Knowing She Hath Wings

By D.J. Paolini

Learn To Cry In Italian.

Angelina and Benjamin find the perfect house, and Valentina worries that her children are trying to distance themselves from her. But then they lose the deal. Dealing with the house drama, Angelina is at first unaware she is pregna

• Language: English
• Publisher: Rock & Rose Press
• Release date: Feb 17, 2022
• ISBN: 9781736119594

D.J. Paolini

D.J. Paolini is the author of The Infinite Passion of Life, his first novel, and the first book in the planned six-book series: The Rock & the Rose. His non-fiction work includes technical editor of three award-winning database programming books. He was the contributing editor with a monthly column for a database industry magazine. He was selected to coauthor a database programming book in the popular "Teach Yourself..." series. Paolini was on the team that won an award for best technical documentation for a software program. He has delivered several dozen technical papers in more than one hundred sessions at conferences in North America, Europe, and Asia. Paolini has had three poems published. He also writes music and has had several pieces performed in the United States and France. He wrote a column for his college newspaper and he received a creative writing award in high school. He has traveled extensively and infuses that experience into his writing. Within Me, an Invincible Summer is the second book in the series set in Northern Italy. In his spare time, he has played in weekend rock bands and served as a volunteer firefighter and emergency squad member, including six years as fire chief. He is a licensed soccer referee and has served as the administrator for youth soccer referees in his home state of New Jersey.

Book preview

BOOK III IN THE ROCK & THE ROSE SAGA

Knowing

She

Hath Wings

Stories of Love, Life, and Passion in Northern Italy

D.J. PAOLINI

Copyright © 2022 D.J. Paolini.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

KDP ISBN: 978-1-7361195-7-0

IngramSpark ISBN: 978-1-7361195-8-7

eBook ISBN: 978-1-7361195-9-4

Library of Congress Control Number: 2022900854

Any references to historical events, real people, or real places are used fictitiously. Names, characters, and places are products of the author’s imagination.

First printing edition 2022.

Rock & Rose Press

29 Windham Drive

Eastampton, NJ 08060 USA

www.theRockandtheRose.com

http://www.djpaolini.com

Cover and interior design: AuthorPackages.com

Published in the United States of America

Table of Contents

Prologue

Cheap Shoes

One

Benjamin

Two

Angelina

Three

Benjamin

Four

Valentina

Five

Angelina

Six

Benjamin

Intermezzo

Nice Shoes

Seven

Benjamin

Eight

Angelina

Nine

Valentina

Ten

Benjamin

Eleven

Angelina

Twelve

Benjamin

Thirteen

Angelina

Fourteen

Benjamin

Intermezzo

Overnight Sensation

Fifteen

Valentina

Sixteen

Angelina

Intermezzo

A Matter of Trust

Seventeen

Angelina

Eighteen

Benjamin

Nineteen

Angelina

Intermezzo

A Sisterhood of Holy Nuns

Twenty

Angelina

Twenty-One

Benjamin

Twenty-Two

Valentina

Twenty-Three

Benjamin

Intermezzo

Taking Stock

Twenty-Four

Angelina

Twenty-Five

Benjamin

Twenty-Six

Valentina

Twenty-Seven

Benjamin

Twenty-Eight

Valentina

Twenty-Nine

Angelina

Intermezzo

Brother, Father

Thirty

Valentina

Thirty-One

Angelina

Thirty-Two

Benjamin

Thirty-Three

Angelina

Intermezzo

Father, Uncle

Thirty-Four

Benjamin

Intermezzo

Learning to Fly

Thirty-Five

Benjamin

Thirty-Six

Angelina

Thirty-Seven

Valentina

Thirty-Eight

Angelina

Thirty-Nine

Benjamin

Intermezzo

Final Destination

Forty

Angelina

Forty-One

Benjamin

Forty-Two

Angelina

Forty-Three

Benjamin

Forty-Four

Valentina

Forty-Five

Angelina

Forty-Six

Benjamin

Forty-Seven

Valentina

Forty-Eight

Benjamin

Forty-Nine

Angelina

Fifty

Valentina

Fifty-One

Benjamin

Fifty-Two

Angelina

Fifty-Three

Valentina

Fifty-Four

Benjamin

Epilogue

Keeping Score

Dramatis Personae

Acknowledgments

The Rock and the Rose Saga

Praise for The Infinite Passion of Life

Praise for Within Me, an Invincible Summer

Excerpt from Strong at the Broken Places

The Playing At Romance Series

About the Author

In loving memory of Pat Senior

"The greatest happiness of life is the conviction that we are loved;

loved for ourselves, or rather, loved in spite of ourselves."

