"So, what happened when you went to find Mario Barbari?"

"Oh, yes!" She remembers as she goes back to her story. I notice that Italians do digress-I am guilty of it too. In the middle of a story, one element of it grabs their attention, and then they're off the subject entirely, never to return. I am reminded of how alike we are, even though I was not influenced by them when I was growing up. These similarities, though, are deep and in our bones.

"Mario da Schilpario was very suave. The black, black hair. The black eyes. Very striking man. I figured out a way to get up the mountain without my father finding out the real reason for my trip. I was hoping that Fiametta would be there with him, and I could talk sense to her and have her come home. When I got to Schilpario, I found Mario working in the church. His family are gla.s.s and metal workers. They make stained-gla.s.s windows." Another fact about my father I didn't know!

"I knew it was him right away, because I remembered him from town; he drove a carriage down for supplies sometimes, and all the girls in Bergamo took note of him. I asked to speak with him alone. He was very pleasant, but he knew nothing of my sister's whereabouts. He had not heard from her. He asked me to understand his position; he had a wife, and they were trying to make their marriage work, even though they did not live under one roof. He thought my sister was beautiful and sweet, but theirs was a romance that could never be. Would I tell her that when I found her? I told him that was something he needed to discuss with Fiametta himself. I remember that, at the mention of her name, his eyes had great pain in them. I believe he loved her."

Zia Meoli has obviously given this a great deal of thought. But she is a woman, too, and she knows what happens to unsuspecting girls who fall for the town Lothario. At first, they accept that they are one of many, but they hope they can tame him, win his heart, and make him faithful and true. At seventeen, my mother didn't know that she would never win this battle. But she was so in love, she gave him her heart anyway. It is so ironic that I am Mario's only child. All those women, all that romance, and I am the only child that grew from it.

"So, I went back down the mountain, with no more information than when I left. I gathered my mother and my sister in a room, away from my father, and told them what I had learned. My mother was devastated; she was certain I would find Fiametta and bring her home. My mother's health turned at that time. She cried all the time, she took to her bed. The Italians would say that her blood turned. Her sadness had made her ill."

"What about your father?"

"My mother never discussed it with my father. She knew where he stood on the matter. If Fiametta had done wrong, she had to live with the consequences. One time he and I had an argument about it. He told me he knew that my sister was alive and well. He knew how strong-willed she was. Papa thought that she could protect herself. I thought he was cold and indifferent, and I was very angry with him for not setting out to find her. But he and Fiametta had always had a sense about each other; I never had that with him."

"A sense?"

"Papa knew what she was thinking. He always did. He could tell before she did something what she was going to do. It was mystical."

"When did Mama write her first letter to you?"

"It was almost a year after she left. How happy Mama was when that letter came from America."

"I didn't find any letters from your mother to my mother."

Zia Meoli shakes her finger back and forth. "Never. My mother would never go against my father! Never!"

"Did your mother know about me?"

"She was so happy. But you were only a year or so old when she died. But my mother knew your name and all of the details Fiametta sent to me."

"Did you ever tell your father?"

My aunt shakes her head sadly. "If he knew, we never talked about it. Don't judge him for it, Ave Maria. It was a different time. A girl could not leave the family home without being married, nor could she-"

"Dishonor the family name."

Zia Meoli shakes her head again. "I knew there was no dishonor. She was young. She was in love." Zia sits back in the chair, rocking a bit.

Mama in love. I wish I could have seen it.

Theodore and I see everyone off at the airport, but it is in no way a sad parting. We promise to call and write to one another, and we're all looking forward to the long summer in Schilpario.

My father tries to give me a wad of money, which I stuff right back into his pocket.

"Papa, I don't need it."

"Please take it."

"Papa, you keep it. Take care of Nonna." He smiles, and we hug for a long time. We will see each other very soon, and we're happy about that.

Theodore and I watch the plane take off. After it disappears beyond the mountains, we go to Shoney's for a leisurely lunch and relive every moment of the Eye-talian visit.

I load up the Jeep to return all the pans to the ladies in town who dropped off food while my family was visiting. One of my favorite things about Big Stone Gap is the stream of covered dishes that flows from house to house in times of joy or sadness. The ladies make it easy to get their pans back: On the bottom of each, in indelible ink on heavy tape, they print their names: N. Goodloe, E. and L. Tuckett, I. Makin, J. Hendrick, and N. MacChesney. It will take me the better part of the day to shuttle these back to their owners.

I drive up to Cracker's Neck first, starting at the top of the mountain with the first pan return. Then I'll work my way back down to town. Tufts of white smoke puff out of the kitchen chimney at the MacChesneys'. I knock at the door. No answer. I knock again. Still no answer. In a split second there is loud barking behind me, and I practically jump out of my skin. It's the family dog. He keeps barking and circles back around the house. I follow him.

Mrs. Mac is hanging out the laundry. The white sheets are whiter than the clouds overhead, and even outdoors the air is filled with the clean smell of fresh laundry. She looks up and sees me and smiles.

