Elixir (13 page)

Catching her, he laughs and asks, “What the hell are you doing?”

“Picture time.” She spins the camera and points it at them, her legs draped over his. He makes a funny face. So does she. She hits the button, a flash lighting up the room, a picture dispensing. She pulls it out and shakes it with enthusiasm.

In a short while the husband and wife are standing in front of the room singing Ella Fitzgerald’s duet “Dream a Little Dream of Me” with romantic eyes on each other. “Stars fading, but I linger on dear,” he sings. “Still craving your kiss. I’m longing to linger till dawn dear. Just saying this.” The other four are still and quiet watching the married couple share the warm moment, a grin on everyone’s face.

A few minutes later Natasha is holding the microphone, her pink sunglasses on, her back to everybody in the room, her right leg pumping to the rhythm, “All These Things That I’ve Done” by The Killers starting. “When there’s nowhere else to run, is there room for one more son,” she sings. “One more son. If you can hold on. If you can hold on, hold on.”

As the beat picks up she spins and starts stomping around the room like a rock star. Everyone shouts in appreciation of her little performance. “I want to stand up, I want to let go,” she sings, faster pace now. “You know, you know. No you don’t, you don’t.” Hopping around, she goes through the rest of the verse into the chorus. “Help me out. Yeah, you know you got to help me out. Yeah, oh don’t you put me on the back burner. You know you got to help me out.” She sings another verse and chorus.

As the instrumental part plays she climbs on the table, her feet between all the empty shot glasses. She sways her hips for a bit, then sings, “I got soul, but I’m not a soldier. I got soul, but I’m not a soldier. I got soul, but I’m not a soldier. I got soul, but I’m not a soldier. I got soul, but I’m not a soldier. I got soul, but I’m not a soldier. I got soul, but I’m not a soldier. I got soul, but I’m not a soldier. I got soul, but I’m not a soldier. I got soul, but I’m not a soldier.” She jumps off the table, landing in front of the glow of the monitor, going into another chorus. The two brothers shoot up from their seats clapping.

She tilts back her head, the bottom of the microphone pointed up, and sings, “Over and again, last call for sin. While everyone’s lost, the battle is won. With all these things that I’ve done. If you can hold on. If you can hold on.” As the music ends she holds out the sides of a pretend dress and curtseys, wild applause in the room.

In a bit “People are Strange” by The Doors runs through the speakers, Sean at the front of the room, beer in one hand, microphone the other, no eye contact with anyone. “When you’re strange, faces come out of the rain,” he sings, trying to mimic Jim Morrison’s deep voice. “When you’re strange, no one remembers your name. When you’re strange, when you’re strange, when you’re strange. All right, yeah.” Sipping his beer, he moves his head to the sound of the keyboard, Natasha cheering him on, his cheeks red with embarrassment. “When you’re strange, faces come out of the rain. When you’re strange, no one remembers your name. When you’re strange, when you’re strange, when you’re straaaaaange.” As the music ends, the brother in gray gives him a big slap on the back. Sean waves at everyone with his head down while they clap, still blushing.

He takes a last sip of his drink, sets the empty glass on the table, and sits next to Natasha in the booth. He glances at her for a moment, then grins and turns away. “Told you I’d get you to sing,” she says, poking his ribs. He gives her a playful dirty look.

That night Sean rides his bike through Natasha’s ritzy neighborhood with her wrapped around him on back, her grip much more natural than it was before. He turns on her street, pulling up to her house. Motor idling, he helps her down. She slides off the helmet, brushing some hair out of her face, then hands it to him. “You want to go say hi to the neighbor?” she asks with sarcasm.

He laughs. “Yeah. I’ll autograph his wall for him.”

A few moments pass. “I can’t believe I just went on a date with the guy in the bandana who punched my last date in the face.” She curls her right wrist under her chin.

“He deserved it.”

“Is that right?” she asks, stepping closer to him.

“It is.” He rocks the bike back and forth under him. “Was my first date better than his first date?”

She smirks. “No. I had a terrible time today.”

“Yeah?”

“Excruciating.”

“I had a terrible time too.”

“Well at least we have something in common.” She laughs, looks back at her house in the shadows, then at him. “It’s getting a little late. My dad’s gonna get mad if I don’t go inside soon.”

He notices her shoulders tense when she brings up her dad. “Understood.”

