Blue Sky With Clouds

Blue Sky with Clouds

An ordinary adventure and quest for love in the Finger Lakes

by Mariuccia Milla

Author of MEET ME IN MILANO

and STORIES OF FOOD AND LIFE

The resemblance of any character in this story to real persons is purely coincidental

unless, of course, that person is the author.

The sharing of any part of this book without permission is unlawful

According to the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976.

Thank you for respecting my intellectual property.

©2018 Mariuccia Milla

Dedicated to all those who work to preserve and enhance the beauty of the Finger Lakes Region.

Table of Contents

Title page

Beginning

About the author

Lake effect

Cayuga Lake was as smooth as a plate of gray glass, its long reach notched by quirky bends in its shoreline. Its banks rose up steeply at first, then more gently as the slopes became the ridges that separated Cayuga from the other lakes, each running not quite parallel, like fingers leading to the palm of Lake Ontario. The water’s flatness revealed the downward slope of the entire region toward the north, with Ithaca at the head of the valley.

Livia sat in the worn leather armchair facing the window in the White Library at Cornell University. She had recently stumbled upon this room, a single three-story space with filigreed stacks around the perimeter that were connected by delicate bridges at each level. The only sounds were of footsteps on the metal stairs, books being dropped on carrel desks, and the turning of pages. Later in the day, smartphone signals, suppressed giggles, and chair legs rudely scraping the floor would disrupt these softer morning sounds, library-like and reassuring.

The days were cooling down, and the lake was warmer than the air, causing a drizzle on the Ithaca hills. It suited Livia’s mood. She liked the Cornell campus: it was perched between gorges carved by streams whose waterfalls dove dramatically to stony pools below. It was as if she’d been transported to the setting of a Gothic romance; the soft rain enhanced that impression.

Her father’s funeral five years earlier was attended by the same soft dripping of rain and of tears. From there, her memory stepped back to a previous day spent with him, a sunny day so warm that the din from the cicadas was deafening. She had followed her Papi up the steep slope, barely able to keep up in her rubber boots. The ancient apple tree they found was perched on the edge of a dry streambed, now a shallow ravine with a thin thread of water meandering around boulders and clumps of vegetation. It had been a dry summer. Livia hadn’t been able to locate her hiking shoes that morning, so her father had to climb the tree to reach that viable branch. She watched him from below, unable to prevent the splitting of the trunk and his slow-motion fall into the ravine. After he landed, she heard a toc when his head fell back against the rock.

She scrambled down to the streambed. Her father had fallen from trees–they both had–plenty of times. It usually ended in laughter, followed by days of teasing.

Papá! she called as she approached him, meandering, like the stream, around the obstacles in her path. When Livia reached his side, she realized he was unconscious. She tried her cell phone, but there was no signal. She needed to go to higher ground; she would have to leave him there alone. Her boots robbed her of her usual agility, as in a dream where shoelaces can’t be tied in time, or an escape made before one awakes. She was finally able to reach someone at a nearby farm.

Pronto! she said into the phone. This is Livia, Giancarlo’s daughter. He’s fallen and hit his head ... in the Torrente Marzana, about three kilometers from the Badia Bellavista.

The farmer and his son took an off-road vehicle as far as they could, then came up the torrente with an army cot as a stretcher, splashing in the water’s path. The farmer examined Giancarlo, shaking his head.

He’s gone, he said in a soft voice.

What do you mean? Livia asked. Let’s get him to the hospital; he’s unconscious.

The farmer was not one to argue with a woman; he knew better.

When they got back to the truck, Livia sat on the floor head-to-head with her father, who had been laid on the back seat.

Should we take him to Arezzo? she asked.

That’s the nearest hospital, said the farmer, looking at his son, who met his glance with raised eyebrows and a sigh.

Maybe we should go straight to Florence, Livia proposed, if you would?

Cara Livia, said the farmer, as he pulled onto the shoulder. He braked, turned around, took her hand and looked her in the eye. I would gladly drive all the way to Milano if it would bring him back to life.

Livia stared straight ahead, not seeing. She laid her head on her father’s chest and started to cry. He was her only parent and her best friend. How could this be?

Don’t worry, said the farmer, we’re going to make sure, at the hospital.

Now, in her armchair overlooking Cayuga Lake, Livia shed a single tear, remembering.

Who would have thought that her father’s horticultural legacy–a passion she shared–would lead to an invitation to teach here? They would have preferred him of course, but for his English. She shook her head and smiled. Everyone thought it was a big deal: an American Ivy League school!

She looked down at her book, Apples of North America. An email she had printed last week peeked from between the pages. She took it out and unfolded it.