"Thank you for the chess pie. My family loved it."

"Who wouldn't? It's good pie."

"Do you need some help?" I ask.

"I'm all done. Come inside. I got coffee."

I follow Mrs. Mac into the house through the back porch. I have never seen this porch or entered the house this way. In fact, I didn't even know she had a room like this on the back of the house. You can't see it from the kitchen; it is off at a different angle and easily hidden.

The sunporch is lovely. There is rattan furniture with soft cushions, quilted in elaborate designs; I recognize the traditional "drunkard's path" motif on a matching chair. There are hanging plants everywhere, spilling over with blooms of pink, purple, and yellow. I have never seen an indoor garden quite so beautiful; it looks like it belongs in another house, not in this clean, spare stone house in Cracker's Neck.

"Yep, this is my favorite spot in the house. Plants need a lot of care, though."

I imagine Mrs. Mac making the sunporch her own special room, full of her feminine touches. But it is more than that; it has a spiritual feeling, like a sanctuary. I follow her through a small pantry back into the kitchen that I know so well.

"Everybody get off all right?" she asks as she fetches me a cup of coffee.

"They had the best time."

"How about you?"

"It was a dream."

"Good."

"Mrs. Mac, you probably know that Jack sold his truck to pay for all of it, and I-"

She holds up her hand to stop me. "That is his affair."

"I know. But I want you to know that I appreciate it."

"Honey, it ain't none of my business."

"But-"

"It ain't."

We sit in an uncomfortable silence for a few minutes.

"You raised a very fine person."

"Thank you kindly."

"Mrs. Mac, are you upset with me about something?"

"I wouldn't call it upset."

"What would you call it?"

"There is a word for it; let me think." She thinks a moment, gets up, goes to the cake saver, pulls off the lid, cuts a couple of pieces of pound cake, puts them on a plate, fetches two forks and two plates and two napkins, and comes back to the table and sits down with me. "I'm mystified."

"Excuse me?"

"Do you want my son or not?"

I can't answer her. Not only am I embarra.s.sed, I realize that I am in that horrible position of having dragged somebody's mama into my confusion, a bad place for her and me.

"Do you mind if I don't answer that?"

"Suit yourself."

We eat our cake and drink our coffee. Mrs. Mac stares off at the field. She looks old to me this morning. Or maybe I'm afraid that I will miss her when I leave.

"I got a lot of pans in the car, so I better shove off."

"Ave Maria?" Mrs. Mac looks at me directly and does not blink.

"My sister Cecelia is coming to git me this afternoon to take me down to her place for a visit. I'm gonna be gone about a week. My son gets off of his shift at six sharp; he comes home here through the door no later than seven. He don't know I'm going to see his aunt, so he's gonna come home here directly, expecting dinner as usual. If I was you, and if you have one tenth the brain in your head that I think you do, you'll be sitting there on the porch waiting for him. Now, is that clear enough, youngun?"

I nod.

I give Mrs. Mac a quick hug. When I let go of her, she gives me an extra-quick hug that instructs me, Do what I'm telling you, or I can't be responsible for what happens next.

There are some low patches of fog as I drive down the mountain. I think of the kiss in the trailer park. It's the first time I have ever thought about it during the day. As I make the turn onto Valley Road, a cat runs out in front of my Jeep. I slam on the brakes and jump out. The cat disappears into the ditch. I'm afraid it might be injured. I cross the road and climb down the bank just as the cat slips into the dark opening of a gully. I crawl closer and brush away the leaves at the mouth of the tunnel. There are three kittens, not even old enough to open their eyes, tucked safely under some leaves. I back away and sit at the edge of the ditch for a moment, waiting for the mother. Eventually she crawls out and tends to the babies. She licks them. They seem to be okay. I start to cry. I realize what a phony I am. I told Otto in no uncertain terms that he had to be honest with Worley about his shame. And yet I cannot be honest about my own. I have chosen not to fall in love because I thought it would heal my mother's shame if I was a perfect daughter, virtuous and independent. I have spent my life trying not to need anyone. But I hear Mrs. Mac again in my mind and I realize I don't want to live like this anymore.

A car horn blasts behind me. It's Nellie Goodloe.

"Ave Maria, are you all right down there in that ditch?"

"I'm fine, Nellie," I call back to her.

She shrugs and drives off. I stand up and brush the leaves from my pants. By the time I reach the Jeep, I know what I'm going to do.

I drop by the Pharmacy with Fleeta's pan. Fleeta is restocking the candy.

"They done picked the new Drama director," Fleeta announces.

"Oh yeah? Who?"

"Sarah Dunleavy, that new English teacher up to the high school."

"No!" This really makes me mad. I didn't think I was territorial about the job, but her? She doesn't have any pizzazz at all.

"Sarah"-Fleeta p.r.o.nounces it like it's a brand name for industrial sludge-"has done been greasin' the board of dyerectors up one side and down the other. She done joined the Dogwood Garden Club, h.e.l.l, she hosted their Early Bird Breakfast, she got herself into the sewing circle at the Methodist church, and she got Don Wax Realty to sponsor her tenth-grade English cla.s.s on a field trip over to the Barter Theater to see a play. This gal is takin' things over. Trust me on that one. Are you chapped?"