― VICTOR HUGO ―

Prologue

Cheap Shoes

I was in the middle before I knew that I had begun.

― Jane Austen, Pride and Prejudice ―

Michele Rizzo disliked all Mondays, but as she walked to her job at a boutique news organization, her loathing for this one was greater than most. It wasn’t the weather; mid-September 2014 in Milano was marvelous. And she enjoyed her position as editor—her publisher, Elena Guerra, eleven years her senior, empowered her as no boss had before. Yet she’d no interest in meeting her newest employee, a writer moving from Amsterdam—an American writer. Elena had interviewed and hired him on the spot, without so much as a What do you think, Rizzo?

To her colleagues she answered to Mikki, a nickname from her childhood given to her by a French mother enamored with creating pet names for everyone. But from her first day at the paper, Elena called her Rizzo—not Michele, not Mikki—just Rizzo. And not Reet-zo, the Italian pronunciation, instead Rih-zo, as Americans often pronounced her name. When Mikki asked why, Elena told her to watch the American movie Grease.

After screening it, Mikki had to admit she’d much in common with the Stockard Channing character, even if they mispronounced her name.

From that moment, Mikki told her closest friends to call her Rizzo. "No, non la Signora Rizzo, solo Rizzo." She was only glad Elena hadn’t used her family name: Vecchia. She had no intention of growing old.

Mikki kicked at a stone on the walk in the Parco BAM—the Parco Biblioteca degli Alberi Milano. On most days, she took the longer walk from her Isola apartment near Teatro Verdi to enjoy the walk through the Library of Trees Park. The smile that had started when she thought of her family name became a pout as she gazed at the tree-bedecked Bosco Verticale apartment building. She knew she could never afford to live there, but it didn’t stop the fantasy. She lowered her gaze to follow the stone as it clattered off onto the grass. Returning to thoughts on the upcoming workday, she lowered her brow.

An American! She shook her head. An American man! What the hell was Elena thinking?

Their offices were in the centro direzionale district a half kilometer from the central train station. Arriving just before eight, she headed straight to the kitchenette for càffe. To deal with Americans, she knew, one must be fully awake.

She entered her office holding a full cup and just avoided a pair of legs belonging to a man slouched in one of her chairs. She stayed upright, but the cup did not—half of its contents escaping and depositing themselves across both the floor and the lower half of his trousers.

"Dannazione!" she said as she switched the cup in her hands and reached for a tissue. She might have said worse than damn had she been more awake.

Oh, wow, sorry! he said, before adding, "Scusa, voglio dire mi dispiace."

I understand English, she said. You must be the American. She shifted her gaze from his brown eyes—nice eyes—to his legs. It appears you have paid for your lack of posture and the impertinence of entering my office before me. I accept your apology. Here, wipe yourself off, she said, and she tossed him a box of facial tissues.

I’m sorry, but Elena told me to wait here for you. When she looked up at his expressive eyes, she almost regretted scolding him.

Oh, already she is in the office?

"Allora, I see you’ve met," Elena said from behind Mikki.

"Non formalmente, Signora Guerra," the American said.

Well, Mikki Rizzo, please help me welcome Benjamin LaRocca, your new writer and reporter. Ben, this is your boss, Mikki Rizzo, but we call her Rizzo.

"Buongiorno, grazie, puoi chiamarmi Ben."

You can call me Mikki.

Well, whatever you want him to call you, put him to work. Elena glanced down at Ben’s legs. Ben, welcome aboard. I am looking forward to you taking us places. Elena chuckled, then waved at Ben’s feet and said, Good thing you wore a pair of cheap shoes today.

***

Cheap shoes? Ben thought as Elena left. These are my best shoes. He had bought them before he left the States for Amsterdam six months ago.

"Allora, Ben. Do you prefer Italian or English? I noticed you struggled a bit with Italian."

"Italiano, per favore, he said. I need to work on my Italian—as long as you do not mind me switching to English when necessary."

