I get greedy with my mouth as I take another taste, and when I roll over to grip her ass, the bed lets out an irritable shriek that has me resting my head on her chest with a groan.
“Let’s go formally meet your Nonna.” I rise and hold my hand out to Jolene.
She gets up and follows me down the hallway to where Nonna is standing in the kitchen.
“You wanna caffé or Chianti?” Nonna asks, holding her arms out to her sides.
Jolene and I glance to each other and nod at the same time, saying, “Chianti.”
Nonna slaps her hands together in a sort of celebration. “I was hoping you’d say that. Come, we sit outside.”
She grabs a bottle that’s lined in straw on the bottom along with three glasses, and we walk back to the hallway and up one more flight of stairs. At the top is a door that Nonna has to shove open with her hip. When it releases, the late afternoon sunlight beams through. I follow the women outside, onto the roof of Nonna’s building.
There’s a half-wall around the perimeter, and you can see a three-hundred-and-sixty-degree view of the city. Reds and golds, creams and browns of the rooftops showcase the old-world architecture.
I stand and face the Bay of Naples and am in absolute awe. Dark blue water stretches out and glimmers in the sun. Mount Vesuvius stands tall nearby, seeming massive and almost fake.
This home might be lacking in modern esthetics and space, but the view is unreal.
Jolene and Nonna walk to the center of the rooftop to a pergola, which is covered in vines, almost overtaking the entire structure in gorgeous greens and browns that weave around one another.
We each take a seat in metal patio chairs around a small table with mosaics in the shape of lemon trees.
“Thank you for letting us stay with you,” I tell Nonna.
“A ogni uccello, il suo nido è bello,” she says as she pours the wine.
Jolene translates for me. “To every bird, its nest is beautiful.”
I grin at that. As Nonna hands me my wineglass, I hold it up in salute. “I can drink to that.”
Jolene takes her glass, and we each cheers. I sit back and let the Mediterranean air seep into my lungs. A glass of wine and a killer view is a great way to fight off jet lag.
“I want to hear all the stories,” Nonna says with a mischievous grin. “Tell me all of the Jolene stories.”
I laugh out loud. “I should be asking you the same question. You’ve known her better than I have these past few years.” I turn to Jolene when the thought comes to me.
She’s taking the glass from Nonna and thanking her in Italian. There’s a glint in her eye as she looks at Nonna, like she’s not just some woman who she stays with on occasion. She’s more.
“Nonna, you probably know more about her now than anyone.”
Jolene glances down as she fiddles with her wineglass, shrugging like she knows I’m right but is also seeing now how sad that is.
Nonna places her hand over mine. “I come into her life the same time I needed her. We’ve helped each other.”
“Chi di volta, e chi si gira, sempre a casa va a finire,” Jolene adds. “It pretty much means, no matter where you go or turn, you’ll always end up at home. That’s what Nonna told me a while back.”
“You just need to know where home is.” Nonna grips my hand again before letting go.
She seems like the kind of woman who has an uncanny way of knowing what needs to be said at the right time. That’s what makes the older generation so special sometimes.
“Unless there are bats in said home,” Jolene says, and Nonna covers her mouth with a laugh.
“Did she tell you about the time she helped chase the pipistrello out of my attic?” Nonna asks me.
“You helped chase a bat out of an attic?” My eyes open wide in Jolene’s direction.
She hates all creatures or things that go bump in the night.
She shivers at the thought. “God, don’t remind me.”
“How did you chase it out?” I ask, needing to hear more of the story.
“I arrived, and she was in the sitting room, covered in an afghan because she heard the thing flying and scratching on things.”
Nonna holds her hand up, dismissing the facts. “You make-ah me sound like a pazza.” She makes the international sign of crazy around her head.
Jolene lets out a big huff of air. “Don’t let her fool you. She was huddled in the corner, planning her escape out of the house rather than figuring out what the noise was.”
“I was not that bad!” Nonna defends herself.
Jolene gives her a deadpan expression until Nonna flips her hand in front of her, giving in.
“Fine. I wasn’t happy about it.” She smiles big at Jolene. “And then you come.”
“Uh-huh. The truth comes out! She had me go in the attic with a broom!” she says dramatically. “Like a broom was going to kill the thing.”
“Then, what happened?” I ask.
“We opened the hatch to the attic, and it came flying out into her bedroom.” Jolene sits up to make sure I’m hearing what she’s saying. “The thing flew right past my head.” Her eyes are open wide as she slaps her hand down on the armrest of her chair.
“What did you do?”
“No thanks to her”—Jolene can barely contain her laughter—“I was swooshing that broom in the air like a crazy person, swatting at it to get out the window. And guess where she was.” She points to Nonna, who’s hiding her smile behind her wineglass. “She’d locked herself in the bathroom and left me all alone.”
Nonna raises her glass up to Jolene in a cheers motion. “Saluti! To you saving the day. Just like my Antonio would have.”
Both Jolene and Nonna grin at each other at the mention of Antonio.
“Was he your husband?” I ask after the moment they share.
Nonna nods as she glances up to the sky, blowing a kiss before turning back to me. “He died a year before I met Jolene. We didn’t have children, so it has been very lonely.”
I reach for Jolene’s hand as she looks down at the table and takes a sip of wine. The relationship between the two makes more sense than it did before.
“How did Antonio pass?” I ask Nonna.
“He loved his wine and sigari. It finally got the best of him. I can’t walk into the piazza without smelling the dolce profumo that remind me of him.” Her lips tilt up to a smile as she sits back in her chair like she can smell them now.
“How long were you married?” I continue.
“Cinquant anni.” She nods with pride. “Antonio was my first and only love. We met when we were fifteen years old. He stole a lemon from our tree and my heart at the same time. Mio padre was not too fond of him at first, but”—she sways her head and hands—“over time, he grew to love him as much as I did.”
She pauses and looks back and forth from Jolene to me. Her mulled brown eyes glisten as she does so. “Sometimes, you have to listen to the universo as to what it is wanting to tell you. Mio padre, he … he want to keep us apart, but someone”—she points up to the sky—“had another plan, and it kept bringing us back together until la mia famiglia couldn’t fight it anymore.”
She stands with the bottle of Chianti, topping off our glasses. “In Italia, i signore have to show the famiglia what he can offrire … ah, what’s the word? Provide?” Nonna asks, and Jolene nods. “Provide for their daughter.” She glances my way. “Can you provide the way my Antonio did?”