Letters to the Baumgarters

Chapter One

Dear Carrie and Doc,

I cannot believe Janie is turning a year old in March! How is it even possible? I know you were so worried when she was born two months early-we all were-such a tiny baby in an incubator with all those tubes and feeds. Poor girl. But look at her now! The pictures you sent are tacked to a bulletin board in my little room at Cara Lucia’s. She exclaims over Janie’s picture every time she sees it-and inevitably asks me, “When are you getting married and having babies?” She either wants to feed you or marry you off. Of course, every old Italian woman in Venice seems to have the same goals for the younger ones. It’s all about unione e bambini!

And yes, I’ve told her about Mason. And Isabella.

In spite of what everyone seems to think, I didn’t come here to run away. You bring your problems with you anyway, right? That’s what they say. But I have no interest in marriage again, and having children seems like a distant dream.

But you guys, I can’t tell you how glad I am that you have little Janie. You look so happy in the photos, I could just burst. I hope Janie has an amazing first birthday and she likes my gift. Cara Lucia made it, in case you thought I’d turned domestic or something. Isn’t it beautiful? She’ll look like an angel in it, I know. Send pictures! The women here can weave and knit faster than they can shear the sheep!

I wish I could be there! In three more months, my student exchange will be up, and I’ll be looking for a job, most likely back in the states, unless I can get my visa extended. Maybe I can find something in Michigan, near you guys? Although the thought of being so close to Mason again makes my stomach go all fluttery. Is it wrong for me to miss him still? It’s not that I doubt my decision. He was clearly not ready to be a grown-up and have a grown-up relationship, and between his mother issues and his refusal to accept or support my coming to Italy, I know I did the right thing.

But I loved him, and I still miss him.

And I miss you guys too. So much. More than I could ever say. Even if I’m not interested in finding any long-term sort of relationship right now, I have to admit, I’m a little lonely. It’s just me and Jezebel against the world-and while I love my kitty and she’s great at keeping me warm at night, there’s still something missing…

No one but tourists traveled in gondolas.

I wouldn't have set foot in one under normal circumstances but I’d missed the water-bus and there wasn't a water-taxi in sight-they were all down near the Grand Canal waiting to take tourists from Carnavale to their dinner reservations after the festivities.

I was desperate when I approached the gondolier who would change my life. He was stretched out in his gondola, which was tied to a post, wearing the usual gondolier uniform-a black and white horizontally striped long-sleeved shirt. It wasn’t warm, so he had a black down vest on over that, but the requisite flat, wide brimmed straw hat with a red sash tied around it was propped over his face against a dreary mid-day Italian drizzle. To me, he looked like an Amish referee.

I didn't even warn him-I just stepped into the boat, kicking his calf as I took a seat to wake him up.

“Eighty euro for forty minutes.” He spoke English in a thick Italian accent, but he didn’t move from his reclined position.

“No need to give me the usual tourist crap.” My Italian was nearly perfect and the gondolier grunted fully awake, peering out at me from under the brim of his hat, his eyes hidden in shadow. “I just need a ride.”

“Where to?” He spoke Italian with me now that it was clear I wasn't a tourist. “This isn't a taxi.”

“If you hadn’t noticed, there aren't any.” I waved my hand toward the empty waterway. Practically everyone was down at the Piazza San Marco, enjoying the very last day of a two-week Carnavale celebration. I, for one, was glad it was finally over.

“What's so important it can't wait?” he inquired, but he was already untying the gondola and pushing off. The initial rocking motion always made me momentarily woozy and I clutched the sides of the boat.

“I just need to post something.” I patted my bag where both letter and package waited. The Italian mail service was unreliable and slow, and I’d already waited too long to send it because Cara Lucia insisted on adding a knitted cap to go with the sweater she’d made. It had to get to the states in time for my little goddaughter’s birthday just three weeks away.

“So you don’t want the usual tour?” He spoke casual Italian with me and I smiled inwardly, proud. I’d been studying the language for years, but it had taken my immersion into the lifestyle and culture to really make me fluent. With my dark hair and eyes, I could probably pass for Italian, rather than the Midwest white bread mongrel breed I really was.

“No, grazie.” I huddled at the end of the gondola, wishing for the canopy of a water-taxi. The weather was more mist than rain. February in Italy was capricious. It could rain, or snow, or be sunny-all in one day.