Dear Livia,

I suppose it’s a bad practice to write when you’re down, but I hope our years of friendship will excuse me. Maybe I feel this way because summer is almost over, and the days are getting shorter.

Lately, I have been feeling frustrated by my routine, assailed by digital media all day and predictable socialization in the evening. I don’t know what has happened to my life. I am distracted by every path I haven’t taken.

Livia paused to absorb what she had read.

She imagined Lella writing it, sitting in the breakfast alcove of her family’s villa by the sea. She would have her cappuccino and some buttered toast beside her. In her mind, she played out her friend’s day.

* * *

Lella looked up from her laptop. A cat visiting the terrace caught her eye, luring her outside to the real world. She grabbed her sweater and walked up through the garden–so many steps–till she reached the cart path, paved with cobbles and concrete wheel tracks. It was wide enough for scooters and three-wheeled flatbeds, but no cars came up here.

The path climbed and wound around rustic stone houses yet to be restored, precious because of their proximity to such beauty. Lella passed odd little flights of stone steps that ascended the embankment and died into the slope of the groves. She kept walking until she got to the ridge of the promontory above Portofino, where the view took flight over the sea.

She, too, was nursing a memory. She had seen Giorgio one more time after she had told him that there was no way they could be more than acquaintances, friends maybe, after his infidelity. Although, Lella thought, was it really that, or the dishonesty about his dedication to her?

She allowed her gaze to tumble down the terraced slope dotted with Olives with their pale, lance-like leaves. The sea in the Golfo Paradiso was sparkling with the light of the lowering sun. The universe felt large and she, small, though with every right to be there.

Lella passed a stand of Pines that momentarily blocked her view. The air was fragrant and their bark rough. This was good company for those who have earned their solitude. The sun cast tree shadows over the well-groomed path until the scintillating sea came back into view.

* * *

Livia remembered that walk. She and Lella had taken it every time they had been there together. Livia continued reading her friend’s letter.

I have been so grateful for my stay in Santa Margherita, and though my time here is up, the idea of returning to Milan and its unrelenting rhythm doesn’t appeal to me.

So, I will happily accept your invitation (to visit the Visiting Professor) while you are at Cornell. I am sure there are some exceptional places to walk in the Finger Lakes hills.

I’ll be in touch when I am able to get tickets and dates. I’m looking forward to seeing you in the States.

Much Love,

Lella.

Livia smiled at the prospect of her dear friend coming for a visit. She would take her on a tour of the Orchard; they could walk along the forest streams that inevitably led to waterfalls, so many waterfalls! They would catch up.

She checked her phone for the time and saw that she needed to head to the Ag school. Livia left the library and headed up Tower Road.

"Professoressa Torricelli!"

Livia turned to see John Handby, from the agronomy department, catching up to her. He was a handsome man, graying at the temples, dressed like a model from a manly clothing catalog. Livia smiled, trying not to laugh at how stereotypically American John looked. He used her Italian title to demonstrate his cultural awareness, and because he liked the way it rolled off his tongue.

Hello John, she answered. You don’t look like you’re planning on getting dirty today.

He smiled indulgently. Just a lecture this morning. He adjusted his glasses. Would you like to get some coffee later?

Livia tipped her head, thinking. I might be free around 11:30.

Okay, I’ll stop by your office then. Maybe we can go to the Dairy Bar and get a sandwich, too.

That sounds good. Livia turned to enter the Plant Sciences building, but John passed ahead and held the door for her.

Livia wasn’t sure why John was so attentive to her. Could he be angling for an invitation to Italy to see her fruit tree collection? Her father was a well-known horticultural archaeologist, and together they had done much to establish the field before his death five years ago. That made her a bit of an inadvertent celebrity.

Hanging out with the other academics wasn’t really Livia’s thing. She attended all their meetings, but otherwise kept to herself. She hadn’t rented an apartment near campus, choosing instead to live in the little village of Trumansburg on the other side of the lake. That was her way. When she was done for the day, she would drive down into the Ithaca Flats, pick up any groceries she needed, and then up the other side to her little Greek Revival house with its rickety front porch. She had fallen in love with it because it was next to an abandoned church with an old orchard and a tiny cemetery behind it. From this refuge, she could walk to the coffee shop, the post office, and the deserted Rongovian Embassy, a legendary music venue. She would peer into the windows and imagine the music, laughing, and dancing. Now there was just dust.

Her landlord had cleared her rented house of its disabled furniture, leaving a big oak bed frame, a table and six chairs; and some thrift-shop dinnerware. Livia bought a new mattress and borrowed or bought the rest of the things she needed second-hand.