"Yes. I'm chapped." I don't know exactly why, but I am.

"I would be, too. After all you done for the folks around here. Driving yourself cuckoo, volunteering for this and that. And this is the thanks you git. Your scent ain't even evaporated in the area, and they done filled your spot. For whatever it's worth, Portly thinks it's terrible too."

"Have we got any Coty's Emeraude cologne?"

"It's in the locked case." Fleeta points to it, pulling a key ring with ten thousand keys on it out of her back pocket and flipping through it.

"How do you know which key?"

"It's like Braille to me. I feel the grooves."

The first key Fleeta chooses fits the case.

"It's your lucky day. One bottle left."

"Put it on my tab."

Fleeta laughs and it turns into a rattle. She coughs. "That's pretty funny, bein' it's your place." I wish I could join in the hilarity, but I'm not feeling very funny right now. Sarah Dunleavy has taken my place in Big Stone Gap, seamlessly, effortlessly; it's as though I never existed. And I haven't even left town yet! I guess I'm just going to have to be a little more careful about marking my territory. I'll start with the Emeraude.

I spend most of the afternoon getting ready for the evening. I want to make sure that I am on the MacChesneys' porch by six o'clock, sitting there waiting. I'm afraid that if I'm late, and I drive up and see Jack Mac's truck, I'll throw the old Jeep in reverse and back down the mountain. I am very nervous about all of this; my last conversation with Jack wasn't a friendly one. I don't know if he'll turn mountain man on me and order me off his property or what. So I need to get there first and plant myself. That will give me courage.

I choose something very simple to wear: one of my new Mama blouses and a pair of jeans. A skirt would look like I'm trying to impress him, since I rarely wear them. This is a business meeting for me; I need to project a certain seriousness, and I have that in pants.

As I make the drive up through Cracker's Neck, I review carefully in my mind all the twists and turns of my friendship, or whatever you want to call it, with Jack MacChesney. Back in school, he was a shy, shadowy sort of figure. He didn't join a lot of clubs. I remember that he might have played baseball, but that would be all. My real memories of him started that morning when I caught him in his long johns and stayed for breakfast. That's the first time I really took note of him-sparkling, out of the shower. And I think I fell for him for real when he winked at me at the Drama rehearsal.

But I am not the kind of woman to steal another woman's man. First of all, I wouldn't do that to any woman because I sure as h.e.l.l wouldn't want it done to me. And second, situations based on one-upmanship never, ever last. Those romances are not built on solid foundations; at the first sign of trouble, they collapse. Maybe that's part of the thrill, but to me no man was ever worth the heartbreak of a woman.

I am not naive, though. I know there are the Sarah Dunleavys out there, who make a project out of finding the best men in every group and working their way into their hearts by being quiet, orderly, and not much fuss. But there isn't one among us who can playact for a lifetime. Men don't understand that, though. They think they know what they're marrying because it would never dawn on men to change their behavior for anybody. "Accept me as I am," they seem to say as they plant their feet, "or move on, girl." But women? We adapt. Adapting gets results. It worked for Mama, but that life is not for me. Perhaps that is the real reason I never married. I just couldn't adapt.

Why am I driving to Cracker's Neck? What do I think I'll find here? Maybe the subconscious lull of Jack MacChesney's kiss remembered each night before I go to sleep has imprinted itself on my heart and sent a message to my brain to face myself. I don't know. It unlocked something in me, though. This old Jeep cannot plow through Cracker's Neck fast enough to deliver me safely to the MacChesneys' porch.

My fear leaves me as I sit on the porch. I am amazed at the view, and I wish the sun would stay up longer so I could really study the landscape. Finally, after what seems like years, I can see truck lights down the mountain as they make the big turn onto the property.

The truck bounces over the pits and holes in the dirt road, kicking up a little dust. The headlights shine on me as Jack drives the truck to the side of the house. I shield my eyes from the glare but stand to greet him. The truck has the price $3,100 USED written on the windshield in white shoe polish.I guess Rick Harmon loaned it to Jack from the used-car dealership. I don't know how he can see through the big white writing well enough to drive. For a moment I panic. What if Sarah Dunleavy is in the truck with him? I wish I would have brought a cake pan; at least I could look like I have an excuse to be here, and then I could cut out, with my face intact. Too late to jump in the Jeep and get out of here, so I wait. Jack parks the truck; the setting sun shines into the pa.s.senger window, and I can see he is alone. I breathe deeply.

It takes him a moment to get out of his truck, gathering his lunch pail and boots. He comes around the back of the truck and up the walk. He looks at me funny.

"Is something wrong with Mama?"

"No, no. She . . . she went to visit your Aunt Cecelia."

"Why didn't she tell me?" Jack Mac walks up the steps, past me, and up to the door with the keys.