I grabbed the sides of the boat as the gondolier reached under one of the seats, making the gondola rock gently as we slid through the water. I should have been used to all the jostling after living in Venice for eight months, but the fact that every time I wanted to travel anywhere, I had to use a mode of transportation that required me to move off of solid land, still made me nervous.

“Siete freddi,” he said, handing me a blanket. It was knitted-probably by his Italian mother or aunt, I guessed-quite beautiful, in fact.

“No, I’m not cold,” I lied, continuing in Italian, trying not to let my teeth clatter together.

The gondolier raised an eyebrow but didn’t call me on my bluff, putting the blanket down on the seat in front of me, taking a step back and then hopping up onto the front edge of the gondola. The whole boat tilted with the motion and I gasped, clutching the sides, gritting my teeth as he used his long pole, back and forth, to steer us through the current.

“Be careful up there!” I remarked, watching as he took a wide stance, balanced at the very end of the gondola. I never understood how they could do that.

“This isn’t the city for a woman afraid of water,” he remarked, grinning when I rolled my eyes in his direction. He was the youngest gondolier I’d ever seen, probably my age, his dark hair curling under the lip of his hat, his full lips parted in a smile.

“I’m not afraid of water,” I protested. “I just… don’t like it.”

“Like a cat.” He laughed. “You can swim, but you’d rather not?”

“Something like that.”

“A pretty girl like you should be down in the Piazza, dressed up for Carnavale.”

I rolled my eyes and tried to make myself smaller against the other side of the gondola. “I don’t like parties either.”

“What do you like?”

I glared at him. “Gondoliers who mind their own business.”

He staggered, his hand over his heart, groaning as if he were in a great deal of pain. The dramatic gesture made the boat rock and I gasped, hanging on.

“Hey!” I protested. “Don’t do that!”

“You break-a my heart.” He said this in English, like a typical Italian, and it made me laugh out loud in spite of myself. His switch back to Italian made my stomach flutter. Hearing the language spoken-especially by someone decidedly tall, dark and handsome-still made me kind of swoon a little. “That’s better. You’re a true beauty when you smile.”

“Flattery will get you nowhere.” So I lied.

“What will get me somewhere?” The mischievous glint in his eyes made my stomach do another little flip. There were plenty of men in Italy, some of them very nice-looking, all of them, young and old, flirtatious and outgoing-but so far, I’d stayed immune to charm of Italian men. Mostly by sheer will, I had to admit.

“Not rocking the boat,” I retorted, sticking my tongue out at him.

He laughed, shifting his hip, making the gondola see-saw on the water. “Ah, but I like to ‘rock the boat.’ Isn’t that what you Americans say?”

I frowned. “How did you know I was American?”

“I didn’t.” His grin stretched ear-to-ear. “But I do now.”

I couldn’t help smiling at him. “That wasn’t very nice.”

“I’m not a nice man.” His eyebrows knitted and he scowled in my direction. “In fact, I’m a very bad, bad man.”

“I don’t believe you.”

Then that bright smile was back again. “But don’t American women like ‘bad boys?’”

“Where did you hear that?”

“American television of course.”

I snorted. “Of course.”

“So it’s not true?”

“Oh it’s true.” I nodded sagely. “All American woman like bad boys. And men in uniforms. And men with big bank accounts. And great big…”

I let my sentence trail off, looking sideways at him.

“Well one out of four isn’t bad, eh?” He shrugged, using his long pole- no metaphor there, I thought wryly-to steer us through the waterways of Venice.

“Are you going to make me guess which one?” I teased. I knew I was flirting with him, encouraging him, in fact. What was wrong with me today?

“No, I would never make you guess.” He met my eyes, his look quite serious. I felt my cheeks flush and was glad for the chill in the air. The rain had finally stopped, and although the water was choppy, it reflected a bit of hazy sun trying to make its way through the clouds.

“So what are you doing here in Italia, Americano?” He changed the subject as smoothly as he navigated his boat through the water.

“I’m in an exchange program. Studying Italian.”

“Of course.” He nodded, as if he’d guessed. He probably had-there were plenty of foreign exchange students in Italy, although most were undergraduates, still in their college partying days, spending long hours drinking wine in the cafes during the day when they weren’t in class and dancing at clubs into the wee hours of the night. I was a graduate student, far more serious about my studies and the time I spent in Italy, since I had to finish my thesis in just one year.

