rushing over my skin. It would be perfect—a blank canvas upon which two artists—Romeo and Juliet—would paint their future life. A delicious prospect, this day. With every turn of the carriage wheels and the dull clopping of horses’ hooves on the hard-packed road, rising higher into the hills, passing farms and villas quiet of workers this Sunday Sabbath, everything shone brighter, and all became unearthly clear in my vision.
When we pulled through the gates of the high stone walls, I saw stretched out on one side a vast vineyard and a small pasture, on the other a deep and wide grove of trees. Before us a handsome villa gleamed bone white in the noonday sun, its red tiled roof bleached pale pink in its glare. A graceful loggia spanned the second floor, and before the heavy carven double doors a blue and yellow tiled fountain splashed a joyful welcome.
Romeo was first out the door, followed by the man I’d seen at Palazzo Bardi, and a tall, slender woman with a mass of thick brown hair worn loose over her shoulders. She was pretty even before she broke into a smile of greeting. It was Romeo’s smile, the pearly teeth, all inherited from his mother.
The three of them helped us down from our carriage, plying us with questions as to the comfort of our journey. Introductions were made all around. Romeo bowed to me. In the commotion, no one noticed that when he took my hand to kiss it, he turned it and laid his lips softly in the middle of my palm. No one knew my knees jellied and a place deep inside my womanly center shuddered with delight.
Once I’d recovered, I saw that Mama and Romeo’s mother, whose name was Sophia, were attracted to each other like iron is drawn to a magnet. They’d not been in each other’s company a minute before they were chatting like old friends. But Mona Sophia, at closer observation, wore pain as an undergarment—well hidden but existing in the depths of her. I was sure of it.
My father’s posture spoke volumes of his discomfort, but I saw at once that Roberto Monticecco, perhaps swayed by his son’s insistence, was determined to put Papa at ease.
“Will you let me show you my vineyard?” he asked when he saw his wife leading my mother into the house. “I have some caskets of superb Sangioveto, aged for seven years.”
What Italian man could pass up such an offer? I even saw a hint of a smile playing on my father’s lips. “I’ve a brother in Abruzzo who is a vintner,” Papa said. “He claims his Brunello to be the finest in Tuscany.”
“A challenge!” Roberto cried. “Come along, then. We shall see.”
And just like that, Romeo and I were standing alone with Marco, staring silently at the splashing fountain.
“I once heard of a fountain that spouted red wine instead of water,” Marco offered, pertaining to nothing.
“Let me guess,” Romeo said. “The French court?”
“That is the kind of decadence I would like to see one day,” I said.
Both young men turned to me, astonished by my statement.
“Well, cousin Juliet, I had no idea you had such notions. Then you would travel if you could?”
“I would see the world,” I answered him. “All of it—Greece, the Holy Land, the places where Marco Polo sailed. Did you know that the last voyage your namesake made for the great Kublai Khan was to deliver the Mongol’s princess daughter to her betrothed in Ilkhanate?”
“You surprise me,” Romeo said.
“Why surprise?”
“Your boldness. Your erudition.”
I wanted to say, “I thought you knew me better.” But perhaps Romeo meant only to confuse my cousin of our intimacy.
“A want to travel is bold?” is what I did say.
“For a Florentine lady? What do you think, Marco? Is that not audacious?”
“My cousin showed all of us her mettle at the Dante symposium. After that, nothing surprises.”
By now we three faced one another.
“May I show you our olive orchard and its works?” Romeo asked as he untethered the two horses from our
When we pulled through the gates of the high stone walls, I saw stretched out on one side a vast vineyard and a small pasture, on the other a deep and wide grove of trees. Before us a handsome villa gleamed bone white in the noonday sun, its red tiled roof bleached pale pink in its glare. A graceful loggia spanned the second floor, and before the heavy carven double doors a blue and yellow tiled fountain splashed a joyful welcome.
Romeo was first out the door, followed by the man I’d seen at Palazzo Bardi, and a tall, slender woman with a mass of thick brown hair worn loose over her shoulders. She was pretty even before she broke into a smile of greeting. It was Romeo’s smile, the pearly teeth, all inherited from his mother.
The three of them helped us down from our carriage, plying us with questions as to the comfort of our journey. Introductions were made all around. Romeo bowed to me. In the commotion, no one noticed that when he took my hand to kiss it, he turned it and laid his lips softly in the middle of my palm. No one knew my knees jellied and a place deep inside my womanly center shuddered with delight.
Once I’d recovered, I saw that Mama and Romeo’s mother, whose name was Sophia, were attracted to each other like iron is drawn to a magnet. They’d not been in each other’s company a minute before they were chatting like old friends. But Mona Sophia, at closer observation, wore pain as an undergarment—well hidden but existing in the depths of her. I was sure of it.
My father’s posture spoke volumes of his discomfort, but I saw at once that Roberto Monticecco, perhaps swayed by his son’s insistence, was determined to put Papa at ease.
“Will you let me show you my vineyard?” he asked when he saw his wife leading my mother into the house. “I have some caskets of superb Sangioveto, aged for seven years.”
What Italian man could pass up such an offer? I even saw a hint of a smile playing on my father’s lips. “I’ve a brother in Abruzzo who is a vintner,” Papa said. “He claims his Brunello to be the finest in Tuscany.”
“A challenge!” Roberto cried. “Come along, then. We shall see.”
And just like that, Romeo and I were standing alone with Marco, staring silently at the splashing fountain.
“I once heard of a fountain that spouted red wine instead of water,” Marco offered, pertaining to nothing.
“Let me guess,” Romeo said. “The French court?”
“That is the kind of decadence I would like to see one day,” I said.
Both young men turned to me, astonished by my statement.
“Well, cousin Juliet, I had no idea you had such notions. Then you would travel if you could?”
“I would see the world,” I answered him. “All of it—Greece, the Holy Land, the places where Marco Polo sailed. Did you know that the last voyage your namesake made for the great Kublai Khan was to deliver the Mongol’s princess daughter to her betrothed in Ilkhanate?”
“You surprise me,” Romeo said.
“Why surprise?”
“Your boldness. Your erudition.”
I wanted to say, “I thought you knew me better.” But perhaps Romeo meant only to confuse my cousin of our intimacy.
“A want to travel is bold?” is what I did say.
“For a Florentine lady? What do you think, Marco? Is that not audacious?”
“My cousin showed all of us her mettle at the Dante symposium. After that, nothing surprises.”
By now we three faced one another.
“May I show you our olive orchard and its works?” Romeo asked as he untethered the two horses from our
Similar Books
