“Yes, ma’am,” I say.
“You have the place to yourselves until five thirty, after which we’ll be reopening to the general public. Our vendors are stationed around the farm and available for any assistance you may need, including the hayride. Pumpkin patch is to the right, marigold fields are to the left. Any questions for me?” She speaks quickly, reciting her monologue as though she’s done it a thousand times before.
She hands me two wristbands for admission, but instead of putting them on I stuff them into my pants pocket.
This morning I spoke with the owner and offered them an exuberant sum of money to shut the placedown for two hours so Vincenza and I could enjoy it alone. He was more than willing to accommodate my request, so the wristbands aren’t necessary. As she said, we have the place to ourselves.
“No, grazie.”
We take the dirt path toward the center of the farm, and as Vinnie steps gingerly through the soft groundcover, it occurs to me that I should have warned her to wear flat shoes.
Letting go of her hand, I step in front of her and squat down. “Hop on.”
“What?” she asks with surprise.
“Hop on my back, I’ll carry you.”
“You don’t have to do that.”
“I know I don’t, but I want to, so hop on, piccola ladra.”
Gripping my shoulders, she leans forward onto my back and as I come to a stand, her legs wrap around my waist.
“Perfetto. Now, to the patch or the marigolds?”
We’re at a fork in the path, and a decision must be made. I know which I would choose, but it’s in her hands. As are other decisions in our relationship, but the choice between pumpkins or flowers carries less weight.
“Surprise me,” she says, tightening her hold around my neck as she leans around to kiss my cheek. “I love your surprises.”
And I love you,I think to myself.
But there will be a better time to tell her.
For fun, I veer right, then turn dramatically to the left, before zig-zagging my steps and curving right again, taking her to the pumpkins. She laughs as we stumble around, and a carefree feeling settles within me.
We continue trudging through the dirt, looking for the row with the best pumpkins to go explore.
I am anxious to show her the flower fields, but I can imagine their beauty will be much greater at sunset when the light reflects against the vibrant colors.
For the next forty minutes or so, we continue to wander through the pumpkin patch, stopping after a while to take a hayride that tours the farm, then share a slice of freshly baked apple pie that’s still warm, with rich and creamy homemade ice cream melting on top of it.
Our time spent together is simple and so relaxed I forget all the stressors this relationship harbors.
The thoughts of my family, and hers, float away as though the world ceases to exist but us.
Paparazzi and newspaper reporters embellishing stories are not a worry.
The future doesn’t seem so bleak.
At this moment, it’s just us. I am just a man. She is just a woman. And we can just love one another.
In a perfect world, this would last forever.
By the time we make it over to the marigold fields, I’m carrying her shoes and she’s walking nearly barefoot through the dirt as though she was raised in the country and not in one of the most prominent cities in America.
The stockings she’s wearing tore when they snagged on a rogue pumpkin stem, but she paid it no mind, never once fussing over the ruined clothing or that they were uncomfortable.
“Wow,” she breathes when we stop in the middle of the flowers, taking in the shades of orange and yellow that surround us like an infinite sea. They go on and on, their bright colors vibrant and so full of life.
