Three Months in Florence

by Mary Carter

Genres: Family Life; Sagas; Women's Fiction

Synopsis

Lena Wallace was supposed to go to Italy on her honeymoon. That was sixteen years ago. Instead, she settles for cooking Spaghetti Bolognese for her two children while her husband, Alex, is on yet another business trip to Florence without her. Lena deals with his absences in the same stoic way she deals with all her responsibilities. And then comes the call that changes everything--the one from Alex's Italian mistress. Stunned and heartsick, Lena flies to Florence to confront Alex. The city is every bit as beautiful as she imagined, from its glittering fountains and cafés to the golden sunsets over rolling hills. But the further she goes to salvage her marriage, the less Lena recognizes herself--or the husband she's trying to win back. Instead, she's catching glimpses of the person she once hoped to be and the life and family she truly wants. Most of all, she's wondering if the real journey is only just beginning. . . In a novel as warm and vibrant as its rich Italian setting, author Mary Carter explores the intricacies of marriage, the ways love can both liberate and confine, and the journey to happiness that begins with one surprising step. . . Praise for Mary Carter's My Sister's Voice "At once a story about love and loss, family and friends, the world of the hearing and that of the deaf, My Sister's Voice satisfies on many levels." --Holly Chamberlin, author of Last Summer "Gripping, entertaining and honest. This is a unique, sincere story about the invisible, unbreakable bonds of sisterhood that sustain us no matter how far they're buried." --Cathy Lamb, author of A Different Kind of Normal

Release date: August 1, 2013

Publisher: Kensington Books

Print pages: 353

Sample

“How did you two meet?” is the question everyone asks when you’re in love. This is:


It’s my first week of grad school. I carry sketchbooks and even have a paintbrush tucked in my bra, and I’ve stuffed my schedule with all things “art.” I walk into the auditorium, bounce down on one of the plush red seats, and when I look up, there’s this tall man standing on stage under the spotlight. He’s so good-looking I wonder if he thinks he’s here for theater practice, or maybe I’m here for theater practice, and the last time I was in a play was in the third grade where I played a tree, and had stage fright so bad I plucked all my leaves off backstage, so by the time I was literally shoved under the spotlight for my fifteen seconds of fame, my branches were as bare as the day I was born, and my first line was supposed to be: “Summer, beautiful summer. You make my leaves so green.” Instead of delivering the line, I peed my pants the second the curtain went up. I’ve never graced the stage again.

I glance at my schedule to make sure I’m in the right place, and yep, this is it, Fifteenth Century Renaissance Sculptures. Alex Wallace, TA. Welcome to my favorite class, I think, as I settle back, plant my flip-flops on the seat in front of me, and start sucking on the end of my pen. In my mind, I am painting him.

He has a soccer player’s lean but strong body. Dark hair and dark eyes, and I really like his facial structure. It is the first time in my life I’ve ever noticed, really noticed a man’s chin, and I have been sketching nude models since undergrad. Nevertheless, the rest of him isn’t bad either. His olive skin glows, and his cheekbones look as if they’ve been sculpted from marble, which is ironic given the subject. I wonder what our kids will look like.

I’m from hearty Nordic stock, with fair skin, white-blond hair, and eyes some people accuse of being aqua. We are two opposite but beautiful things. I want two kids. Our first will have his dark hair and my eyes. The second, my blond hair and his eyes and cheekbones. I continue thinking of combinations while he meticulously sets up a slide show. He’s dressed in a shirt and a tie. The professor doesn’t even wear a tie. He is trying too hard. I imagine my fingers touching his neck, loosening his tie, unbuttoning his shirt. Maybe a kiss or twelve for luck. I wish our culture wasn’t so hung up on clothes. I would love to sketch him in the nude while he works.

But it’s not until he speaks, or should I say, performs his lecture, that I lift right out of my seat. He’s not just a pretty face; Alex Wallace is electric. The words and phrases that pour out of him startle me.

Sculpted, chiseled, formed. Carved busts. Young virgins. Ideal images. Unbaked clay. Fired bronze. Rough stone. Flat chisels. Toothed chisels. Clawed chisels. Glazed terra-cotta. Putto Poised on a Globe.