Today, after lunch with John, she would head home and read some student lab reports until Lella arrived.

Arrival

One of the best things about the American marketplace was choice, Lella thought. It was also one of the worst, rendering a person completely impotent when faced with simple decisions like choosing coffee varieties, ice cream flavors, or car rental options.

Her plane had arrived at JFK on time, but the flight to Syracuse had been canceled for lack of interest. Rather than wait another six hours, Lella decided to get a car and drive to Ithaca. Bewildered by the number of agencies and their slow lines, she checked sites on her phone and found a 25% discount and Free Days! that allowed her to go straight to her car, a Ford Focus. If her GPS didn’t fail her, she would arrive at six o’clock. Listening carefully to the voice emanating from the device, Lella made her escape from Queens, skirting Manhattan and crossing the Hudson River. She took a wrong turn somewhere and ended up on Route 17, which, according to the voice, would still get her there, ETA six-thirty.

Lella leapfrogged trucks and disparaged the incorrigible minivans, avoiding drivers who were either on their phones or eating. She wondered how these people would fare on an Italian highway if they couldn’t manage these wide, straight roads. She didn’t go through any little villages or towns along the way, though signs offering food and gas were clustered at intervals, suggesting their presence somewhere inland. Thick vegetation blanketed the hills and valleys like a nubby Berber rug or a forest of giant broccoli. The sky was an endless blanket of cotton clouds.

She turned north at the city of Binghamton and then traveled west again on Route 79, which led straight to Ithaca. When she was close, she stopped to call Livia, who directed her to Simeon’s Restaurant, where they would meet before heading to Trumansburg. It was such a dull, gray day and dining downtown would be more fun. Lella got back into her Focus and made the last leg of her trip.

* * *

The restaurant was on The Commons, a continuous fabric of pavement, seating areas, and ecologically sensitive plantings, where pedestrians reigned. Students and locals were unfazed by the drizzle—a fact of life here—as they wandered among stores and buildings that were in various phases of rehabilitation. Livia and Lella emerged from their separate cars on Aurora Street, embraced enthusiastically, and walked arm in arm to the restaurant.

Is the weather always like this? Lella asked.

Often, said Livia.

They had an American dinner of steak and potatoes, sitting by the window and remarking on the scene outside.

I’m so tired I don’t feel it anymore, Lella said.

I’m glad you’re here, Livia said.

How are things going for you? Are you adjusting? Lella asked.

I am just doing what I do. I stay out of the politics and gossip. I won’t be here long enough to stake any claims. For the most part, the faculty members are defensive of their territory and suspicious of yours. The ways of the academic jungle.

They took their time, drinking wine, talking, laughing at Livia’s stories about her colleagues and students; then decided they should head up to Trumansburg after having an espresso.

Lella was impressed by the antique house that Livia had rented. She unpacked her things in a small room with scrubbed wooden floorboards and an eclectic mix of furniture that included a bed, an armoire, a small writing desk, and a chair. Livia crossed her legs on the couch in the living room and waited for Lella to join her.

Tomorrow morning, I’ll take you on a tour of Main Street–it won’t take long–and we can have breakfast at Felicia’s Atomic Brewhouse and Bakery, said Livia. I have to be on campus at eleven o’clock, but you can stay here and rest, or do whatever you like.

Lella nodded and fell into a trance, lulled by her tiredness, the food, and the rain outside. After dropping off several times during their conversation, she decided she would go to bed.

* * *

The next morning, jet-lagged and up early, she had the espresso made and was foaming the milk when Livia entered the kitchen. They sat at the small, enameled table that looked onto the churchyard that, with its ancient apple trees, was just as Livia had described it.

I had lunch with a colleague of mine yesterday, and I told him about this orchard. He wants to come and have a look. We think it might be a good project for the students, you know, to restore it, Livia said.

They put on their jackets and went outside. Lella looked through the windows of the abandoned church, which was a blocky, open space with a raised platform at one end. The walls, dull from age, showed shadowy silhouettes of the pews that had been removed and sold as antiques.

I suspect they’ll have made more from selling the furniture than from the church itself, Livia said.

Really? Lella asked. How much for the building?

They’re asking sixty thousand dollars.

You’re kidding!

Over breakfast at Felicia’s, they mused on the condition of failing, half-abandoned villages. The scenario was the same in Italy: settlements in forgotten geographies, losing all their young to the urban centers where the work was.

The Finger Lakes region has many of these ‘Greek Revival’ towns, Livia said. They’re named for ancient cities and heroes, and their town halls and libraries are like miniature temples rendered in wood.

