The American Lady (13 page)

Enamel paint and glitte
r . . .
the thought was hardly formed when she realized what it meant. These
Night & Day
designs were a return to her roots, to the first globes she had ever painted eighteen years ago when she had begun to blow glass in secret. All she had back then was black and white paint, since her father had never needed anything else in his workshop. She had made her own glitter powder by begging some broken bits of glass off old Wilhelm Heimer, then taking them home and crushing them as fine as dust. She hadn’t had anything else to work with, and her first baubles had needed nothing else. The contrasts, the light and shade, did it all.

Marie felt that she saw some deeper message in this return to her roots. She had already decided to tell Wanda all about where she came from. Perhaps that was bringing her, too, back to where she had begun?

15

After the previous night’s storm, the morning was bright and clear. When Marie finally rose, drew aside the silk curtain, and looked out the window, the sunlight was so strong that it brought tears to her eyes. She blinked.

This was just the weather for a saint’s day!

She put on a dressing gown and went into the breakfast room. She was relieved to see that Ruth and Wanda were sitting at the table together. They were both pale—this was the first time since she’d arrived that Marie had seen Ruth without any makeup—and they both looked unhappy, but at least they were talking.

For a moment Marie was tempted to tell them about the miracle that had happened to her during the night. But she dropped the thought when Steven stood up and offered her a chair, his face somber.

Of course there was only one topic of conversation. Wanda still couldn’t understand why her parents had never told her, in all these years. “Why? Why didn’t yo
u . . . 
? How could you hav
e . . . 
?”

Ruth and Steven tried to explain, taking turns, patiently.

Marie took another roll from the basket, more to have something to do than because she was really hungry.

Ruth suddenly turned on her. “There you sit, gobbling down one roll after another as though nothing at all had happened!” Wanda was in tears, again. “Is it too much to ask that you join in the conversation?”

Marie put down her roll and the honey spoon. “I’m so sorry. I really don’t know what to say.
I . . .
” Her eyes fell on the cabinet clock behind Steven. “Is it really so late?” She stood up sharply, her chair squeaking across the marble floor. She looked from face to face. “I truly am sorr
y . . .
but if I don’t hurry, I’ll still be in my nightgown when Franco arrives!”

“Oh yes, you run off and have fun!” Ruth yelled after her. “While you’re gone we can clear up the mess you’ve landed us in!”

Marie could hardly wait to get out of the house. She could hardly wait to see Franco. She felt a pang of guilt as she brushed her hair and put on eyeliner. She even applied a little rouge—today was a special day, after all. She plaited her hair into one simple braid and then wound it about the crown of her head. Ruth would call it a frightfully old-fashioned hairstyle, but Marie felt like being a little old-fashioned today.

She spent a little while choosing what to wear. There was only one color for a summer’s day like this—white! Pure, gleaming white. With plenty of ruffles and lace.

When she crept out of the apartment like a thief at one o’clock and went down to the lobby to meet Franco, Marie felt just as romantic as she looked.

“You look like a bride,” Franco whispered when he saw her. “No, even more beautiful than that,” he said in the very next breath. “Like the Virgin Mary!”

More Mary than Virgin
, she wanted to say, but she bit back the remark. Franco didn’t like it when women made off-color jokes.

“Thank you so much for the wonderful tiara. It’s far too lavish, though, you really shouldn’t have,” she said instead.

Franco pulled her close. “Too lavish? What else should I buy to grace the head of a queen?”

He kissed her, and she felt weak at the knees. She clung closer to him. How much could she love this man?

From the moment they met, Franco only needed to touch her, and she felt wonderful. He smelled so good, her handsome Italian! Marie found herself wondering again and again what it would be like to lie in his arms. Naked, passionate. Drat it all, she didn’t want him thinking of her as a virgin! She wanted to make love to him with every fiber of her being. The only question was how she could talk him into it. She wasn’t like Sherlain; she couldn’t just drag a man off to bed when she liked the look of him. She couldn’t tell him how much she yearned for him—couldn’t even
hint
at it. How was she supposed to put it into words? Oh, if only she weren’t so clumsy at these games, if only she knew the rules that men and women played by.

She could only hope that Franco would make the first move, and soon.

