Ten Promises

Certain things frustrate me in some novels as I read them, therefore, I make the following commitment to my readers:

1.      I won’t leave an unresolved ending in my books.

2.      I won’t leave an ambiguous ending in my books.

3.      I won’t let my books go on longer than needed.

4.      I won’t create unrealistic characters.

5.      I will keep my chapters short.

6.      I will not be overly wordy.

7.      I will try not to confuse you.

8.      I will make my characters relatable.

9.      Obscenities will be kept to a minimum at most.

10.   Political agendas will never enter my stories.

Do you find any of these frustrating too?

I am humbled and grateful that my novel, Elizabeth’s Mountain, made Amazon’s bestseller list for American Historical Romance. Thank you to all who read and reviewed it. I can’t think of a better way to thank an author.

Years ago I wrote a family saga as a tribute to my mother and wanted to get it into print before she passed. For your reading pleasure, and as a way to say thank you for the readership support, here is an excerpt from Like Wine that you might enjoy. The scene takes place in Torrecuso, Italy in the early fifties.

Standing before my aunt and uncle’s dining table, I could see my reflection in the mirror on the wall. My hair was short when I first arrived in Italy, but had grown a lot in the past few weeks, the curls just reaching my chin. I wore a cream-colored sweater set over a long pleated skirt with low pumps. Around my neck, tied in a loose knot, was the blue scarf I had purchased at the Rock of Gibraltar. My eyelids were brushed with a hint of blue shadow to match the scarf and my lips glossed with a shade of pink. I wanted to look nice, but I didn’t want to seem like I was trying too hard. Uncle Golfredo’s friend would be arriving shortly and I found myself feeling anxious for the time to pass. In a few short hours, I told myself, it’ll all be over with and I can go back to getting ready to return home.

I walked over to Aunt Alba and glanced over her shoulder, watching as she busily arranged pastries, and little rum and pudding-filled cakes on a gold-rimmed Limoge plate. “What can I do to help?” I asked.

“Here,” she said, handing me the platter. “Take this over to the dining room table.” Sensing my uneasiness, she tried to keep me occupied.

I placed the pastries next to four demitasse cups and saucers on the lace-covered table. A crystal bowl filled with a variety of fresh fruits and mixed nuts occupied the center. Everything had been prepared to make our guest feel welcome.

“Teresa,” Aunt Alba called out to me. “Have I forgotten anything?”

“I don’t think so. It looks like you thought of everything.” So much fuss.

Minutes later, I looked across the table at the tall, dark man sitting opposite me. His name was Antonio. Antonio…what did he say his last name was? I couldn’t remember. I cast a glance at him and his eyes caught mine. I forced a smile and for a moment, we watched each other.

Antonio was handsome in an exotic, European way. He wasn’t like any of the boys back home in the States. He had an interesting look, I thought, noting his thick, curly jet-black hair and handlebar mustache that ended in thin points. He would be nicer looking without the mustache I decided, shaving it off in my mind’s eye.

Uncle Golfredo did most of the talking while Aunt Alba pushed figs and cakes in front of us, her small dark eyes squinting as she smiled and nodded reassuringly. “Mangia! Mangia!” she said, urging us to eat.

Aunt Alba looked pleased with the gifts Antonio brought her: fresh veal cutlets and goat cheese, for which his hometown of Torrecuso was noted.

Puffing on his cigar, Uncle Golfredo clearly enjoyed Antonio’s company, discussing people and politics. After getting rid of the monarchy seven years ago, Italy became a parliamentary republic. Fascism died with Mussolini. Uncle Golfredo had told me that Mussolini’s widow, now in her sixties, lived on the island of Ischia, not far from Naples. “People have seen her,” he told me. “They usually spot her when she goes to the well to do her wash. Otherwise, she keeps to herself mostly.”

Antonio was attentive and respectful to Uncle Golfredo. I watched his motions, the frequent gestures he made with his hands as he spoke. Large hands. He nodded often and smiled as he gazed back and forth from Uncle Golfredo to me. His eyes, dark and compassionate, were set in a smooth, olive-skinned face. He looked gentle and strong, confident ad cocky.

I was happy to be able to follow Uncle Golfredo and Antonio’s conversation. I understood most of what they were saying if they didn’t speak too fast. My Italian was much better now than when I first arrived three months ago. Uncle Golfredo went on talking while Antonio listened, twirling the tips of his mustache and looking at me out of the corner of his eye. I felt a yawn come on and covered it with my hand.

