Friday, February 14, 2014
Happy St Valentine's Day
Here's my portion of the post - re-posted with the permission of Shehanne Moore. But please visit her blog by clicking here, and read what the others have to say.
Why is this story called Rosamanti?
Rosamanti is a villa. A 400 year old villa. In its lifetime, it’s witnessed its fair share of happiness, sadness, loss, even violence. When you’re 400 years old, you gain a bit of wisdom.
Rosamanti seems to have a hand in causing good things to happen to good people who deserve happiness.
Do you believe in magic? I do.
The first kiss between Sarah and Pietro:
Pietro picked up the bottle of wine and the glasses and indicated to her to follow him. She walked behind him up a steep but well-trodden pathway. After about ten minutes, they reached a flat area atop the big headland that she recognized from her study window. They sat down on the grassy knoll and looked across to the east where the big full moon again made its slow climb, spreading gold on the waters of the calm, dark sea. The sheer beauty of the place was very moving.
Trapped in the moment, she hardly noticed Pietro remove the glass from her hand. She detected the silhouette of his head as it blocked her vision, then his warm, soft lips caressed hers. It was a mere whisper of a kiss, but tender. He pulled back.
“I couldn’t help myself, bella. Do you mind?”
She didn’t know what to say. She shook her head. Did she mind? No. No she didn’t mind at all. But no words would come out.
“Ah, I see. Then please forgive me. The wine, the moon…”
What happens next?
He cooks for her, gives her a whole cellar of gorgeous wine, charms her with his smooth Italian ways, makes her laugh again.
But is it love?
She watched enthralled as Pietro spread the pliant dough on the smooth, floured bench in Nonna’s kitchen. Sipping wine, she could feel contentment oozing through every pore of her skin. He started singing as he worked—firstly skinning the rich, ripe tomatoes, and dicing the onion and basil finely. Every so often, he looked at her and winked, a happy smile resting on his handsome face. When the meal was ready, they sat opposite each other at the old wooden table. She loved the meal, and she loved the happiness that he infused into the food. Wholesome, calm, generous, and sweet.
When they finished eating, he raised his glass to her. She clinked hers with him and smiled. “Bella, you look so happy.”
“I am happy, Pietro. I’m happier than I’ve been for a long time. I don’t know if it’s your wine, your food, or Rosamanti, but I feel like I’ve been transformed into a fairy tale where everything is good.”
His face took on a look of mock admonishment. “Ah, bella,” he chided, “maybe it is because of me!”
They both laughed. She looked thoughtful for a moment, tipping her head to one side. “You know, maybe—just maybe—it is.”
The tender look in his eyes, and the happy smile on his face, warmed her heart.
When it is love, how does Sarah know?
Taking her coffee outside, she sat at the little white wrought-iron table under the pergola and waited for the sun to rise. Her thoughts turned to Ted and she felt the weight of sadness deep within her. When he was first diagnosed, they talked a lot. She remembered his words: “You’re still a young woman. Promise me you’ll love someone else.” She drew an involuntary breath as she realized she may have just done exactly that. The vision of Ted’s sick, pale face dissolved into a brown, smiling countenance brimming with life. Pietro’s black eyes twinkled as they gazed out from his handsome face. She felt like she was sixteen years old again. No way—no way at all—had she expected this to happen. Not so quickly. Maybe even never.