“Even though I had a terrible time, if I get really bored one night it might cross my mind to hang with you again.” She goes up on her tippy toes, then comes back down. The tension in her shoulders goes away. “And I’d prefer not to communicate through your friend’s art website.”

“Neither would I.” He pulls his phone out and hands it to her. “Type it in.”

She clicks around a bit, then passes it back. “Vonlanden with a V.”

“Got it.”

A couple moments go by. “Good night,” she says, lingering on him with her eyes. They look into each other’s face for a while. She grins. So does he. Leaning in, he kisses her. After a few seconds they part. She grins again. So does he.

“Night,” he says as she glides away toward her house’s iron gate, his heart thumping. She stops about a dozen feet up, turns, and waves, then continues ahead. He wiggles the helmet on and drives off, a nervous thrill in his chest.

A few weeks later Sean rides along the highway on his motorcycle, Rome’s skyline shrinking behind him against a bluish-orange backdrop. Arms around his chest, Natasha sits on the rear in a pink coat with big black buttons, a 1960’s aura to it. They’ve seen each other almost every day since their first date.

They travel for about three hours, the congested atmosphere of the city replaced by rolling green hills as they pass into Tuscany. She gazes at the countryside, large plots of land accented by tall cypress trees, stone manors off in the distance.

He crosses an arched bridge. The stylish residences give an immediate impression of wealth, but the neighborhood still maintains a quaint, welcoming ambience, far from pretentious.

He turns into a driveway, dozens of uniform rows of wooden posts on each side, bare grapevines curling around them. She marvels at the private vineyard, the organization of it as much as its scenic beauty. He pulls up to a two-story villa on the property, shutting off the bike. He helps her down and they hang their helmets. As he disconnects a duffle bag from the back she wanders to the posts, running her curious fingers against the grape-less, winter-season vines.

“Ready babe?” he asks, slinging the overnight bag over his shoulder. She skips to him, grabbing his hand.

“They make their own wine? You didn’t tell me that.”

“Yeah.” He takes a deep breath, air much crisper out here.

“So cool. This is like a serious setup, not something you’d expect at a house.” They walk up a short flight of stairs to the entrance. He knocks a couple times.

The door opens, Aunt Mary standing in the hallway. Her hair is longer than it used to be, body fitter too. He walks in with a smile, Mary embracing him, a glimmering wedding band on her. “So glad you could make it,” she says with a thrilled expression.

“Me too.”

She studies him, a relaxation to his posture, something she doesn’t remember he had two months ago, the last time she saw him. She turns to his guest for a moment, then back to him and says, “You told me she was pretty. But I wasn’t expecting this.” Natasha laughs, embarrassed and flattered. “Come in Natasha,” she says in a warm tone as if she’s known her for years. She takes two small steps inside, Mary closing the door behind her. They shake hands. “I’m Leanne. James’s aunt.”

“Nice to meet you,” Natasha says in her slight-accented, sweet little way of speaking. She unhooks the black buttons on her pink coat. “Thanks for having me. Your home is beautiful. I can’t believe you make your own wine here.”

“It’s a lot of work to keep up, but we enjoy it. Gives us something to do.”

“James,” an excited, booming voice says from another room.

“Marco,” Sean says, matching the intensity.

Shifting to her nephew, Mary rolls her eyes. “He’s been picking at the antipasto for about two hours. I begged him to wait for you. Go in there and distract him before he eats the rest.”

Sean crosses the foyer, passing a Christmas tree, and veers into the kitchen among its panoramic view of the Tuscan landscape. Marco, wearing an untucked button down shirt, chops tomatoes on a cutting board. “There he is,” Marco says, slicing one last piece, setting the knife down. He wipes his hands on his jeans and steps to Sean with a jolly grin, a few wines already in him, light from the window shining on his olive skin and salt-and-pepper hair. “You look great man.”

“I heard you’ve been pounding all the snacks you slob,” Sean says as they hug.

“You heard wrong pal.”

“You got marinara sauce all over your chin,” he says with a snicker.

Marco dabs it. “You’re seeing things. Those motorcycle rides of yours are blowing too much wind into your eyeballs.” Sean gives him a subtle push on the shoulder. Marco matches it with one on him. They start wrestling, playful but energetic.

“Can your geriatric knees handle all this activity?” Sean asks, getting him in a full nelson.

“They’ll handle you right into a scissor lock,” he says, flopping around. “Lights out.” Chuckling, Sean lets him go. As they catch their breath, Marco gestures at the duffle bag strapped on Sean’s back. “Put that down. I got it.”