By the time he finishes, I have to look around to see if anyone else is this turned on. Except for a girl a few rows ahead leaning forward and chewing on her hair, and a slim boy at the aisle with his fingers clasped under his chin like he’s praying, everyone else seems unfazed. When the lecture is over, I remain seated and wait until the place empties out. Alex Wallace gathers up his things and is gone. He doesn’t even glance at me on the way out. Interesting. I take a deep breath. I am the only person in the auditorium. A peaceful, almost holy anticipation hovers above the sea of red seats. The overhead lights click off one by one, leaving just a single halo spilling out from the ghost light standing center stage.

What, exactly, just happened here? I feel as if I’ve been sculpted, and chiseled, and formed, and roughed, and toothed, and clawed, and my terra-cotta glazed. And I remember nothing of the lecture. Because while the rest of the class was furiously taking notes on The Rape of the Sabine Women, I was staring at Alex Wallace, and thinking: That’s the man I’m going to marry.

Huh.

It is quite disturbing given my proclamation on day one: “I’m going to marry my art and let boys be my playthings!” I leave the theater in a daze and pretty much wander around the same way until I know Megan will be back at the dorm. I plop down on my bunk and harass her until she agrees to help me formulate a nine-point plan of attack to get Alex Wallace to marry me. Because that’s what descendants of Vikings do; they plan their attacks. I am cocky and in the bloom of my beauty. He doesn’t stand a chance.

We marry right after Alex finishes grad school. I decide not to finish because LOVE is my future. I don’t need school to be an artist; the world will be my canvas. Neither of us is working yet, so it’s the perfect time for a honeymoon. We are going to be that couple, educated and artistic; we are going to travel. We look at each other and say, “Florence!” Then, “Jinx. You owe me a Coke!”

All the major works of art and architecture Alex loves are in Florence. And I get to be the girl who takes him there. And of course, I’m still an artist too. Just an artist a little more in love with her husband than she is with her canvases. Between my parents, his odd jobs, and credit cards, we scrape enough money together for three blissful weeks. We’ll spend most of the time in Florence, but take side trips to Rome, Milan, and Venice. Our flowered-vinyl suitcases are packed and waiting at the edge of the bed.

Picture this. I am dressed in my honeymoon slash airplane outfit (sweat suit with lacey red bra and panties underneath), reaching for my suitcase, when the phone rings. Maybe it wasn’t that close of a call, but if you think that’s pushing it, sometimes I imagine it as us sitting on the plane; Alex is just starting to reach into my sweat pants when the stewardess (that’s what we called her back then; get over it) snatches up a ringing phone from the back of one of the seats, holds it out to Alex, and says, “It’s for you.”

However it happens, it is the university; they have a professor position to fill, and they want him to start yesterday. They definitely aren’t going to wait for a honeymoon. Italy is going to have to wait.

“We’ll go winter break,” Alex says. I am determined to be a Perfect Wife, and I agree. But by the time winter break comes along, we have purchased the perfect little “starter home” (still live there to this day), and we are strapped. And nobody can tell me our bodily fluids don’t have a warped sense of humor, because this is the exact time his sperm and my egg pick to dance the tango. Now I am pregnant. Alex is terrified of raising a family on such a meager salary. I know he is thinking of our honeymoon.

“What’s the use of going to Italy if I can’t drink wine or eat soft cheese?” I say. “We’ll go next year.”

Alex gathers my hands in his and gazes into my eyes. “Are you sure, Llama?” he says. “Are you sure?” My name is Lena, but Alex always calls me Llama. Drama Llama, if I get particularly worked up about something.

“Of course I’m sure,” I say. I’m not at all. I am confused. I am terrified that if we don’t go now, we’ll never go. Does he want me to insist? Why doesn’t he insist? I want him to insist. Will this set a precedent for the rest of our marriage? I wait, and he does not insist. It’s a definite chink in his armor. I make a conscious decision to play the martyr. “Next year we’ll take our child with us and properly introduce him or her to gondola rides, savory pasta, and cobblestone streets,” I say.

Alex kisses me and says, “Our child will love it. And we’ll still find plenty of time to be alone. After all, Italy is the country of amore.”

“Let’s practice,” I say. “We’ll get wine and cheese, overflow the bathtub, and pretend it’s Venice.”

But when our daughter Rachel is a year old, instead of Italy we take her to a petting zoo where she promptly develops an irrational fear of tiny goats. I never imagined motherhood would be so time-consuming and exhausting. Why in the world would I want to take an infant to Italy? I showed her my favorite Monet painting in a lovely book I purchased, and she spit up on it. If we went to Italy now, Alex would enjoy it, and I would be on baby duty.