“Do you need a study partner?” he asked, flirting again.

I didn’t rebuff him. “Are you offering your services?”

“In any way I can assist you.” He swept his hat off his head and bowed low. His balance up there on the edge of the gondola took my breath away.

“Do you think I need practice?” I protested.

“Your Italian is good,” he admitted. “But practice makes perfect, eh? Isn’t that what Americans say?”

“Oh look, yet another masked man.” I pointed toward the shore where someone was dressed up in costume. They were everywhere I turned this week, men, women and children all made up in masks and feathers, satin and lace. “I feel like I’m in an episode of The Lone Ranger. ”

The Italian blinked at me. “The Lone…what?”

“I thought you watched American TV.” I smiled. “It’s an old television show.”

“How can you come to Italy and not attend Carnavale?” He looked genuinely puzzled by my lack of interest.

“It’s just a big Mardi Gras, right?” I shrugged. “You’ve seen one, you’ve seen them all.”

“There is nothing like Carnavale!” the Italian man protested.

“Yes there is. We celebrate it in New Orleans just like you do here. Parades and costumes. Well, we’re a little more crude about it I guess. Women flash their breasts for some beads and baubles. Typical Americans, eh?”

“I like this custom.” He grinned.

“I’m not religious,” I admitted. “So I don’t give up anything for Lent or do much on Fat Tuesday.”

“Not Catholic?”

I shook my head.

“My mother is crossing herself and saying a prayer for you right now.” He winked. “So what do you Americans do on this ‘Fat Tuesday?’”

“Well, in America, mostly people go to work and eat Paczkis.”

“Paczkis. Aren’t those Polish donuts?”

“Indeed they are,” I agreed. “About five hundred calories a piece.”

He smirked. “Sounds delightful.”

“Now you start to understand why I’m in Italy instead of the states.”

“But you’re not at Carnavale!”

I glanced up at him, shading my eyes, the sun finally making a full appearance. “Neither are you.”

“Ah, true, but a man has to earn his bread.”

I looked around the empty canal. There were a few boats docked and some people on the streets, but most of them were at the Piazza. “You do a lot of gondola rides during Carnavale?”

“Yes, it’s our busiest week in the winter, although I thought about taking today off and attending the festivities. The last day of Carnavale is always the grandest.” He smiled down at me. “But now I’m glad I didn’t.”

“Do you own your own boat?” I asked, trying to change the subject, nowhere near as smooth as he was. Going to post a letter usually took me ten minutes via the waterways, tops, but taking a gondola was slowing down the whole process considerably.

“I do,” he said. “My boat, my business. I like to be in control.”

My breath went away at his words, my mouth dry. I looked away from him, not able to meet his gaze, grabbing the blanket he’d left and pulling it over my knees.

“I think the whole Carnavale thing is overrated. It’s all for tourists.” I made another attempt to steer the conversation elsewhere. “It’s been costumes everywhere I go for the past two weeks. Too much noise, too many crowds.”

“Ah, but bella, the food alone is worth the crowds on the streets!” His eyes rolled back and he rubbed his belly, smacking his lips as if he could taste some delicacy on his tongue. Italians were always so overly demonstrative-that was one stereotype that had proved to be true.

“Is it good?” I found myself thinking of the bread, cheese and fruit I had left for dinner back at my flat.

“Good?” His eyes snapped open and he threw his arms wide, nearly losing his pole. “Mio Dio! It’s to die for! Isn’t that what you Americans say when it’s too good for words?”

I smiled. “Yes, that’s what we Americans say.”

“You should come to dinner with me at least.” He concentrated now on steering the long boat down another narrow canal-we were almost to the post office.

I quickly made excuses. “Oh, I really don’t feel like going out, not with all the people…”

“Not out.” He slowed the boat using his long pole. “To my home. Come see how we really do Shrove Tuesday in Venice. You’ll leave so full I’ll have to carry you home.”

“Is that your evil plan, bad boy?” I teased as the gondola came to a stop. He used a rope around a post to pull the boat in closer to the shore.

He laughed. “Yes, that’s my evil plan. Are you a willing victim?”

“I don’t even know your name,” I reminded him.

