my answer. He’s sure that I’ll give him anything he asks for. However, anger propels me to my feet.

“Salvatore?”

He snorts like an arrogant bull. “Sit down.”

“Go fuck yourself.” With a clear head and heart, I let my feet lead me out of the restaurant.