And then, just when Rachel is getting old enough to appreciate more than the primary colors, I secretly start to plan another trip. I throw up from excitement. At least that’s what I think. But no. I am pregnant again. We’re already in debt, and I just got over the baby stage. This is the American Dream? It’s going to kill me. God does not want me to go to Italy, I think. He is tormenting me. And of course, I love our son, Josh. But once again I am exhausted, and we are in more debt, and no matter how much I clean, our home still looks like the site of a toy factory explosion. Alex works long hours, and one kid or the other is always at the doctor, and one day Alex brings home a golden retriever puppy, and I say no because who else is going to end up walking it and picking up its poop, and taking it to the vet, but it is a cuddly ball of orange fur, and she makes Rachel belly laugh like an old man. Most days, by the time the kids are in bed and the dog is sleeping, I’m too wrecked to do anything but watch television. Some days I wonder what my life would have been like if I had never met Alex Wallace. The only paints I touch are finger paints. Even my macaroni sculptures suck. Rachel’s are way better. Alex is still himself, still pursuing his love of all things marble and stone, yet I am turning into someone else, someone I don’t always recognize and don’t always like. I am so far from the girl I used to be, and I am jealous of her, as if she is an entirely different person. I still love Alex, but I no longer imagine painting him.

When vacation times come around, we go to Gettysburg, and New York City at Christmas time, and New Hampshire one summer, and Disneyland. We can’t afford to go to Europe, but we do make it to Toronto one year and let the kids gorge on maple syrup. Gradually, we even stop speaking of Italy; neither of us wants to admit that we have become those people—the kind who do not do what they say they are going to do. Until the day Alex comes home from work, asks my mother to babysit, and takes me to the Olive Garden.

It’s so rare that the two of us go out, especially on a school night. I feel a little naughty and thrilled. Even if it is a chain restaurant near the mall. I finish two family-sized bowls of salad and an entire basket of bread by myself. Alex orders the soup (the soup!) and barely takes a bite.

“What’s going on, Alex?”

His drops his spoon into the bowl. It sends ripples through his Pasta Fagioli. “I’ve been offered an incredible work opportunity.”

“Okay.” I know from his tone, he doesn’t think I’m going to like it.

“It’s in Florence. Teaching Renaissance art at the American university.”

“Are you kidding me?”

“Llama.”

“You’re serious?”

“As a heart attack.”

“Oh my God. Oh my God.” It feels like Christmas. Which is also my birthday. Excitement times two. It’s taken us sixteen years, but we are going to do it. We are all going to Florence. “Oh my God,” I say again. I wish I hadn’t eaten all the breadsticks so I could make them do a happy dance. “When do we leave?”

Alex gently takes my hands. Why isn’t he smiling? “Just one semester.”

“A whole semester?” I whoop. A whole semester? That’s a long time. That’s like living there. Just when I thought my life was stale and monotonous and never going to get exciting ever again. I am a new woman. You just never know what’s around the corner. I used to hate when people said that, but now I see they are right. Oh my God. I am going to live in Florence. I am going to start painting again. This is the dream. We are going to be living the dream. I am going to have sex with him tonight no matter what. “Let’s go. We have to start packing.” I throw my arm up like I’m going to catch a cab, hoping our waitress will see me, since I can’t tell which one was ours in the sea of striped shirts.

“I have to leave next week.”

“I’m a fast packer.”

“Llama. Listen to me.”

“Why aren’t you more excited?”

“I’m going to Florence. Not all of us. Just me.”

My hand falls to my side. My heart thumps. An immediate lump forms in my throat. I did not just hear him say that. “What the hell are you talking about?”

“We can’t just yank the kids out of school.”

“Why not? Art. Architecture. A new language and culture. They’ll learn more there in one semester than they would the entire year in school.”

“What about soccer? And dance? Josh has a tournament, and Rachel has a big recital coming up.”

“They’ll get over it.” I know, the second I say it, it isn’t exactly true. Josh is obsessed with soccer, and Rachel with dance. But truth be told, neither of them are very good at their respective sports, so it’s not like I’m stunting the next Beckham or Baryshnikov.

“They’re putting me up in a dorm. Not even a hotel. A dorm.”