But of course, Mikki said.

Ben switched to English. "I love the way you just said ovviamente. I am still struggling with the double vowels and stresses."

"Ovviamente, she said. Let me show you to your desk." For a moment, he wondered if she was mocking him.

Along the way, she pointed out the large common bathroom, the kitchenette, and the back stairs. Our tech guy, Lanzo, is out today, but Geno should be able to get your laptop connected to our network. Last year, we stopped buying desktop computers and office telephones. Most employees prefer their own laptops and cell phones. Let me know if this is an issue. Ben shook his head.

Our receptionist answers the main number, and Elena and I still have office desk phones should you ever need to reach the office. Here we are. Mikki pointed at an open desk with nothing but an LCD screen.

"Allora, Ben, I do not know how much Elena described of our operation, she said as she sat in the chair next to his desk. We publish a print edition every other Friday, mostly for expatriates or for Italians practicing English. The next publication date is this Friday. Our website has taken off, so we try to publish fresh content daily—some of which also appears in the following print edition."

Do your—do our readers follow both the website and the paper, or are they two different audiences? Ben asked.

Good question, Mikki said, and a smiled crossed her face as she nodded her head. We have significant overlap. When we started, we’d print articles first and then put them on the website—fearing that otherwise it would affect circulation. It turns out we needn’t have worried. Some people read the website articles but still like to hold a paper in their hands every two weeks. And the nature of the internet requires content to be published as it happens, not on an arbitrary print deadline. The newspaper business is struggling to change—we think we are ahead of the curve. As she spoke, Mikki had shifted forward in her seat, lifting her arms from time to time in emphasis. She tilted her head and smiled again when she finished.

She has a pleasant smile, Ben thought. Mikki was also tall. Five-eight, five-nine—one hundred seventy-five centimeters, he reminded himself, still adjusting to metric. He’d always liked tall women.

We tweak our articles for each platform, she said. That’s how you caught Elena’s attention: your platform-aware style. You wrote the same material differently for print and for the web. She believes such an approach is a key differentiator for us, and I agree.

And it is one reason this opportunity appealed to me, Ben said. I hated when my editors would question why I submitted two versions of the same piece. It drove me crazy when they would use only one or the other for both platforms. As he paused for a breath, he took Mikki’s nod as her encouragement to continue.

"You know what was worse? When they mashed the two together and created some kind of Franken-article." He sighed, thinking he was sharing too much information, but relaxed when she chuckled at one of his Ben-isms.

No such worries with us; we want your approach for the two platforms, Mikki said, and Ben sat back in his seat as she continued. "Alorra, do you understand your three responsibilities with us?"

I think I know what you expect, but please explain. I do not want to assume.

"Bene, Mikki said. She brought the index finger of her right hand into her left palm and said, Write a full-length travel article every four weeks that we will feature on the website and in the print edition. She lifted her right hand and then brought two fingers back into the palm of her left. Alternate that with a column every four weeks about an expat’s experience in Italy that will also appear in both media. She repeated the gesture, this time with three fingers. Contribute brief news articles and human-interest stories to our website. She clasped her hands together and said, Allora, give me one major piece every two weeks, alternating between travel and expat, and stay busy contributing some web content. Okay?"

Ben nodded. This was what Elena had described to him in the interview.

Elena mentioned you would have a travel article for us when you arrived. Is it ready?

I would like to go over it one more time before I submit it, but yes, he said.

Excellent. We can prepare it for the website feature and include it in the October third print edition. What about this week? When he did not respond, she said, Can you have an expat column ready by Wednesday night for the Friday print edition? We send it to the printer Thursday afternoon.

Yes, I can do that. I have several ideas already. How long do you want it?

Let’s keep you short for this first issue—give me fifteen column inches.

Sorry? He was unfamiliar with the term.

"Newspaper talk, mi dispiace. About thirty words to the inch. Give me four to five hundred words, okay?"

After he nodded, she asked, Questions?

Yes, Ben said, but then hesitated. What did Elena mean about cheap shoes? Ben asked, cutting to the chase.

I think she expected you to wear your good shoes your first day.

These are my good ones.

"Scherzi?" she asked with a smile, but Ben shook his head.

