Dust Devil (16 page)

“
Yeah.”
He paused for a moment, his eyes turning serious as he gazed down at
her in his arms, which he tightened about her. “I’m
taking you home with me, Sarah, to meet my folks. We’re going
to have lunch with them.” “No!” she exclaimed
softly, abruptly a nervous wreck. “Oh, Renzo, are you sure? Oh,
this is just terrible! Why didn’t you warn me instead of
springing it on me like this? Whatever will I say to them? What if
they don’t like me? What if they think I’m not good
enough for you? I’ll just die if they do, if they think I’m
nothing but coal-mining trash! Oh, I—I should have worn
something else, dressed up more--”

“
Shh.
You look fine... better than fine. You’re beautiful, Sarah. And
this is exactly why I didn’t tell you sooner—because I
knew you’d be anxious and upset. But you’ve no reason to
be. My folks aren’t snobs. They’ve been victims of
prejudice themselves too often in the past for that. They’re
going to love you, the same as I do. So relax. They’re not
ogres, and they won’t bite you, I promise. In fact, they’re
very nice people who’re just as nervous about meeting you as
you are about meeting them. Mom asked me at least a dozen times what
you liked to eat, and Pop had already changed his shirt three times
before I even left the house!”

“
You’re
probably just saying that to make me feel better,” Sarah said
wryly.

“
No,
honest, it’s the truth. Cross my heart and hope to die,”
Renzo replied, grinning as he made the age-old gesture.

“
All
right. So your daddy didn’t throw you out of the house and your
mama didn’t scream and faint dead away when you asked them to
invite me over for lunch. That means there’s still some hope
for me, then, right? What— what did you tell them about me?”

“
Nothing
much, really, except that I wanted them to meet you. I didn’t
have to say anything else. I’ve never brought a girl home
before, so they know I’m serious about you. That’s all
that’s important. That’s the only thing that matters.”

Although
Sarah was thrilled by the knowledge that Renzo had never taken any
other girl home before, she was still tense and apprehensive.
“But...what if they hate me, Renzo?”

“
They
won’t. But even if by some extremely remote chance they do, it
isn’t going to change anything between us, Sarah, I swear. I’m
a man and you’re a woman, and in the end, we have to make our
own decisions, to do what’s right for us, no matter what our
folks or anybody else thinks—even if it winds up being just you
and me against the world, sweetheart. You know that. You feel it in
your heart, just as I do, don’t you?”

“
Yes,
you know I do.”

“
Then
there’s no reason for you to be scared, is there? You’ll
do fine. So give me a smile and a kiss, and then let’s go,
okay? I told Mom and Pop we’d be there at noon, and I don’t
want to be late. Mom’s probably already thrown out two batches
of spaghetti by now, thinking they weren’t good enough to serve
to you, and burned up a couple of loaves of garlic bread, besides,
she’s so worried that you’re not going to like her and
Pop!” His arm wrapped comfortingly around her waist, Renzo led
Sarah toward his motorcycle, which he had parked off to one side.

“
You
got your Harley fixed!” she observed.

“
Up
and running,” he corrected. “It’s still got some
problems, things I haven’t had time yet to repair, but at least
it
gets
me
where I want to go now. It’s been a real hassle, not having it.
That rental bike Sonny’s insurance company had to spring for
was a hunk of junk. And I still have doubts about whether his hitting
my own bike that night at the prom was an accident.”

“
Oh,
Renzo, surely it was. I know how horrible Bubba and Evie are, but
Sonny’s not like his brother and sister. He’s different.
Half the time it’s hard to believe he’s really even a
Holbrooke.”

“
Yeah,
I guess you’re right.”

Renzo
climbed onto the Harley, Sarah settling herself behind him, the rope
handles of her straw bag secured over one shoulder, her arms fastened
tightly around his waist. He started the bike, and in moments, they
were flying from the meadow, en route to the Martinellis’ quiet
white bungalow on Elm Street. Once or twice in the past, when she had
managed to borrow her parents’ car for an hour or two, Sarah
had driven by the house. But this would be her first time inside it.
Despite her nervousness about meeting Renzo’s parents, she was
honest enough to admit to herself that she was curious about how he
lived and what his bedroom looked like.

But
from the moment the Martinellis opened their front door to her
until
sometime later,
when
they closed it firmly behind her, Sarah sensed instinctively that
they were startled and disappointed, flustered and distressed by her
appearance. They smiled, they chatted, they tried hard for Renzo’s
sake to make her feel welcome. Still, there was an awkwardness to it
all, and she knew she wasn’t what they wanted for their only
child.

Sarah
was deeply hurt by and sorry for that, not only because she loved
Renzo with all her heart, but also because she truly liked the
Martinellis and felt she could have been happy in their bungalow.
Inside, it was cool and dark, the shades drawn against the blistering
summer sun, the two window air-conditioning units, one upstairs and
one down, humming briskly. The furnishings were lovely, plainly, even
to Sarah’s untutored eyes, family heirlooms that had been
handed down from one generation to the next, obviously treasured and
cared for. Old-fashioned antimacassars protected the stuffed sofa and
chairs in the living room; Italian whatnots and tables had been
polished until they gleamed, and Capidomonte bric-a-brac was dusted
and displayed just so. Renzo’s bedroom was a young man’s
haven, boasting a comfortable double bed, a desk, chair and lamp for
studying, a chest of drawers, and framed pictures of jazz greats on
the walls. He had his own small bathroom, too.