“Nico Bianchi.” He held out his hand and I shook it, feeling the warm press of his palm against mine.

“Dani,” I replied. “Danielle Stuart.”

He nodded, satisfied. “See, now we are not strangers.”

“Let me think about it.” I accepted his help onto shore, glancing up at him. He looked so hopeful-but I knew I shouldn’t. Cara Lucia had invited me to her family’s Carnavale celebration but I had begged off, planning to just snuggle up with Jezebel and read the whole day away. “I need to post this before they shut their doors.”

It was nearly noon, and I barely made it in before they closed for the holiday. The postal workers were all in costume, chatting about Carnavale. They were headed down to the Piazza as soon as they were done and seemed annoyed to have to deal with my little package, but I was glad I’d made it.

I glanced out the window and saw the gondolier chatting with another man, a little bit older, not in costume. He was wearing a suit and carrying a briefcase, a strange sight during Carnavale, when masks and make-up were the norm.

The men laughed together and then hugged-something unheard of on the streets of America, but very common in Italy-but when the man in the suit kissed the gondolier on the lips, I nearly dropped my bag in surprise.

Hugging, yes. Even kissing each other on each cheek, or-strange to Americans-patting each other on the behind, all of those things I’d seen. But a full kiss on the lips between two men? That could only mean one thing.

The encounter was over by the time I went outside, the man with the briefcase gone, but I couldn’t help voicing my curiosity.

“Who was that?” I asked as Nico offered me a hand and I stepped onto the boat.

He glanced at me in surprise as I settled myself on a seat. “Just a friend.”

“Looked like a very good friend,” I remarked, hiding a knowing smile.

“He is, still.” The gondolier untied and pushed off, and we were on our way again. “He lives in Sicily now. I see him very rarely. It was a coincidence to run into him here.”

He was so cavalier about it, not embarrassed at all, but it was clear to me-Nico was gay. Which, I had to admit, relieved me of some of my trepidation, and I began to look back over our conversation with a different lens.

“So are you ready for a real Italian Shrove Tuesday?” he asked as we maneuvered back down the little canal. “My mother has been cooking all week for today. If we get there early enough, we can eat all the Zeppole before my sisters arrive. What do you say?”

I’d denied myself the revelry and masked silliness in the streets, but I had to admit, I’d been longing for some company, a little good food and wine and conversation. Who could turn down homemade Italian cooking on Carnavale? Why not?

Smiling, I accepted. “ Si, signor! You’ve convinced me.”

Nico smiled as we headed into the more open water of the Grand Canal, steering us toward his home.

“Nico brought a girl home!” Nico’s mother-“Call me Mama Dorotea!”-stage-whispered into the phone to one of his sisters, glancing over at me perched on the edge of the sofa. I got the feeling Nico didn’t bring girls home often-go figure-and they were all trying to be casual but I’d heard the phrase, “Nico brought a girl home!” at least ten times since I’d arrived.

“No, a girl.” Mama Dorotea cupped the mouthpiece with her hand as she spoke, as if it might make sound travel slower in my direction. “Are you coming soon?”

That was the third daughter on the phone, I deduced-the other two were already present and accounted for. The oldest, Anna, was married and had two children, a boy and a girl, who ran straight to the kitchen when they arrived to “help” grandma with the food. Helping, of course, involved a great deal of tasting. The youngest daughter, Caprice, still a teenager, seemed intent on beating her older-and only-brother at Scrabble. Nico was sprawled out with her on the floor. Out of his gondolier uniform, wearing jeans and a gray pullover, he was even more handsome. It never failed-the cute ones were always gay.

“Another glass of wine, Daniella?”

“It’s Dani,” I corrected her again, accepting the glass from Anna, the oldest daughter. Her husband had parked himself in front of the television for a football game-which, in Italy, meant soccer-and hadn’t said a word to anyone. His wife, on the other hand, had attached herself to me, talking almost non-stop since I arrived.

She paid no attention to my words, going on about the issues they were having with their flat, the landlord refusing to fix things. Nico, from the floor, offered to help repair the leaky sink, but Anna didn’t listen to him either. She seemed more focused on complaining about her problems than she was on actually solving any of them.