Oh, you’re not kidding, Mikki said, her eyes widening, her head shaking. "Allora, we must fix that. Geno, vieni qui, per favore."

A young man two desks away looked up at his name, walked over, and said, "Che c’è?"

Mikki said, "Geno, caro, questo è Benjamin, err, Ben."

Geno smiled and said, "Ciao, Ben."

Help him get connected and show him anything else you think is helpful. After Geno nodded, she added, And please do me a favor: take Ben to get a decent pair of shoes after work.

Geno looked at Ben’s shoes and said, "Ovviamente."

"Grazie, bambino," Mikki said before returning to her office.

Ben asked Geno, Could we run out at lunchtime?

"Not to buy anything. Everything is closed—riposa."

Ben had not yet adjusted to riposa. He had assumed that people exaggerated when they described Italy shutting down at midday. He soon learned that, if anything, they’d understated the practice. In Milano, it was about two hours, twelve thirty to two thirty. In his travels farther south, he discovered it was often three or four hours, and many smaller towns became ghost towns in the heat of the day. He’d learned—with some embarrassment—that unless he was at one of the large shopping plazas with their European chain stores, he could find nothing open at midday except restaurants and a few cafés serving lunch.

He’d also learned an essential Italian survival technique: always remember for future reference any store you find that is orario continuato and did not close for riposa.

One

Benjamin

If she killed the first guy, maybe you’re next.

As he motored north on the autostrada from Rimini en route to the Bologna airport, Ben LaRocca tried to sort out the myriad emotions that blanketed his thoughts no less than the pear and nectarine trees covered the farmland on both sides of the highway. Three weeks before, he and his wife, Angelina, had celebrated the birth of their daughter, Bella, he only as an astonished observer—Angelina had the heavy lift in that miracle. Ben had thought it a miracle for many reasons, not just the recognition of a new life entering the world.

He’d only met Angelina the summer before, not expecting to find romance, let alone a soul mate—but that she was, and more. She’d believed she couldn’t have children; that misconception led to Bella’s conception, surprising everyone. Then, surprising Angelina, but neither himself nor, it seemed, her protective godmother, Valentina, Benjamin had proposed on the spot. When they’d wed last December, with his parents and sister here from America to bear witness, it had been the happiest day of his life. Until three weeks ago.

Now, as he thought of his parents and sister, these emotions were joining with others as if preparing uno stufato di verdure. Ben chuckled as he thought, No, not a vegetable stew, an emotional stew—uno stufato emotivo. He thought more and more in Italian rather than his native English—what Valentina called his Americanish. His parents were landing in Bologna, arriving for the baptism. Ben looked forward to this, their second visit in less than eight months, especially after they’d not visited him in Europe since he had crossed the pond four years before. A modicum of dread—they’re my parents—shaded his anticipation. And when thoughts of his sister and her family unable to make the trip crashed the party, disappointment piled on.

Only I could turn something as wonderful as the baptism of my daughter into an episode of Dr. Phil.

It was the Sunday following the Fourth of July. The holiday was still meaningful to him, only now representing his personal independence. Ben’s parents had left Newark airport the night before for Munich, where they’d connected to Bologna. Ben’s father, Joseph, had suggested he and his wife, Rose, take the shuttle coach bus that ran from the airport to the Rimini train station.

Nonsense, Dad, I’ll pick you up, Ben had said.

Ben met them at the Aeroporto di Bologna Guglielmo Marconi just before one. After loading their bags—How can two people need this much luggage for a week? he wondered—Ben was unsurprised when his mother took the back seat and his father the front passenger seat without a word. Ben shook his head, hoping no one saw. His mother would never conceive of taking a front seat away from one of the menfolk. What she could conceive, Ben soon noted with regret, was how to complain about Italian drivers from the back seat.

How do they survive here? she asked, as strident as he remembered. No one stops when they should. I thought we would die twice when you entered that traffic circle.

"Here they’re called rotaries—rotatoria, Mom."

Don’t they have traffic laws?

"It’s best if you think of them as traffic suggestions, and just try to hit as few cars and people as possible when you drive."

"I’m not driving here!" she said.

And the motorists of Italy are forever grateful.

Once they merged onto the A14 and left the urban ninety kph speed zone, she raised a new concern. Bennie, how fast are you driving?