“In the beginning,” Uncle Golfredo said, his voice becoming hoarse the more he talked, “Mussolini did good for the Italian people, but we weren’t ready for a war in Europe. So much money and resources were used up in the war in Africa. The soldiers didn’t even have wool for their socks. The Germans had all the weapons and better clothing and Mussolini let them in.”

“That’s where he went wrong,” Antonio said. “Once they were allowed in, they took over. We didn’t have the strength to push them out.” Antonio turned to me. “Teresa, what do the Americans say about Mussolini?”

I sat straight up in my chair. “Well,” I said, “they didn’t like him very much.” I couldn’t help remembering a little song I once heard some young boys on my block singing to a tune from Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs: Whistle while you work, Hitler was a jerk. Mussolini shot his weenie, now it doesn’t work.

I began to blush and laugh at the same time, my lips forming a small smile.

“What is it?” Antonio asked.

“Sorry,” I said. “I was thinking of something I used to hear children sing.”

“What? Tell us,” Antonio said, his curiosity piqued.

“No. I couldn’t,” I said, and then “I don’t know if I can translate it.”

“Try to,” Antonio said, pressing me to tell.

All eyes were on me as I tried to translate the song into Italian. Suddenly, Antonio burst out laughing. Uncle Golfredo gave me a wide smile, his thick stubby cigar held tightly between his clenched teeth. Even Aunt Alba, who pretended not to hear, had to laugh. I blushed a smile. Silence followed and I wondered if I might have come across too bold. I sipped my last drop of espresso, my cup making a little clatter as I set it down in its saucer. Antonio was still looking at me, amusement glimmering in his eyes. I returned to gazing into my cup.

Aunt Alba stood up. “More coffee anyone?”

“No, thank you,” I said.

Spreading his hand over his cup, Antonio answered, “No more for me. Grazie.” The demitasse cup looked puny next to his large hand.

While Uncle Golfredo held his cup out for more, I snuck a peek at my watch. Almost two hours had gone by. Aunt Alba leaned over and poured more espresso into Uncle Golfredo’s cup before he added a few drops of anise-flavored liqueur into it.

Then I heard Antonio ask, “May I call on Signorina Teresa again? I’d like to…if it’s alright with you.” He turned his head slightly in my direction, but he was looking at Uncle Golfredo, directing his question at him. It was as though I wasn’t even there or as if Uncle Golfredo’s permission was all that was needed and I had no say in the matter.

Finishing a crispy shroedel, Uncle Golfredo paused, took a sip of his coffee, and leaned back in his chair. I wondered when he would mention that I was leaving for America in a week. He smiled broadly, patting his ample belly as if it might explode. Drawing a deep breath through his nose, Uncle Golfredo finally said, “Teresa will be going home on the 11th.”

There goes that.

“Tomorrow then.” Antonio’s abruptness startled everyone. Uncle Golfredo’s eyes twinkled with amusement, his face openly pleased.

“How can I say no to you, Antonio? We would be happy to see you tomorrow.” He gave me a wink.

I cleared my throat and Antonio tried to catch my eye, but I made myself busy selecting a grape from the fruit bowl.

Gushing a smile, Aunt Alba took the cue and came back to the table carrying blue-tinted cordial glasses on an ornate silver tray. Uncle Golfredo poured a round of liqueurs into the small blue glasses and raised his glass. In a gravelly voice tinged with emotion, he said, “To Teresa, who will soon leave us. May she know she is always welcome.”

Aunt Alba chimed in, “You are family, Teresa. Our home is your home.”

Deeply touched, my eyes began to fill up with tears. We shared a lot these past few weeks, and while I felt homesick for my family, my girlfriends, my country, I knew it would be hard to leave.

“Salute!” Uncle Golfredo said.

“Cento anni,” Antonio said. May you live a hundred years.

I drank down the hazelnut-flavored liquid feeling Antonio’s eyes on me the whole time. I glanced up at him finally. He was smoothing down his mustache with his fingers, his eyes steadied on me. I smiled. A part of me found him fascinating. But another part of me didn’t want to get involved with someone new right now. What was the point? In a few days, I would be going home and an ocean would stretch between us. If only we had met two months ago…who knows? But now, this tall, handsome stranger shows up and says he wants to see me again tomorrow.

If he thinks he’s going to use up the last few days I have left in Italy, he presumes too much.

Excerpt from Like Wine