“We’ll look for a place on craigslist or something.”

“What about Stella?”

“My God, Alex. She’s a dog. We board her. You don’t want us to go; is that it?”

“It’s just not logistically or financially in our best interest.”

I cannot believe he is sitting across from me, saying this. There is no way, no way, he’s going to Florence without me. “It’s Florence, Alex. Florence.” I give him the look, the one that says, I gave up my honeymoon for you.

“Here’s what I’ve been thinking. You guys will come at the end of the semester. When I’ve made some money, and actually have time to show you guys around. We should be able to afford four or five days.”

“No, no, no,” I say. “We all have to go together.”

“It’s work, Lena.”

“It’s Florence, Alex,” I say. We spend the entire time up until he leaves arguing about it. But the kids don’t want to go, and when I try and talk to the teachers they don’t see how there is enough time to arrange “homeschooling” or any viable alternative. When Alex actually goes, I am stunned, truly stunned. It feels like I’ve been deeply betrayed. I try and convince myself he’s right—it’s just work. It doesn’t help.

I want to stroll the piazzas, tour the Uffizi Gallery, and drink Tuscan wine on a rooftop overlooking the undulating hills. I sit in Alex’s office, staring at him on the computer screen. He’s been there almost two weeks now, and he keeps saying how fast it’s going, but he’s a liar. Tranquilized sloths move faster. He looks so happy, and really tan, and I feel as if I have a mouthful of glass. He’s talking, and I’d better start listening, because so far I haven’t heard a word he’s said.

“So I took the class, on the spur of the moment, just said, ‘Right, everybody up,’ and we caught a bus back to the center of the city, and our timing was perfect, Llama, it was like it was meant to be.”

“Wow.”

“We stood back and just gazed at it. The surface was shiny and white, but then as the sun slipped down, it was true, the marble glowed pink. It was incredible.”

“Where was this?”

“What do you mean?”

“What glowed pink?”

“The marble.”

“I got the marble part—but the marble where?”

“You weren’t listening.”

“Just tell me.”

“The Duomo.” He sounds frustrated. With me. I hate him in this moment. The only thing glowing pink around here are the towels I just put in the dryer because when I asked Rachel to throw them in the laundry, she didn’t notice the red kitchen towel hiding in among them. And he’s frustrated with me? Why would he go on and on about how great it is when he knows I want to be there? Doesn’t he want us there? How much am I supposed to take?

“I really don’t care,” I say.

“Lena.”

“I mean it. Good for you. I have to go.”

“Don’t hang up mad.”

“Do you even miss me?”

“Of course. How can you ask that?”

“I can’t stand that you’re there without me.”

“You’re going to be here soon, Llama. Look how fast these two weeks have gone by.”

“Right.” So I try. Because he’s right. We will be there soon enough. I might as well make the best of it. Soccer practice. Dance lessons. Homework. Taking care of the dog, cooking all the meals, doing all the shopping, all the yard work. The kids miss their dad. They blame me, and although I know it’s misplaced—just transference—it’s not fair. Some nights I yell at them for the same reason. Rachel turned fourteen without her father at her birthday party. I let her have a sleepover with all her friends, and I made a special cake, and bought her an iPod, and all she could talk about was the top he bought her in Italy. The next morning after dropping all of her friends at their homes, she asked if we could go shopping so she could find something new to match her new favorite shirt, and I had the gall to say no, that we had a house ravaged by teenagers that needed cleaning.

“I wish Dad were here instead of you!” she said.

Josh, who is only nine, hurt my feelings too, although he’s too young to do it on purpose. We were at one of his soccer tournaments, and just before the game Josh handed me a picture of Alex. “Hold this up during the game,” he said. “It will be like somebody is here.” As if I didn’t count. As if without Alex, I am half of nothing. I record as many of their games and dance recitals as I can, and Alex watches them, but I get the feeling that he’s just doing it politely, waiting for the chance to tell another story about how wonderful it is to live in Florence. For the next few calls, I make a concentrated effort to listen and be truly happy for him. The closer the time draws to us joining him, the more my excitement grows. I call Alex, determined to nail down our travel plans.

“I have to book our plane tickets. When is your last day at the university?” There is a moment of silence on his end. I can’t tell if it’s a long-distance delay or if he just isn’t responding. It feels like forever before he speaks.

“Llama. Keep an open mind.”

“No.”