Mom, I’m not even going one-twenty. The next moment, Bennie and the Jets started playing in his mental jukebox, only the music, except for the stuttering chorus. Can’t blame my disability for me not knowing these lyrics. No one knows what the hell Elton is singing. Ben’s disability? He could remember almost any music arrangement by ear—he played keyboard in the band Metodo Ritmo—but had a mental block and remembered few, if any, lyrics.

Joseph, tell him to slow down! His mom swatted the back of his dad’s seat, and Ben knew it would’ve been the back of his father’s head—or mine—had she been able to reach it.

Dear, this is Europe. He’s only doing seventy. You know, the metric system? We drove faster on the New Jersey Turnpike going to the airport.

Both his sanity and his mother’s blood pressure benefited once they entered the autostrada where the traffic behaved more like she expected—civilized, she’d say—and she soon nodded off. Dreaming of Jersey jug handles and traffic cops, no doubt. His father joined her, appearing grateful for the solitude, if not the light snoring. Ben appreciated that both parents napped for most of the seventy-five-minute ride. He wasn’t quite up for the fatuous conversation he knew would otherwise have developed, with any topic of note needing regurgitation later anyway. His father stirred as they were about twenty minutes from home, just north of San Mauro Pascoli.

Ah, you’re awake. Won’t be much longer, Ben said. Hey, Dad, look at this tree line coming up on the right. See that stream?

The thing that looks like an irrigation ditch?

Yup. That’s the Fiume Rubicon.

"That’s the Rubicon? The history books made it seem like it was some sort of massive, uncrossable waterway."

That’s a misconception, if not a myth. In Caesar’s time, it was the northern border of Italy. The river wasn’t a physical barrier—people forded it all the time; it was a jurisdictional barrier, and, as it turned out, not a barrier at all. The Roman Senate told Julius Caesar he must not bring his army south across the river. When he did, it precipitated the civil war that led to the creation of the Roman Empire.

Seeing history is so much better than reading about it, his father said.

Speaking of history, this town, San Mauro Pascoli, is where Valentina was born—a little after Caesar. As Valentina wasn’t with them, Ben felt safe being glib—but only for a moment.

That wasn’t very nice, son. Valentina isn’t old. She certainly doesn’t look it. I’m looking forward to seeing her again.

Ben decided not to tell his father that Valentina was out of town for a few days. During their wedding visit last December, Ben had concluded his dad was smitten with Valentina. Not romantically, but in all other ways.

Valentina can have that effect on you. Valentina’s accomplishments in the police, the Carabinieri, and the intelligence service were the stuff of legend—or at least good fiction. Ben had authored a novel based on her exploits and was planning a series. Ben had developed immense respect—and love—for the tall, powerful, hyperintelligent older woman. Even after she almost killed me, he thought.

When the prosecutor had charged Valentina back in the spring with the murder of Angelina’s first husband two years before, the only people who knew without a doubt she couldn’t have done it were two of her former colleagues plus Benjamin and his father. He’d called his parents every other day to keep them apprised during the investigation.

On the first call, his father had said, It’s a setup, Ben. She didn’t do it. You know it.

I agree, Dad.

On the speakerphone, his mother hadn’t shared their optimism. Bennie, you said she almost killed you when you met. If she killed the first guy, maybe you’re next.

"Mom, I told you the story was hyperbolic; I only thought she might kill me. It was just a punch and a kick—and she was protecting Lina. But that was before she knew what a nice guy I am."

I don’t know, Bennie. Please be careful.

His mother and the prosecutor hadn’t been alone in their assessment. Even Angelina had developed doubts when they first presented the evidence. But not Ben, nor his dad. And with the help of her colleagues, the chief investigator had identified the true killer, thereby absolving Valentina, and solved a second murder as well.

Two

Angelina

He takes his parents for granted.

Angelina LaRocca. Ever since her marriage last December, her wonderfully unexpected marriage, Angelina loved saying her name to herself. Angelina LaRocca, her new name.

I’m not a Roselli, her birth name. I’m not a Fabrizzi, the appellation courtesy of her late first husband—lo stronzo. A year ago, after meeting Benjamin, her current—and last—husband, she no longer used any term other than the asshole to describe her first husband. Before meeting Benjamin, she would have considered herself a Marvelli. Her mother’s parents were Marvellis, a name still well regarded in her hometown of Rimini.

