Last week I began writing my fourth book--working title:  What Lies Between Us.  In 2005 I wrote my first book, An Ocean Away, a memoir of how I met and married my Italian husband. We've been married now for eleven years and the story continues. Initially an ocean separated us.  As time rolls on we no longer navigate an ocean, but we do grapple with other elements perhaps even more daunting than the wide Atlantic.  I offer a sample here. 

"I feel like running away today.  I would like to go somewhere and make lists to feel better.  Today I feel as if I'm swimming in the ocean and I can't touch bottom.  While the water is warm, it is deep and the waves sometimes crash over my head, the saltwater briny as it washes down my throat.  I cough and spew and fight against the taste.  I want life to be easier, less messy, more predictable.  So today, when it isn't, I can trust that God is here amidst the enormity."--Journal entry, February 2005

February 2005, Charleston, SC

I saw him through the sliding glass door.  His back to me.  I noted the back of his head, the dark curls spilling over his collar. Sometimes I couldn't believe we were actually married--all the hoops of the visa process behind us.  We now lived on the same side of the ocean in a little blue house on the southeast coast of the United States.

I was home from work and slipped off my heels and jacket before going outside to greet him. He turned and smiled when he saw me, patting the chair next to him.  It was pleasantly warm for a winter day at twilight, the sky a palette of light blue and gauzy lavender.  I placed my hand on the nape of his neck, lightly fingering his curls before sitting down next to him.

"How was your day?" he asked.

"Good."  I sat there really too tired to explain in detail all the intricacies of my last ten hours with clients durg addicted and trying to get sober.  I stripped off my nylons to let my toes and legs breathe.  I took a deep breath and smelled the delicate fragrance of rosemary.  A chicken was cooking in the oven.  I could look forward to a wonderful meal, my new husband a skilled Italian chef. Thank God I didn't have to cook. I hated to cook.

"Ive decided to go to New York."  He said it so matter-of-factly, like "Today I cleaned out the garage," or "I took the clothes to the dry cleaners."  I felt stunned.

"I thought you were going to look for work in Charleston," I answered without turning to face him.

"I'm, too old, Priscilla.  I'm too old to change.  I"m going.  I decided."

I turned to look at him, but he looked straight ahead.  "I'm so disappointed.  I'm so disappointed," I repeated.  "We finally get married and now you're off again.  I thought after all the struggle with getting the visas we'd finally be together."

"I can't do it, Priscilla. It's too hard.  I told Tony I'd be in New York by Easter.  He's got an apartment for me that's near the restaurant."

"There's no changing your mind is there?"  I could feel my chest beginning to tighten, my mind flooding with "what ifs," feeling panic, already lonely.  He hadn't even asked my opinion.  I felt angry and betrayed.  We'd only been married five months and already the emotional gaps were emerging. I didn't see this coming.  I hadn't planned on this.

The darkness swallowed up what was left of the sunlight and Giovanni went in the house to finish cooking.  I could hear him clinking plates and silverware as he set the table.  I got up from the lawn chair to go inside.  I felt the cold cement on my bare feet, the rough surface almost welcomed in the context of the realization that I would soon be living in the house by myself again.  I thought that existence was over.  As I shut the sliding glass door behind me, I sensed I was closing the door to all my expectations of this new marriage.  I walked past Giovanni to go change my clothes.  He said nothing, the aroma of roasted chicken thick and succulent in the air.

April 2005, Charleston, SC

He had packed, his motorcycle standing upright and secured by ropes so that it wouldn't fall out of the bed of his aquamarine Dodge Ram pickup.  One of Giovanni's greatest pleasures of living in the United States was driving that truck.  It's too expensive to pay for gas to drive a truck in Italy.  While it still costs a lot for gas in the United States, it is achievable.  He was proud of the truck and was about to drive overnight up the coast to work for the spring and summer in Westchester county New York for some Italian brothers who owned two restaurants in the upscale community.  He would travel all night to avoid the traffic in Washington D.C. He'd settle into his new apartment and begin work the following day.  I could tell he was ready to get on the road.  And I needed him to just go.  I'd been dreading his departure for several weeks.  It was always easier once he left.  I'd find my routine, and we'd begin to do what we knew how to do--live apart.

Giovanni grabbed me in a bear hug, and I lay my head on his shoulder.  "Priscilla, thank you for understanding why I need to go. You're always patient with me.  I know it's hard."  He kissed me softly on the lips.  He headed for his truck and backed out of the driveway.  I walked out to the street and watched him drive away, until I could no longer see the red neon of his tail lights glowing in the dark.

I went inside and could still smell the garlic of the pasta we'd eaten, the plates oily and flecked with parsley, a crust of bread hardened on the table. Giovanni's water glass was beaded up, the ice melting.  The room, drained of his presence, made me sad. Just minutes ago we'd been together. It was that same feeling when you've traveled by air and realize that a few hours ago you'd been on another coast or in another country, and now that place was so far away. And now my husband gone.  How long could I keep this up?  All the comings and going.  I went over to the sofa and sat down next to my mostly black Lab, Emma.  She looked at me forlornly, knowing something was up.  She put her head on my thigh.  I could feel her warmth through my jeans.  "Oh, Emma," I breathed. "What's to become of us this summer without Giovanni?"