One Italian Summer - Lori Nelson Spielman Page 0,73
stop when we are having such fun, do you agree?”
“One hundred percent!”
He takes my hand, and together we stroll through streets narrow as bike paths, lined with boutique shops and shoe stores, gelato counters and restaurants. Smells of roast lamb and garlic spill onto the streets, softly lit by streetlights. We stop at a leather shop and I splurge on a pair of gloves for Daria. The beautiful woman behind the counter eyes Gabe as she rings up my purchase. A surge of pride wells in me. Is this really me, Emilia Josephina Fontana Lucchesi Antonelli? Yes, I think it is.
It’s dark when we finish our dinner, a feast prepared by Gabe’s friend Claudio, in a tiny restaurant hidden in the basement of an old art gallery. The evening air is cooler when we step outside, and Gabe drapes an arm around my shoulders. We wander through Piazza della Signoria, just as my beautiful aunt and her yellow-haired love once did. A throng of teenagers laugh and chatter as they dart past us. Perfectly coiffed old women, dressed in dark coats and flat shoes, promenade arm in arm, the evening ritual of lifelong friends, I suspect.
We stop in front of the statue of David. I study the naked shepherd boy as he must have appeared when sizing up his opponent, the giant Goliath. His face is stamped with determination, his body exquisite. The genius is staggering. I choke up unexpectedly, awed by the talent of Michelangelo, my fellow human.
“This is a replica,” Gabe tells me, taking hold of my hand. “For protection, the real statue was moved to the Accademia Gallery in 1873. I will take you tomorrow if you’d like to see it.”
I shake my head. “We’re leaving in the morning.”
“Ah. Yes. We will save it for your next visit.” He squeezes my hand. A bubble of joy rises, so immense it threatens to lift me off my feet.
We move on. Young people hustle past, speaking languages I don’t know. Their gazes seem to linger on us, as if we—Gabe and I—project some sort of energy.
A voice in the distance catches my attention. A note here. A chord there. Gabe hears it, too. Without a word, we quicken our pace, the melancholy drawl of a violin luring us nearer. Ahead, people have gathered in front of the Loggia dei Lanzi, a covered open-air space on the piazza filled with statues and marble inscriptions. Gabe pulls me through the crowd. Beneath one of three wide arches, a young man in a T-shirt and jeans glides his bow across his violin strings.
“Rico,” I whisper and put a hand to my lips.
Beside him, a pretty redhead waits with her eyes closed, swaying to the music. Finally, she opens her mouth, and an angel’s voice rings out, gilding every note from Schubert’s opus.
Ave Maria.
Chills blanket me. The entire square seems to still. People draw near, silently making their way to the sound of magic. The woman’s voice reverberates on the tile flooring. A bird passes overhead, making its way into the night, its wings beating in time with the music. In the background, even the statues seem to listen, statues created hundreds of years ago by then little-known sculptors.
“Ave Maria,” she sings. “Gratia plena.”
My eyes well. Gabe pulls me to his chest, where I fit perfectly. He wraps his arms around me and rests his chin on my head.
“Ave, Ave, Dominus.”
Her voice is heartbreaking and haunting. The song reaches a crescendo. Tears spill down my cheeks. She hits her last note. The music fades. For a moment, the entire square falls silent. Then, it erupts in applause.
“Brava!” I cry through a haze of tears. “Brava!”
I turn to Gabe. He’s cheering, too, his face wet with tears. He wraps me in his arms, but neither of us speak. We don’t need to. As my wise aunt once said, there are no words when one has witnessed magic.
It’s midnight. The bike’s engine quiets, giving rise to the din of night—a dog howling in the distance, the chirping of cicadas. Gabe leads me up the walk, his hand in mine. The house creaks its welcome when we step inside. An amber light shadows the kitchen. Without a word, we make our way toward the staircase.
My chest fills with a dozen clamoring hummingbirds. Together, we climb the stairs. Do I assume I’m going to his room? We’re almost to the landing. Or should I continue up the stairs to my room in the attic?