After the death of lo stronzo, she’d not expected to fall in love—not again but for the first time—and with an American no less. And she hadn’t believed she could bear children, thanks to lo stronzo. Yet here she was, married to a wonderful man and mother of the most beautiful Isabella Valentina Rose LaRocca, while preparing to meet for the second time his parents, arriving soon for Bella’s baptism.

The unexpected pregnancy had elicited an impromptu but sincere proposal from Benjamin after a whirlwind summer romance last year. Bella, born three weeks ago, carried the names of her three grandmothers. Isabella, Angelina’s mother, who died fourteen years before, and who was also, after but a brief physical relationship, the eternal love of Valentina, Angelina’s godmother. Valentina had assumed the role of surrogate mother to Angelina—and now, surrogate grandmother to Bella. Angelina had met Benjamin’s mother, Rose, along with his father, Joseph, at the wedding last December.

Today, Sunday, Benjamin’s parents were arriving at the airport in Bologna at lunchtime and were staying through to the following Sunday, with the baptism scheduled for that Saturday. To her disappointment, Benjamin’s sister, Jen, and her husband, David, could not make the trip. Jennifer and Angelina had been calling each other almost weekly, and after the third call, Angelina had to tell Jennifer to stop apologizing. Angelina had concluded that over-apologizing was a family trait, but she kept that to herself.

When Ben pulled into the driveway just before three, Angelina, carrying Bella and trailed by Mondo, their huge mastiff mutt, stepped out the front door into the bright sunshine. She soaked in the marvelous weather, warm but with low humidity, and only an occasional passing cloud to add texture to the landscape. The three of them greeted Benjamin and his parents as they exited, Mondo more interested in her father-in-law, her mother-in-law more interested in Bella, and Benjamin most interested in getting their luggage into the house.

After settling into the ground floor bedroom and freshening up, Joseph and Rose spent the next forty-five minutes gushing over Bella, who rewarded their interest with an occasional glance when she opened her eyes. Following a tealike early dinner Sunday afternoon, Angelina told Rose and Benjamin to leave the dishes, and everyone sat in the great room.

The dinner was very nice, dear, Rose said to Angelina.

I had hoped to see Valentina, Ben’s father said.

Angelina said, She’s out of town doing some financial consulting work, but she should be back by Wednesday. She was sorry she couldn’t be here when you arrived.

Financial consulting, you say? A very impressive woman, Joseph said.

You’ve said that before, dear, his wife said as she shook her head.

My godmother has that effect on people, Angelina knew.

Well, you must forgive me, but I don’t seem to sleep well on these overnight flights, Joseph said. I’m going to turn in. Night, everyone. Coming, Rose?

I’ll be there in a minute, dear, his wife said.

As Joseph walked over to the bedroom, Rose said, Angelina, I wanted to thank you again for giving Bella my name. I know how much you loved your mother and godmother. I am honored to be included with them.

"Prego, Nonna Rose," Angelina said.

"Nonna. I like it. I like it much better than Grandma. It makes me feel… special, not old. Thank you, dear."

Angelina smiled, knowing how fortunate she and Ben were to have his family.

La mia famiglia è tutto.

***

Her family was everything to Angelina, and for the next few days, she had everything. She and Benjamin took turns carrying Bella in a baby sling or pushing her in a stroller as they gave Ben’s parents the full Rimini experience. There had been little time for sightseeing back in December, as they had spent only a few hours walking the town, more a revelation of the Angelina and Benjamin origin story than an exploration of Rimini.

This time, they took a more deliberate, more comprehensive approach. Benjamin had also insisted on a more measured, more unhurried approach.

My parents are in their sixties, and not in great shape, he’d said. I don’t want either of them to have a heart attack before the baptism.

Angelina had felt sure he was exaggerating. His parents appeared to be in fine health and kept pace with them as they walked San Giuliano on Monday and the marina district on Tuesday, even as the heat and humidity returned to typical July levels. Joseph continued to be impressed by the medieval architecture unlike anything back home. Rose continued to comment on the beaches that were just like back home.