“Just leave it here?”

“Yeah. There’s fine. I’ll grab it later and take it up to the room.” As Sean unfastens it Marco saunters to the appetizers on the counter, assorted in pristine white trays and bowls. “So you got some cheeses in the middle,” he says, still winded. “Grana Padano. Pecorino. Parmigiano Reggiano. Taleggio. A little meat over here. Vegetables and shit down there.” He points at three bottles of wine. “I brought a few Chiantis up from the cellar. All of them we made on the property.”

“Yeah?” he asks, rubbing his thumb against the texture of a label.

“Try them out. If you think they suck just tell me. I’ll bring up some of the store-bought stuff.”

“Crack one of yours,” Sean says with a confident nod. With a nod back Marco grips the middle one and an opener and starts digging into the cork.

Natasha and Mary stroll in, mid-conversation with each other, something about Sean never closing the drawers of his dresser after he takes out his clothes. He can hear them but doesn’t interrupt to defend himself, girls bonding over something at least.

“Perfect timing ladies,” Marco says, yanking out the cork. He wipes the top of the bottle with a towel, sets it on the granite countertop, and walks to Natasha with an extended hand and a smile. “Marco Dellenti.”

She shakes it. “Natasha. Thanks for letting me come along.”

He lingers on her for a couple moments and says, “Let me give you some advice Natasha. You’re too damn cute for him. Turn around and get out of here. Go find someone better.”

She laughs. “He’s not that bad.”

“Oh, he’s terrible. But we got good snacks. Hopefully they make up for him.” Returning to the antipasto, he snatches a piece of Pecorino cheese and tosses it in his mouth. “You like food and wine?” he asks her, opening a cabinet. “That’s pretty much all we do up here.”

“Love both,” she says, her voice dancing a little at the end.

“I’m a fan of hers already.” He pulls four of his best glasses from the back of the cupboard, fills them with Chianti, and motions everyone over. “All right. Time for the first of many this weekend.” They huddle around him, holding the stems. Sean glances at his girlfriend, checking if she seems comfortable around these new people. She does. “I would like to make a toast to lying, stealing, cheating, and drinking,” Marco says, bouncing his eye contact to them one by one. “If you’re going to lie, lie for a friend. If you’re going to steal, steal a heart. If you’re going to cheat, cheat death. If you’re going to drink...drink with me.”

“Amen,” Mary says. They clink and sip.

Sean pretends to spit it out even though it tastes good. “Man Marco, are you fertilizing your grapes with jet fuel?” he asks with a groan.

“He’s been busting on me ever since he walked in here, this kid,” he says to the two girls with a lot of volume, an echo in the large den next door. They chuckle.

“It’s delicious,” Natasha says as if trying to soften her boyfriend’s blow.

“Thank you Natasha. I’ve got a whole case of the stuff.” He takes a swig. “Your asses better be ready to booze.”

That night the four of them are at a wooden table on the back deck, a nice Chianti buzz on each, three empty bottles, porch lamps twinkling against the silhouettes of hills and cypress trees and faraway estates.

Marco dips a ladle into a bowl, scooping out red sauce, drizzling it on the pasta and rosemary chicken in his plate. He’s in the middle of a story. Natasha asks with eagerness, “So...what happened after?”

He blots some sweat from his olive-skin brow, all the liquor and food giving it a thin film of perspiration, a slight sheen on it in the lights. “Me and the little guy with the curly red hair wind up back at my house. That kid Hook I was telling you about. I don’t even remember why we called him that.” He stops for a bit. “That’s probably another good story. Anyway, my old man is upstairs sleeping on the couch like we figured. So me and Hook go into his stash in the basement and steal a bottle of wine for each of us.”

Mary hangs her head in her hands, hearing the story no less than fifteen times since she met him. Smirking, he says to Natasha, “We didn’t know any better. We’ve never been out drinking. We were thirteen. Christ, maybe twelve. We just thought it would be cool. Like what older kids did, right? So we go up to my room and it takes us frigging two hours to get the damn things pried with my old man’s crappy corkscrew. Neither of us used one before.” He mimics a painstaking opening with make-believe objects. “We finally get the corks out, and we slam these things. I mean...slammed. We had no clue you were supposed to pace it out. We chugged them like juice. Gone in about three minutes.”