“They’ve asked me to stay for a second semester.”

I don’t answer right away. Verbally, anyway. But my head is shaking, and I know I’m sporting an “I knew it” expression. I hate him. I hate myself. I can’t take one more second. “No,” I say. “You’re done. We’re coming.”

“It doesn’t change anything. It just delays it a semester.”

“No.”

“Hear me out. By the time the second semester is over, it will be summer. Instead of a few days, we could spend a month here if you want.”

“We can’t afford a month.”

“That’s the thing. They really, really want me. There’s a bonus in it for us.”

“How is living in Italy without us ‘for us’?”

“The bonus would allow us to stay in Italy for at least a month. Maybe more.”

“We’re coming now. Tell them no.”

“Ten thousand dollars. It’s a ten thousand dollar bonus.”

“Ten thousand dollars?”

“Yes. It would pay for our entire trip.”

“Damn it.”

“You can start researching—I’ll leave it up to you. If you can make the ten thousand stretch the whole summer, we’ll stay the whole summer.”

I do like to plan. And if we’re there the entire summer then it will feel like I got to live there too. “If I can make it stretch—you swear we can stay the whole summer?”

“I want us to stay the whole summer. I love it here.”

I ignore that part. “Swear on it,” I say. “Swear on our lives.”

“Lena.”

“Per favore.” I’ve been learning a few words here and there.

“I swear on your lives.”

A few days now, or the whole summer. It kills me, but so does the prospect of missing out on an entire summer, so I agree to wait.

But the next three months change me. My single-parenting life is stuck on an endless loop. All the cooking, all the cleaning, all the dog walking, all the driving to soccer practice, dance lessons, doctor’s appointments. Alex starts calling me less and less. Sometimes, when he talks, he slips into Italian. He looks happy, so damn happy, and I am turning mean, and ugly. Most days I miss him: his smell, his presence at the dinner table, his beautiful body in bed (I can’t handle the big empty spot where my husband should be)—him running into the kitchen late at night, throwing open an art catalogue to a centerfold of a naked statue, and exclaiming, “What I wouldn’t give to get my hands on that!”

But some days I look around and think, “We’ve done pretty well without you.” It’s true too. He’s been gone almost six months, and we haven’t fallen apart. Lately I’ve been noticing men noticing me. Dads at soccer games and what not. Not that I flirt with them or anything, but it’s nice to have male attention, any attention at all. Alex should be thinking about this. He should be dying to get me there or to get back home. But he doesn’t seem to miss me at all. Why is that? How can he be fine going six months without making love to his wife? What does that say about our marriage? What is he doing in Italy and whom is he doing it with? I start to think of Italy as the enemy, Florence as my husband’s mistress. I would have had more access to Alex these past six months if he’d been in prison. Alex calls me on a really bad day, in the middle of another really bad mood.

“Llama. When you guys come, we’ll—”

“We’re not coming. You’re coming home.”

“Come on.”

“I mean it. I can’t take this anymore. You are coming home.”

“We’ll talk about this later.”

“I will never, ever set foot on Italian soil.” And there it is. I’ve planted a flag. I know the minute I say it, it is a huge mistake, but now it is up to Alex to make me come around. Reassure me how much he loves me. A little begging would be nice.

“You’re being ridiculous.” This is what I get instead. He loves Florence more than he’ll ever love me. I lash out.

“You know, I never expected you to be Husband of the Year, but what kind of father leaves his own children for six months?” There is that interminable silence again. I can hear him breathing. I should stop. “You should have insisted we go sixteen years ago. You couldn’t stand up to the university then, and you can’t now. You’re not a man at all. You’re a coward. You’ve ruined Italy for me. Why don’t you just stay there and never come home?”

He looks me in the eye as his right hand moves the mouse, and the next thing I know, we are disconnected. He hung up on me. He actually hung up on me. In our sixteen years of marriage, he has never hung up on me, ever.

He’s a good father, a great father; I never should have said that. When he’s here he doesn’t miss a soccer game or a dance recital, and at least three times a week he’s home for dinner, and if you ask the man to pick up tarter sauce on the way home, he picks up tarter sauce on the way home. He has to know I didn’t mean it. There is something wrong with me. Some nasty fighter in me that always has to come rushing out, swords drawn. And then I strike. That’s the problem with knowing where someone’s wounds are; once you open them up, you’re going to make them bleed.

