Page 60 of My Lemon Grove Summer
‘Shh,’ he says, holding up a hand to silence me. He perches on the edge of the table and raises his glass to his nose. As he sniffs, his eyes shut, as if he is drawing in the smell. Then he opens them and looks at me, giving nothing away. He holds my gaze and my insides twist, turn and melt. As he moves the glass to his lips, I find my eyes drawn like a magnet to them. It’s completely different from watching Lennie’s lips this morning. Those were comforting and familiar. These are full of promise; of what, I’m not sure, but the thought is exciting.
His lips part and he places the glass in between them and tips it slowly so the liquid slides into his mouth and onto the tip of his tongue.
I watch and wait . . . and wait.
Eventually he lowers the glass and looks down, as if the liquid is still sitting on his tongue. The light streaming onto the balcony highlights a few strands of silver running through his otherwise dark wavy hair. After a while, he lifts his head and looks at me, very hard. But still he says nothing.
‘Well?’ I ask. ‘Oh, look, it’s fine. Sorry. I realised from the colour that it probably wasn’t right. I shouldn’t have . . . I’ll get on with the lemons.’
I go to put my glass down on the table and leave. He smiles at me, and suddenly I’m feeling cross and agitated.
‘I didn’t come here to be laughed at!’ I tell him. But his smile just widens.
‘I know,’ he says. He takes another sip of the green liquid, then holds the glass up to the shaft of sunlight pouring onto the balcony, and it looks like a thousand light bulbs have gone on around him. ‘This,’ he says, ‘is the taste of Sicily.’
‘Really? You like it?’ I say, like the light bulbs have lit me up too.
He nods. ‘I don’t just like it . . .’ He stares at me, then lifts his chin and says, ‘I love it!’ and that lazy smile spreads right across his face. ‘Try it!’
I look at my glass and take a quick sip. It tastes . . . I stop in my tracks and look back at Luca. He is still smiling, nodding, swilling the liquid around the glass.
I take a deeper and more considered sip. I let it sit on my tongue, where it fills my mouth with its zingy, lemony flavour. A taste of sunshine, warm soil and wild flowers, everything that I have come to find fills my soul here in Sicily and makes me feel alive.
‘Oh my God! It’s . . .’ I look at the glass. ‘Amazing!’ My eyes widen along with my voice.
‘It is, isn’t it? It reminds me of everything this town used to be. It reminds me of Nonna.’
‘I can’t believe it. It really does taste of . . . well, the lemon groves. Green, fresh, citrusy, full of possibilities.’
We both sip again, the warming sensation of the alcohol filling my head and wrapping around me like a reassuring pair of arms.
‘And now,’ he puts down his glass, ‘I have something for you.’ He goes inside and returns with a big A4 sketch pad. ‘Here,’ he says, holding it out to me.
‘What’s this?’
‘Open it,’ he nods.
I flip back the cover and look at the pencil drawing there. On the next page are more sketches, closer pictures of detail. I catch my breath.
‘It’s your wedding dress. Like it?’ he asks, and now it’s his turn to look nervous as I glance from the pages of drawings back to him.
‘I . . . I . . .’ I’m lost for words, and his face begins to fall to a more serious frown. ‘I love it!’ I finally manage to say. ‘Grazie mille!Thank you!’
I feel quite teary. It couldn’t be more me if he tried. And there, around the nipped-in waist, complementing the lace and the beaded trim, is the velvet ribbon I found in the box, the colour of the verdello limoncello.
‘Something old,’ he tells me. ‘A little piece of the past passing on to the future,’ and this time my eyes fill right up with tears and one plops onto the designs.
‘Whoa!’ he laughs, and moves the sketch pad out of harm’s way.
What an amazing memento to have of the wedding – every page a detail reflecting me and who I am. The heart-shaped neckline, covered in sheer lace; the long-sleeved bolero jacket sitting just below my bust line, because he knows I may come across as confident, but I’m not confident enough to show it all off in a strapless look. Neither would my ample bosom stand the strain. Then there’s the three-quarter-length skirt, because he knows I’m worried about falling over a full-length one. The nipped-in waist to draw attention away from my full hips. The lemon-blossom embroidery on the neckline. The satin shoes he’s going to dye to match the soft yellow of the netting underskirt. And the bouquet of lemon blossom and yellow Etna broom tied with another green ribbon. The colours of the lemon grove, he tells me.
He sits back on the table and picks up his glass, studying my face as I look at the pages.
‘You’re sure you like it?’
‘It couldn’t be more perfect.Grazie. Grazie mille.Thank you,’ I say, covering all the bases. I look at the pictures again. ‘So what happens next?’ I ask excitedly.
‘I have to measure you. Are you okay with that?’