Little Italy was festooned with decorations that day, as though the neighborhood wanted to outshine the old homeland across the Atlantic. Mile upon mile of bunting was strung across the streets and thousands of tiny colorful flags fluttered in the breeze. Musicians stood at every street corner, practicing for their moment in the grand parade. Crowds gathered all along Mulberry Street to watch. Excited children wriggled through the barriers that kept spectators on the sidewalk and ran out into the street, and their mothers ran after them to fetch them back.
Mamma mia
, it didn’t bear thinking about if their
bambini
ran under the wheels of one of the parade floats!

For a while Marie and Franco let the crowd carry them along, flitting from one distraction to another like butterflies. But the cheering and the throngs all around her began to get on Marie’s nerves and soon she felt her temples throbbing painfully. If only she’d gotten more than a couple of hours’ sleep! She didn’t want to be here in the crowd—she wanted to be alone with Franco, to tell him all about last night, about her hours with the sketchpad.

They eventually sat down for a late lunch at one of the restaurants. Franco ordered a huge dish of spaghetti with meatballs and wine from one of his family estates. Now that they were out of the glaring sun, Marie’s headache subsided and she felt a little better. She raised her glass to Franco and looked into his eyes.

People kept coming over to the table, locals who knew Franco and were curious about his beautiful companion. Marie smiled and shook hands every time. Everybody was so polite, almost reverential, that Marie wanted to return their friendly gestures. And so, to Franco’s astonishment and the delight of the other guests, she sprinkled a few Italian phrases into her remarks in English.

“How on earth do you know my language? And why have you never let on before now? Do you have another admirer hidden away somewhere?” Franco asked jealously.

“Well if I did, I certainly wouldn’t tell you!” Marie replied teasingly. Then she laughed and told him how the Italian migrant laborers had come to Lauscha twenty years ago to help build the railroad. “Two young fellows stayed behind and married village girls. Lugiana is the daughter of one of those families, and she comes by twice a week to help us with the housekeeping.” She shrugged. “Over the years I’ve picked up a word or two from her. But to tell the truth, I didn’t want to make a fool of myself speaking broken Italian to you.”

“I’d hardly call it broken—you speak it very well!” Franco seemed offended that she had kept this a secret from him until now.

“The
signorina
is not just beautiful but clever as well! A woman like that is rarer than a Lombard truffle,” said Stefano, the restaurant owner. He looked at Franco with respect. “May I pour the lady another glass?”

Marie shook her head. “Two glasses is enough, thank you. I know that I shouldn’t refuse de Lucca wine, but I don’t want to end up tipsy.” She already felt a little light-headed. But before she could mention this to Franco, the next visitor came to the table. He was the owner of another nearby restaurant, and unlike the rest of the well-wishers he was rather reserved as he spoke to Franco in a low voice. Marie expected Franco to tell her what the man was saying, as he had with all the others, but she waited in vain.

She frowned. She had never seen Franco’s eyes glow with that strange, cold light before.

“Is there anyone in this neighborhood who you don’t know?” she asked, almost in annoyance, once the man had gone. She suddenly felt nauseous from the smell of cigarette smoke, garlic, and cooking odors.

Franco frowned. “It’s more the other way around. The people here know
me
, or they know my father. I have trouble putting a name to every face.”

He was still talking, but suddenly Marie couldn’t hear his words. She felt ill. She swallowed hard.

“Marie, what is it? What’s wrong, my darling? You’re pale!”

Marie couldn’t even answer. It took all her concentration just to keep breathing. She was so dizzy, her throat felt tigh
t . . .

She mustn’t fain
t . . .

The first thing that Marie noticed when she woke up was the smell of linen drying in the sunshine. It reminded her of home. For a moment she didn’t know where she was. These walls, the beige curtains, the green striped wallpaper—all of it was strange. Her muscles tensed up as though in response to some hidden threat.

“Mia cara . . .”
She was with Franco! The tension drained away at once.

“What happened? The festiva
l . . .
” She wanted to sit up, but Franco pushed her gently back down.

“You fainted. It was probably from the heat. Stefano and I carried you here to my apartment so that you can recover.”

His apartment.

No more strangers around them.

No noisy crowds.

No more feast of Saint Rocco.

Marie sat up with some effort. Her dress clung to her back. She wanted to lift the cloth away from her skin, but the bodice was too tight.