I sipped my wine-homemade, according to Mama Dorotea-and watched Nico. Strangely, now that I knew he was gay, I gave myself more freedom to really look at him. His olive skin still retained a bit of a summer tan from working outside all year round. He was my age, probably early-to-mid-twenties, sandwiched somewhere between his younger teenage sister and the next oldest, who had just gotten married the year before. The siblings all had the same dark hair, the girls’ long and thick and wavy, Nico’s short and curly; the same striking, bright blue eyes; even the same full, sensual mouth.

Nico glanced up at me and winked, putting tiles down on the Scrabble board as his youngest sister protested using “Qi” as a word. I still couldn’t believe I’d said I’d come to dinner, with his family no less. I was clearly more lonely that I wanted to admit. But he was sweet, and more importantly, he was safe. Maybe we could even be friends. I’d been in Italy eight months and didn’t have any real friends to speak of, aside from Cara Lucia.

“I’m getting a dictionary!” Caprice jumped up, racing for the bookshelf in the corner.

“Look it up.” Nico rolled to his back, putting his hands behind his head, and grinned. “Fifty-four points, triple letter, double word score. I win!”

“You’re far too proud of yourself,” I commented, sipping my wine to hide a smile. Beside me, Anna had thankfully been distracted by one of the children, the girl, Maria, coming in to ask her mother a question. Everyone spoke Italian and no one seemed to notice that I wasn’t a native speaker. It was quite a compliment and I was rather proud of myself.

“You want to play the winner?” Nico asked me.

“You’re so sure you’re the winner.”

“I am.” He shrugged. “Qi is a word.”

“It’s not an Italian word,” I replied. We were all speaking in Italian and I was proud of myself for holding my own. “I don’t even think it’s an English word.”

“It’s an Oriental word.” Caprice sighed, reading from the dictionary. “Oriental medicine, martial arts, etcetera. The vital energy believed to circulate around the body in currents.”

“I win!” Nico pumped his fist in the air and his sister stuck her tongue out behind his back.

“Time to eat!” Mama Dorotea appeared in the doorway wearing an apron, stained and covered in flour. That was a good sign. My stomach was growling and I definitely needed to eat something-I’d had far too much wine on an empty stomach and my head was swimmy.

“What about Giulia and Will?” Anna herded her kids toward the dining room table.

“They’re going to be late,” Mama Dorotea announced, using the remote to turn off the television. It was the first time Anna’s husband, Sal, had looked at something other than the screen since he sat down. He grunted, getting up, and followed his nose toward the table. “They said to start without them.”

The family gathered around the food, practically drooling, as Mama Dorotea said a prayer, mentioning her dead husband at the end, asking the family to remember him. I’d noticed the urn and photo of the mustachioed man on the fireplace mantel when we came in and wondered how this woman had raised four children nearly to adulthood on her own.

“ Ti amo, Padre, ” Anna whispered at the end of the prayer, reaching over and squeezing her mother’s hand. Mama Dorotea’s eyes were shiny as she started passing around dishes full of gnocci, tortellini and castagnole. It didn’t stay quiet for long. The two kids fought over who got the biggest and best piece of lasagna while Anna continued her diatribe about their dilapidated flat, and Caprice interjected with her own teen angst-a girl at school who liked the same boy who refused to speak to her now.

Nico sat next to me, passing me dish after dish, forcing me to fill my plate. There were frittelle-fritters fried to a perfect golden brown, filled with meat and gravy. The migliaccio di polenta — polenta and sausage-was so aromatic my stomach actually growled as I put some on my plate. I lost count after a while of how many plates were passed piled with all sorts of pastas filled with sweet prosciutto, smoky pancetta, and buttery sopressata.

“What did I tell you about the food?” Nico asked, nudging me, his mouth half-full. I could only whimper in response, sweet, heavenly pasta melting on my tongue. If there was something I loved almost as much as the Italian language, it was Italian food, and this was the best I’d ever had in nearly a year living in Italy.

“Nico made the lasagna,” Mama Dorotea said, smiling over at me. “And the Zeppole for dessert. Wait until you taste!”

“You cook?” I managed, swallowing the perfect bite with a bit of wine.

His cheeks pinked up as he shoveled another mouthful in, not responding.

“Our Nico is the best cook in the family.” Mama Dorotea reached over and ruffled his hair, making her son blush a deeper shade of red.

“Mama!” he protested, waving her away.