I feel really, really bad, and I’m ashamed of how petty I’ve become.

But he’s the one who went without me in the first place, and he should have insisted we go sixteen years ago, or at least found some time to take us before now, and how would he have dealt with it if I had been the one to go without him? Then again, I knew who I married, didn’t I? Nothing excites that man like fifteenth century sculptures, not even me. I just want my husband back. I want everything to be okay. Starting tonight. That’s right. Alex is coming home. Tonight. And even though I’m still bitter, I want to work on my marriage. Maybe we can go to counseling. Because, “Where did you two meet?” is the question everybody asks when you’re in love. But “Didn’t you see the signs?” is what they say when everything goes to shit.

I’m a wife on a mission. I’m throwing a welcome home party, and it all begins with hanging the welcome home banner. The ladder wobbles as I climb. It is an outside ladder, meant to sink into soft, packed dirt, and it does not like the uneven slate tiles in my kitchen. We have that in common; I’ve been dying to get these tiles repaired for years now, but I will not greet Alex with a honey-do list. I’ve done enough damage already. My cell phone sits on the kitchen counter cold and unblinking, like a silent assassin. Of course he can’t call from the plane, but I wish I could talk to him right now, tell him it’s all going to be okay. He’s still upset that we didn’t come. But this is for the best; I don’t want to go to Italy right now, but maybe after he’s home and we’re in a better place we can revisit the subject with a caring therapist who will make him see what a horrendous thing he did by going to Florence without me.

In one hand I grasp the banner, in the other a hammer, which leaves me no choice but to put the two large nails in my mouth. When I reach the top step, the ladder teeters and shakes, a mini-earthquake beneath my feet, and the five-foot banner ripples as if startled by a burst of unwelcome wind. I freeze, and envision swallowing one of the giant nails, seeing an X-ray, a ghostly imagine of the steel shank puncturing my lungs. I will be laughed at, the human equivalent of Stupid Pet Tricks. Why didn’t I put them in my pocket? Because I am a Florence Widow, and it’s done damage to my brain. It’s like being a Football Widow, only a thousand times worse. At least Football Widows can eat leftover chicken wings and cuddle up to their husbands at night, whereas I struggle to fall asleep, alone, convinced he’s strolling piazzas with a bottle of Super Tuscan in one hand and an Italian supermodel in the other.

Steady now. I breathe slowly, through my nose, and the ladder settles. Moving my arm as if I am performing major surgery, I place the right-hand side of the banner just above our kitchen window. It’s the perfect spot; Alex will see it the minute he walks in. I remove one nail from my mouth, carefully place it in the corner, and hammer it in. Plaster flakes off, and a speck sticks in my eye.

It hurts; it hurts; it hurts. I squeeze my eye shut. It’s like a paper cut in my pupil. I just have to get through this. I will wash my eye out soon. Just keep going. What irony, if I were to go blind today of all days. Today, when he is finally coming home, will be the day I swallow nails and go blind. My own personal apocalypse. Can I get some kind of metal poisoning from nails in the mouth?

Roses go in the mouth; nails do not. I would have asked the kids to help, but they don’t know he’s coming home tonight. It’s a surprise. I can’t wait to see their faces. This is indeed a banner day. I am trying to do too many things at once, but that’s typical when you’re raising two kids by yourself. But they’re in no danger of wandering into the kitchen and spoiling the surprise, for they scattered far and wide the minute I asked them to help with dinner. Well, not far enough actually, for Josh is in the living room playing that zombie video game that I hate. Grunt, grunt, grunt, scream, scream, scream. That can’t be good for him. But he’s getting away with it tonight. Everything goes tonight. I am grateful they do not realize this, for they would be at my feet begging me for a puppy.

“Sorry, Stella,” I say, although our aging golden retriever is nowhere to be seen. I’m sure she’s under my bed; there’s a storm coming, or so they say, but aren’t they wrong like 99.9 percent of the time? Tonight would be the night though, wouldn’t it, that they’re right? Alex’s plane will be fine, I tell myself, and on time.

I blink my one good eye and slowly go back down the ladder. I take the remaining nail out of my mouth, quickly rinse out my bad eye, then scoot the ladder over four feet and repeat the process on the other side. The banner has been hung. I climb down, and survey my work.

It’s perfect. A welcome home sign and an Italian lesson for the kids rolled into. . .