“You still don’t feel well? Should I call a doctor?”

Marie shook her head. “I need a little more air, that’s all. I’m so hot.” She pointed to the buttons that were hidden in the seam down her back. “Perhaps you coul
d . . .
”

Their eyes met. Marie saw a mixture of concern and desire in Franco’s gaze, and it electrified her. A hot shudder ran through her body when she felt Franco’s hands at the back of her neck. As the first button eased through its elaborately embroidered buttonhole, then the next, she had to make an effort not to cling to him. She felt the urge to tell him to go faster.

Then at last he was at the last button.

It was now or never. Marie wriggled out of the bodice and threw it down next to her without looking to see where it landed. The thought that soon she would feel Franco’s hands on her naked skin almost drove her out of her mind.

She turned her face toward him and came closer to his mouth, opened her own mouth for his questing tongue. They kissed, tiny kisses as light as a feather. Franco’s hands wandered up and down her back, his fingers fumbling with the satin strap that held her corset together. Soon this too fell to the floor.

“Come here,” Marie whispered. Her hands trembled as she reached for the collar of his shirt to undo the first button. She could have screamed in frustration when it wouldn’t come loose right away.

“Slowly, my lov
e . . .
”

At last they lay there, skin on naked skin. Her gentle curves nestled into his hard, muscular body. Marie caught fire beneath Franco’s hands, and she yearned for the moment when he would take her. She thrust herself toward him like a young foal, wanting to wrap her long legs around him, but Franco stopped her. As he pushed her back down into the pillows with his left hand, he ran his right hand down her side.

His hand glided in wide, strong strokes from her calves up to her breasts and then back down to her belly. Although she thrust her mound toward him, he lifted his hand over it and resumed stroking her thighs. At first Marie could have screamed from the disappointment; she wanted more, more, more, and it had been so long since a man had touched her! But soon his long, powerful strokes calmed her, and she felt beautiful and slim and young. All of a sudden she felt his mouth on her right breast. She was overcome by dizziness. How many other women had he driven wild this way? She didn’t know, but she knew she never wanted to share him again. She was shocked by the vehemence of her reaction.

He kissed her again on the mouth and then took her nipple between his teeth, sucking on it until a thousand bolts of lightning shot through her. She wanted to wriggle out from beneath him, but his left hand held her fast. He moved his mouth across to her other breast and had his way with her there too. Only after that did he release her. She shimmied toward him and pulled him to her. Her legs spread open like a flower in bloom, as though she were a blossom carried from a cool, dewy garden into the warmth of a house. When she felt how hard he had become, she groaned aloud. She wanted this man. Now. Right now. And forever after.

But again Franco stopped her at the threshold. He pressed his body down upon hers, but he put his hand on her soft opening instead. He moaned when he felt how wet she was, and the sound made her so happy she was even a bit frightened. She whimpered.

“I love you so much that it hurts,” she whispered hoarsely, her voice torn to shreds by the passion she felt for Franco, the passion that grew with his every touch. Anything that Magnus had ever done to her was faded and forgotten now, meaningless, unimportant, not worth her memory.

“I love you!
Mia car
a
. . .
” Franco took her head between his hands, his thumbs pressed into her cheeks, and his eyes held her gaze as he thrust himself into her.

At last!

She was scared to give away all that she was feeling and wanted to shut her eyes, as though there were some way to disguise her innermost self. But she returned his gaze, more scared that she would hurt him if she did not. When he let go of her head and clasped his arms around her body, she buried her face in his shoulder and breathed in deeply. The aroma of tobacco, sweat, and cologne was unmistakably and uniquely his.
If I die tomorrow, I will die happy,
she thought and laughed out loud.

From then on they moved to the same rhythm. They were one flesh, one passion. It didn’t take long for their desire to reach its climax—they had waited long enough for one another. They screamed aloud together, one voice, one triumph, as they conquered the last peak, clinging to each other, slick with sweat, trembling.

Marie did not want to let go of Franco. He tried to shift his weight off her, but she clung tight to him.
Never leave! Don’t say a word. Don’t even stroke me.
He understood. He stayed there with her, propping himself up very slightly on his elbows. Marie never wanted this feeling to end, never. She was complete now.