“It’s true,” Caprice piped up. “No one can outcook Nico.”

“Nona Lara was better,” Nico said, gulping his own wine. “My grandmother,” he said to me. “She’s who taught me how to cook.”

“Nona Lara watched the children while I worked,” Mama Dorotea explained. “She was here when they came home from school every day.”

“We made dinner together every night,” Nico said.

And now I had a clear picture of this family, the single, young widowed mother, a grandmother staying home to take care of the children while she worked. I hadn’t been in the midst of any sort of family for a long time, and it felt good to be in the middle of the chatter, the teasing, the inside jokes I didn’t understand but made me smile anyway. I didn’t know if it was the wine, the food, or the people, but I was far more comfortable than I had expected to feel surrounded by strangers. It probably should have made me nostalgic for my own family, but my mother, although a single mother in her own right, had given me turkey TV-dinners on Thanksgiving and always confused my birthday with her own. It was hard to miss stuff like that.

“Thanks for inviting me,” I whispered to Nico while the two kids argued with their mother about getting dessert if they hadn’t finished their dinner. I saw his mother smile at us approvingly, saw the look she exchanged with her oldest daughter when Nico leaned in to say “You’re welcome,” into my ear.

“Mama!” A voice called from the other room and everyone looked up.

“They’re here!” Mama Dorotea stood, putting her napkin down on the table and rushing toward the doorway. “They’re here! They’re here!”

“They’re here!” The kids jumped up and followed and so did both Anna and Caprice. Only Sal sat unmoving, shoveling in huge mouthfuls of lasagna.

“You’d think the messiah had returned,” I murmured, making Nico snort laughter beside me.

“You could say that,” he replied with a smile. “You see, my sister and her husband-”

That was as far as he got before the whole lot of them burst into the room, all surrounding a pretty young woman with the same dark hair, hers cut shorter than the rest, curling around her cherubic face, her blue eyes bright with laughter.

“Let us take a breath!” the young woman-Giulia, I assumed-exclaimed, her gaze falling on her brother. “Can you help me, Nico?”

He stood, taking two strides toward his sister to take something from her arms. It took me a moment to register what it was, and by the time Nico had reached me, his sisters and mother following, exclaiming all around him, I felt rooted in my chair, trapped and speechless.

“Meet his highness, the Bianchi messiah, my sister’s son, Luka-the first boy in the family since I was born.” Nico pulled back the blue knitted blanket to show me the tiny face of a very newborn baby. He couldn’t have been more than a week or two old, his little hand drawn up to his mouth, eyes screwed up tight as he sucked on his fingers.

Everyone was quiet now, focused on me and my reaction. I knew what I was supposed to do and say, but I couldn’t find the words. They were caught in my throat.

“Give the woman a little room.” It was Sal, Anna’s husband, who spoke up. “You’re overwhelming her.”

And of course, he was absolutely correct.

“Excuse me.” I managed to stand, grabbing the back of the chair for support, before bolting down the hall toward the bathroom. I sat on the commode, my head tucked between my knees, my whole body trembling. They were talking again, maybe about me, but it sounded more like they were exclaiming over the baby.

The baby.

Oh my god, I’d just run out of the room like an idiot. What must they think?

But I couldn’t let them see me like this, shaking and holding back sobs and trying to draw breath into my lungs like a fish out of water. Sometimes the pain came out of nowhere and blindsided me. It was like getting hit upside the head by a two by four from behind. It just flattened me.

“Dani?” Nico knocked gently on the door, calling my name. I thought about not answering him, pretending I was invisible. That was ridiculous, of course. I was going to have to face him-face all of them.

“Just a moment,” I called, hearing the quiver in my voice and cursing it. I stood, checking my face in the mirror-tear-streaked, nose red, mascara running. I was a mess.

“Come out,” he called, knocking again. “Whatever it is, we don’t have to talk about it.”

How did he know just the right thing to say? I gravitated toward the door and unlocked it, peeking out. He must have seen my face, known I’d been crying. I hadn’t washed it or tried to cover it up.

“I have something to show you.” He extended his hand. “Come with me.”

“I can’t,” I croaked, shrinking back. “You don’t understand.”

“Trust me.”

“I hardly know you.” I sniffed.

“Trust me anyway.”

I took his offered hand and followed.