“Mom, I’m not a child.”
No, she wasn’t. If I’d hoped that this time away from bad influences would tame my daughter, the summer wasn’t turning out like that. Instead, she seemed to be off on her own. Back home during the spring, Lexi had lost my trust when she’d asked to spend the night at a friend’s house. When the police called late that night, I’d learned that she’d been at a party that got out of hand. The parents weren’t at home and the neighbors had called. To my daughter’s dismay, I became more vigilant.
When we reached the first floor, the scent of food filled the hallway. Marco waited at the door of the dining room. The faint flush in his cheeks made him even more handsome. “We must discuss this Gatsby, no?” he said as we stepped inside. A platter of sausages, olives and cheese sat on a sideboard. Carrying a small plate, Ama was picking and choosing in that delicate way she had before taking her seat. Lexi and I followed suit.
As the servers made the rounds with platters of mouthwatering pasta, Marco dove right in. “So why didn’t this Jay Gatsby fellow win the hand of Daisy?” He looked perplexed, as his son had been.
“Papa, he is not the same class as Daisy.” Gregorio took a stab at it. After all, he knew how his father thought.
“But in America all things are possible.” Marco talked and ate. “Is that not so, Profesora?”
“Indeed, many things are possible in the States.” What did I know about the upper echelons of society? “But I guess we still have some sort of class structure.” How could I explain the excesses practiced by the wealthy? The world trips. The two thousand-dollar handbags. The garages filled with collector cars.
“You guess?” Marco looked bemused and disappointed.
Apparently, I had to be an expert on all things. But I sure wasn’t feeling like an expert today. “You cannot buy everything with money.” Now I was spouting clichés? This man apparently could purchase everything.
Gregorio did not look up. At his grandmother’s urging, he’d taken another serving of the tortelloni.
Marco wasn’t finished. “But America is the place where any man can have his dream. Is this not right?”
How could I explain the difficult contradictions of my own country? “Many people find that they can work very hard and, for example, open a restaurant or start their own company. Some call that the ‘American Dream.’ Social acceptance might be different. It cannot always be bought. We still have our problems.”
Gregorio was listening to me carefully and I didn’t want to discourage him. He wouldn’t be leaving for the United States tomorrow, so we had time. Someday he would be a tall attractive man, like his father. Certainly, that helped.
The plates had been cleared and we were lingering. I was about to leave when Marco clapped his hands. “Bring me one of the dessert wines,” he told Alfredo the server, rattling off something else in his own language.
I pushed back from the table. “It’s been such a long day, beginning with my early morning riding lesson.” Which had been disastrous.
“Dessert wine?” Lexi’s eyes lit up. Across from us, Gregorio chuckled.
“I’m sure that His Excellency…” On my right, Ama frowned at me. “…His Majesty is talking about wine for the adults.”
Marco twirled an empty wine glass in his fingers. “In my country we teach our children to drink responsibly. And to do that they must sample the product. Especially Gregorio for he will be in charge of the vineyards one day.”
Yes, one day he would be king. But tonight he wasn’t looking very pleased about that. I thought back to the boys kicking the soccer ball around in the village. If Gregorio had a choice, would he choose that life? Probably not. He’d never known it.
Alfredo swept into the room bearing a silver tray with the most beautiful glasses I’d ever seen. The cut crystal gleamed under the chandelier.
“Please? Come on, Mom.” Lexi had put her hands together as if she were pleading. When was the last time she’d asked me for something?
“Maybe just a taste of my wine.” It wasn’t as if she were going to get into a car and drive around the island.
At a nod from Marco, Alfredo began to pour. Whatever the wine was, it was a rich, dark red and smelled wonderful when I lifted it to my lips. Down at the end of the table, Marco lifted his glass, sniffed the wine and smiled. “See what you think.” His eyes challenged me.
The first sip was delightful. “Oh, my.” A fruity warmth traveled through my veins. Maybe I was tired. Maybe I was overheated by that intense look in Marco’s eyes.
And maybe I was imagining things.
Next to me, Lexi sipped. Her lips pursed. I was happy when she set her glass down. “Not for me.”
Fine with me. Many things were an acquired taste and she had plenty of time to appreciate a fine dessert wine.
Although Gregorio and Ama took measured sips, they didn’t seem to have the same reaction we did.
“You like it?” Marco asked me.
“I love it. What’s in this? I think I taste a little orange and maybe apricot.”
