Page 122 of The Leaves In Autumn
“I love you.”
That’s what he said.
EPILOGUE
Aargon
Two years later
The autumn leaves fall to their final resting place, the fertile ground of Perugia. They will become part of something new. Transformed. This is the first time I have seen the rich colors of the Umbrian countryside as green turns golden. Last year we were still in Paris. And the year before that, Montana. Then we found this magical place. Barbra knew it right away.
Life has become more beautiful than ever imagined. Walking across the Piazza IV Novembre, seeing the large medieval fountain in the middle of the square, is a reliable high. There is a feeling of becoming and absorbing the Italian state of mind. As soon as I put on dark sunglasses, I am Signore Lyon. Barbra teases me unmercifully. I know better. She loves it. Especially when I practice my Italian on her in bed.
I will never tire of this scene. The last lingering students on summer break sit on the wide stairs, people watching like the rest of us. We find each other fascinating. There are just two musicians today, a mandolin player at one end and a singer with a guitarist at the other, entertaining an audience of mostly locals. They eat gelato or drink wine in red cups. It is the national pastime. All of it. Italians know how to live. Dad’s going to love it here.
It looks as if we live far from the maddening crowds. The Cathedral of San Lorenzo stands guard over sinners and saviors. The Palazzo dei Prioi is the Town Hall that looks like an opera house. The National Gallery is a beautiful place to see the artwork of the region.
Everything has an old-world charm. But this is sort of a mirage, tricking a person into thinking they live in the past. It is the best of both worlds. Rome and Florence are equal distances away. Two and a half hours and we are there. I smile at the knowledge we chose so well.
There she is. Signora Lyon. Sitting at the café, wine glass to her red lips. I love that dress on her. The cashmere wrap thrown over her shoulders, in that casual Italian way. She doesn’t see me coming yet.
My finger turns the wedding band, around and around. It’s only been two months, but it is a talisman now. I touch it and think back to the very private ceremony. Doesn’t sound too romantic, but it was to us. It had a Romeo and Juliet mood, just us and the hundred-year-old looking officiant, in a small chapel from the sixteenth century.
If we had invited one family member, we would have had to invite all. It would have looked completely different. Besides, it was too much to put on everybody’s plate. This way, they visit one family at a time, or all at once if they want. When it is convenient for them. God knows we have the room.
“Ciao, bella.”
“Ciao, amore mio. Mio marito.”
“I am your husband, aren’t I?”
I pull the iron seat closer to her.
“There’s no escaping it. You will never be with another woman for the rest of your life.”
“That isn’t the scare you think it is.”
“Good,” she says, leaning in for a kiss.
“It’s another gorgeous day.”
“I know. I’m excited. They should be here soon.”
“Good thing they’re seasoned travelers.”
“I’m concerned about the car rental. You know how that can go.”
“Layla said they were getting a van, so it should be good.”
“Give me some of that,” I say, motioning to the open wine bottle.
As she pours, I see my parents, Van and Layla, and a crying toddler enter the square from the parking lot. The Curso Vannucci is a vehicle free street. Most of the time it is an advantage, with the bars and cafes and street musicians. It is a walkable city and especially here.
“Oh shit. Look.”
Barbra turns and takes in the party of five. Only it is no party. I wave them forward.
“They look like a train ran over them. Gaston is wearing his Uggs. Bet the rest of them wish they were.”