That’s so lovely, Lella said. I still can’t believe the sale price of the church. She was intrigued by it, felt a connection to it. It was aging, beautiful; its worth was in question.

The issue is, answered Livia, how much to repair it? And what could it become?

Lella listened to Livia’s words, turning them over in her head. Everything and everyone had to become something. There was no escaping that. Even neglect made things become: less of what they were, at the very least.

Georgina, their server, arrived at their table and refilled their mugs.

As long as it doesn’t become a coffee shop, she said, I’ll be happy.

Lella turned to Livia and said, I think I’ll go to campus with you today. I can have a look around. What time will you be done?

Technically at three-thirty, but we have a brief faculty meeting afterward. On a Friday!

They went back into the house, grabbed their things, and drove down into Ithaca and up the opposite hill to Cornell. The roads and the trees were still wet from last night’s rain, but the sun was coming out in that soft, sweet September way. The crowns of the Red Maples were tipped with scarlet. Lella decided to walk to the Botanical Gardens, said goodbye to Livia in the parking lot, and wandered off to explore on foot.

Sibley Hall

At four o’clock, Livia texted Lella to learn where her wanderings had led her.

I’m in a place called Sibley Hall, at an architecture critique! Lella said, laughing. They’re having a reception. Can you join me?

I’ll be there in fifteen minutes, Livia answered, amused. It was typical of Lella to wander into strange places as if she belonged. She ran into John Hanby on her way out and enlisted his company.

You don’t mind going over to the Arts Quad? she asked.

Not at all. I’ll be your champion: science’s triumph over art, John said.

When they got to the architecture building, they followed voices up the worn wooden stairs, where they found Lella surrounded by several students and a professor. They stood in front of a series of pinned-up drawings.

You can’t simply take historical details out of context, Lella was saying.

The professor, in horn-rimmed glasses wearing a buttoned-down oxford shirt, a jacket, and jeans, looked at her, shaking his head.

He began, If we can build buildings that don’t need rows of columns for support, they still have value as vocabulary, just like words in a poem.

The students shifted their gaze in unison toward Lella.

Lella said, I understand your point, and it is a valid compositional exercise. However, I would challenge your students to understand the purpose of a column historically and what, based on current technology, is a ‘column’ today? That’s where they will find a new form. I think that toying with structural details that are no longer functional is superficial and avoids the real problem of what must follow Modernism. This postmodern work calls attention to what it isn’t and so is just reactionary.

The professor just stared at her, his mouth slightly open. He was not accustomed to anyone questioning him.

Lella saw Livia and said, Oh, here is my friend, Professor Torricelli. Livia, this is professor Rowe and these are his students.

Professor Rowe leaned toward Livia and said, Emmett Rowe. We have been enjoying Signora Rossi’s visit immensely.

And this is my colleague, Professor Hanby, Livia said.

John, said John, noticing Emmett Rowe’s supercilious appraisal of him. He detested these tweedy profs, with their pseudo-European demeanor and unkempt appearance.

How on earth did you end up here? Livia asked.

Lella took Livia’s arm and turned outside the circle.

Well, I had a lovely walk in the arboretum, then I eventually found myself by a lake and followed it until I arrived here. I wandered inside to look for a ladies’ room and discovered a cavernous café called the Dragon, so I ordered a cup of tea. Professor Rowe heard my accent, and we started talking about Italy, and Italian architecture, and his students’ presentation, and then he invited me to the studio.

Emmett approached them with a glass of wine in each hand.

"Signore, he said, Happy Friday."

He steered the two of them around the room with John, trying to look interested, following behind.

It’s surprising, Emmett said, to see such evolved opinions about architecture by someone outside of the profession.

Livia and Lella looked at one another and laughed.

We’re Italian, Lella said. We practically invented architecture.

What about the Greeks? John said, then scratched the back of his head.

Emmett changed the subject. I am having a little get-together tomorrow evening at my place, and I would love for you to come. You, too, of course, Professor Hanby, he conceded.

Lella smiled and thanked Emmett, then gestured to Livia that they should leave.

Once they got outside, the three looked at each other and laughed.

A group of students was winding down with a game of Ultimate Frisbee, so they skirted the quad on the way to the parking lot. A young woman came up behind them.

Excuse me, she said.

They stopped, waiting.

Um, I just wanted to thank you for being at the critique, the student added, looking at Lella with admiration. Our professors can be so rigid when it comes to style. They’re always promoting some agenda.

And you are? Lella asked.

I apologize, my name is Ming Lee.

Well, it’s nice to meet you, Ms. Lee, Lella answered.