“
It
looks like you,” Sarah declared upon seeing his bedroom. Then
she turned and clutched him anxiously, whispering, “Oh, Renzo,
they don’t like me! I can tell!”

“
That’s
nonsense, Sarah,” he responded quietly. “They like you
just fine.” But despite his words of reassurance, he knew deep
down inside that she was right. He just didn’t know why.

The
lunch, served in the dining room, was excellent, and Sarah did her
best to do it justice, sensing intuitively that Madonna Martinelli’s
feelings would be hurt otherwise, that she enjoyed food and equated
its rate of consumption with approval of how good it tasted.

Still,
“You should eat more, Sarah,” Madonna urged politely.
“Growing girls need nourishment just as much as growing boys.
You should have seen Renzo when he first came to us. Why, he was
pitiful... nothing but skin and bones! But I soon fattened him up.
Now he loves food, especially my manicotti and lasagna and spaghetti.
Do you know how to cook Italian dishes, Sarah?”

“
No,”
she admitted. “But I’m sure I could learn, Mrs.
Martinelli.”

“
Yes,
of course you could. I didn’t mean to imply you couldn’t.
I hope I haven’t offended you, Sarah,” Madonna said,
flushing and glancing anxiously at her husband and son.

“
No,
you haven’t, Mrs. Martinelli, not in the least.” Sarah
forced herself to smile as she spoke. She wished desperately that she
understood what was wrong with her why Renzo’s parents
disapproved of her. She could only think it was because Daddy was
just a coal miner, while Mr. Martinelli owned a newspaper—even
if Renzo
had
insisted
his parents weren’t in the least snobbish or prejudiced.

To
Sarah’s relief, once the meal had ended, Renzo announced they
had to leave, that they had plans to meet friends later. The
Martinellis pressed the two of them to stay, but Sarah could tell
their hearts weren’t in the invitation. She thanked them for
lunch and said how much she had enjoyed meeting them. They replied
that they had been delighted to have her and make her acquaintance.
Then they waved good-bye and shut the front door solidly behind her.
Sarah was near tears by the time she got outside.

“
They
hated me,” she asserted.

“
No,
they didn’t. Get on the bike and wait for me there, Sarah. I
forgot to get the beer from the refrigerator.” Despite his
words to the contrary, Renzo knew his parents hadn’t liked her.
He was angry; she could tell by the muscle that flexed in his set
jaw.

“
Renzo,
please.” She laid her hand gently on his arm. “It’s
all right. Really, it is. Please don’t start any trouble with
your parents on my account.”

“
I’m
not. I’m just going to get the beer, that’s all. And stop
saying things are all right, when they aren’t! You’re
better than that. You
deserve
better
than that! You’re as good as anybody else in this
town—including the Holbrookes! And I don’t like you
demeaning yourself that way, especially for things that are my
fault.”

“
This
wasn’t your fault, Renzo.”

“
Wasn’t
it? They’re
my
parents,
Sarah, and
I’m
the
one who invited you to lunch. No, don’t say another word. I
won’t have this coming between us. Just get on the bike, and
stay there until I come back.”

With
that, Renzo stalked determinedly back to the house. He had left the
beer inside on purpose, so he could confront his parents without
Sarah overhearing their conversation. He didn’t know what was
wrong, why his parents had disliked her. But he certainly intended to
find out the reason. As he pushed open the front door, he could hear
his parents talking, Madonna plainly upset, Joe trying to comfort
her. At his entrance, they abruptly broke off their dialogue, looking
startled and guilty, so he knew they had been discussing him and
Sarah. After a moment, Joe cleared his throat awkwardly.

“
What’s
the matter, Son? Did you forget something?”

“
Yeah,
the beer.” Going wordlessly into the kitchen, Renzo grabbed the
six-pack from the refrigerator shelf. Then he strode back to the
front door, telling himself that despite his intention just minutes
before, now wasn’t the time to confront his parents. He started
to open the door, then abruptly shoved it closed again, slamming his
hand so hard against it that his mother jumped.

“
Why
didn’t you like her?” he demanded, his voice low, harsh
and throbbing with emotion. He pivoted to face his parents. “She’s
beautiful, thoughtful, sweet, shy, creative
and
intelligent,
and she loves me. So why in God’s name didn’t you like
her?”

“
Renzo...
Son... sit down a minute,” his father urged kindly.

“
No.
I don’t want to sit down. I just want to know why you didn’t
like her.”

“
It
wasn’t that we didn’t like her,” Madonna insisted,
wringing her hands in the face of her son’s anger and hurt.
“She’s everything you said, a very nice girl, in fact—”

“
Then
why? I don’t understand.”

“
It’s
just that your mother and I... Well, we always hoped and expected
that when you fell in love and got married, it would be to an Italian
Catholic girl,” Joe explained.