On Tuesday, after walking out to Rockisland, they rode the Ferris wheel and reminisced about the wedding. Walking back toward home through Parco Fellini, both her in-laws commented on how different things looked now in the summer sunlight. When they caught sight of the Fellinia—la Macchina Fotografica Gigante—they could not stop gushing about the three-meter-tall, six-meter-wide camera-shaped hut next to the roundabout.

How did we not see this last year? Joseph asked.

We walked past it, but it was dusk, Benjamin said.

What does it do? Take photos? Rose asked, and disappointment welled in Angelina again when Ben rolled his eyes.

No, Mom, it’s not a real camera. A guy built it seventy years ago as a photo development shop for tourists—you remember Fotomats, right? Same thing.

I loved those Fotomats, Rose said. Why don’t we have them anymore?

No one uses film, dear, Joseph said.

Angelina watched as Ben waggled his cell phone at his mother. Anyway, now it’s just a tourist point of interest managed by the Fellini Foundation, Benjamin said.

They spent the next ten minutes posing in various combinations in front of the camera, as each used their phones to capture the moment, at one point lassoing a passerby into taking photos of the entire group with each of their phones. Benjamin’s lack of enthusiasm disappointed Angelina.

He takes his parents for granted, she believed. One day they will no longer be around, and he’ll regret it. That she knew. And later that night, she called him on it.

Three

Benjamin

I can’t really say I’m as honest as possible.

Tuesday night, after getting his parents situated in the downstairs bedroom, his original room last year, Benjamin entered his bedroom—their bedroom—to find Angelina standing over the crib, gazing at their sleeping Bella.

She looks like an angel in that light; they both do.

He walked over and stood behind his wife, wrapped his arms around her, and, leaning over her, kissed the shock of silver hair at the top of her forehead. In the low light, the silver-white stood out more dramatically against the body of her dark chestnut hair. Ben blew a kiss at his sleeping daughter, and Angelina turned to face him, her dilated pupils crowding out the amber in her irises until they were just rings of fire encircling black pools of mystery.

She gave him a gentle kiss on the lips and said, I need to talk to you about your parents.

Are they driving you crazy too? he asked. I’m sorry, it’s just for a few more days.

"No, no. You’re driving me crazy."

I’m driving her crazy? She must have read the confusion in his eyes.

Benjamin, you don’t appreciate your parents. You treat them as annoyances, as something you must tolerate. I am so envious of you, and then I watch how you act and I’m ashamed of you. She stepped back. You say ‘a few more days’ as if you can’t wait for them to leave, while I think a few more days and they’ll be gone again, and I won’t have more time to spend with them, nor they with their granddaughter.

Hearing her words, he felt his eyes flare and his blood warm as he gritted his teeth. But then, listening to the words, no longer reacting to them, he sighed. When he saw Lina nod and smile, he said, You’re right, you’re right. It’s just that…

When he didn’t continue, she said, "It’s just that they’re being so parent-like, sì?"

He nodded, feeling tears welling in his eyes, unsure if from the realization that he had disappointed his wife or the confirmation that she loved him.

Lina said, "Please promise me you’ll treat them like the treasure they are. Per me, per favore, amore mio—e per Bella."

"I promise, for you and Bella and for me, he said. He sighed and shook his head. The funny thing is, I have enjoyed the past two days. I really have. I’d worried they wouldn’t have the stamina for sightseeing, forcing us all to sit around the house or else drive everywhere. But they’re in much better shape, and I know why." His wife tilted her head, still smiling, but said nothing, and it encouraged him to explain.

After our wedding, because of the great vegan food they’d had on their visit and all the walking we’d done around town, they told me they’d reduced animal products in their diet and began walking more. I thought they were just blowing smoke. But the past couple of days, wow!

Angelina didn’t understand. You mean they started smoking, or they stopped smoking?

No, neither, he said, and chuckled. It’s an idiom. It can mean you are exaggerating something good or de-emphasizing something bad—not being truthful.

So, you think your father lies?

He chuckled again. No, not lie. No one ever thinks they are lying in those situations. They’ll rationalize it as exaggeration or obfuscation, depending on the circumstances. They don’t feel guilty if they think the untruth is for a good reason.

You mean like when you said you’re a vegan to meet chicks, because you’re too embarrassed to admit it was for your health? she asked.

"Yeah, like that, only it runs a little deeper when it’s on a family level. I cannot speak for Italian families, but in Italian-American families, they do not