Ming Lee had a long crop of straight black hair. Her face was smooth and showed no evidence of its underlying bony structure. Her eyebrows looked airbrushed, they were so precise and translucent. She wore an oversized white sweatshirt that fell off one shoulder, a pair of skinny black jeans, and black Converse All-Stars.

Livia stared. There was something other-worldly about this girl. Ming Lee smiled, embarrassed.

Well, I don’t want to hold you up, I hope to see you again sometime.

Lella held out her hand. That would be lovely, she said.

* * *

Before they got into their cars, John suggested they have a drink down in the Flats. Livia was driving a red 1972 Ford flatbed truck that had been bequeathed to the Cornell Orchards and loaned to her for the semester. She parked it in the driveway of John’s house, which was on one of the streets at the bottom of the hill, and followed Lella into John’s Jeep.

John drove to The Haunt, where he ordered beer and popcorn. Then they stepped outside and walked along the Lake inlet. John showed them the waterfront trail, populated by cyclists and pedestrians, that led to the Farmers’ Market. Daylight was waning, so they headed back to John’s house to get the truck. He offered to make some of his awesome chili for dinner. They excused themselves with Lella’s jet lag but agreed to come over the next evening before the party. John would then chauffeur them to Cayuga Heights, to Emmett Rowe’s house.

Saturday

The next morning Lella again awoke early and had breakfast ready by the time Livia hobbled, half asleep, into the kitchen. They went to Felicia’s Atomic Brewhouse and Bakery for their second coffee because they both liked the ritual. Georgina was easygoing and friendly.

They took the truck to go to the Farmers’ Market in Ithaca. Livia went the way that passed the Taughannock Falls overlook so that Lella could see the tall, narrow veil of water, the creek’s most dramatic drop through walls of rock on its way to Cayuga Lake. The creek, Livia explained, was a tributary of the original river of ice that formed the lake, whose level had lowered considerably after the glacier retreated to the north, leaving the stream valleys hanging far above.

And that, my dear Lella, said Livia, is why there are so many waterfalls and gorges around.

A bus of tourists arrived, so they continued onward to the market.

Walking among the stands, Lella was transported out of time. Gray-haired Baby Boomers had descended from their farms on the surrounding hills to sell their organic vegetables, packed in brown paper bags. There were tomatoes in every conceivable color; zucchini, chard, lettuces, potatoes, turnips, carrots and cabbages; apples and pears and Concord grapes. There were hats and scarves and accessories so natural and vegetal in their materials that they were nearly edible.

Mennonite vendors sold hand-crafted wares in wood, while their wives and daughters leaned over their loaves of bread and fruit tarts in delicate bonnets and long aproned dresses, avoiding the curious gaze of the English.

The hipsters had made their way into the scene with their craft brews and hard cider, though looking more bespoke and barber-trimmed than their stylistic predecessors.

The day was lit with the glow of autumn, the air infused with smoky decay and freshly sliced apples. Though cool at night, the daytime temperature was still comfortable. The yellowing leaves of trees framed patches of blue sky.

Fall is like middle age, Lella proclaimed. It would be the very best season if it wasn’t for what follows.

Livia bought some hard cider to bring to Emmett’s party. She suggested they have lunch at the market: craft beer and burritos.

When in Rome … Lella said.

Afterward, they packed their groceries into the truck and headed back up the hill.

Once home, Livia sat at her desk to work while Lella soaked in the tub, thumbing through Livia’s Apples of North America. She was trying to identify the species they had seen that morning, hoping to be fluent in the local varieties before her next visit to the market.

Don’t get too dressed up, Lella, Livia called from the other room. We have to give them a fighting chance.

Lella laughed and called back, I can’t match your aristocratic farmer’s look, she said, or that of your lumberjack friend.

Livia returned the laughter. You mean John?

* * *

John Hanby’s awesome chili was waiting for them when Livia and Lella arrived at his house. Like him, the interior of his living quarters looked catalog-worthy. Its sturdy, vintage furniture was adorned with Indian blankets; snowshoes were mounted on the wall. His fireplace showed no trace of recent use, but a neatly piled stack of wood in a copper-lined niche was ready. The oak doors, which neither stuck nor scraped, had jewel-like crystal knobs.

They sat in the kitchen and ate John’s chili, which was quite good, then headed up the hill to Cayuga Heights. John parked along the low stone wall that enclosed Emmett Rowe’s property. The neighborhood was lovely, and Emmett’s house was no exception. It was all stucco and stone, with typical Tudor details: half-timbers, an arched entry, leaded glass windows.

You wouldn’t find an example this perfect in all of England, Lella said.

It’s a beauty,