My aunt rakes her sharp gaze over me, halting at my
throat as I say, "Hi Auntie." So I put my arms around
her frail shoulders to give her a weak hug. She
bristles but manages to pat me on the back. But as I
pull back, there's no cordial "hello" or "good to see
you" greeting. And though her frame is slight and
thin, she's still a formidable presence as she stands
firm, not stepping aside to welcome me inside.

She purses her lips, immaculately painted with a
slightly rosier than flesh-tone as her eyes focus
again at my neck. She doesn't comment on my suntan or
my hair. Instead her mouth slits open and with her
bottom row of teeth showing, still glaring at my neck,
she asks, "Is that real?"

I say, "Well, if you can see it, it's not imaginary."

She tsks.

This woman, she is my family.

She is my great aunt. She was my grandmother's
sister, and since my nonna's passing she has been the
de facto matriarch. Married 60 years to the same man,
she keeps him alive through a strict regimen of
low-fat sauces, vegetables and lean meats. They never
had children of their own, and as the queen of the
family, she is afforded the respect, if not affection,
that is due to her position.

She takes a step aside and allows me entrance. I
hand her the box of pannetone I brought back for her
and my uncle. She sets the box at the entryway with a
curt, "How thoughtful," and immediately dusts her
hands off. Turning her back and walking briskly
inside, she says over her shoulder, "I see you ate
your share of the local cuisine, dear. I hope you
didn't bring back extra for yourself to snack on."

"No," I tell her as I tug on my shirt. "I just
thought Uncle Ted would enjoy it."

"Oh that's way too fatty and sugary for him," she
says. "Come now, get inside and close the door."

Though they are clean, I slip off my shoes so I don't
trample her cream-colored Berber carpet and she leads
me to the parlor and directs me to a stiff-backed
chair. I say, "Italy was gorgeous, Aunt Marie, you'd
have loved it."

"I've been there. I was born there, dear, I know
what it's like," she says as she takes a seat on her
plush divan.

Of course.

"But Bellagio," I say, "I've never seen such a
gorgeous place."

"Hmph," she clucks as she neatly folds her hands over
her knees. "Those northerners, they're so lazy and
indulgent."

"Mmm," I just sigh, not sure how to respond, how to
proceed. I glance around the meticulous room with its
carefully positioned knick-knacks, all of them tight
and tiny, a wash of light and airy hues, with Aunt
Marie's shock of tight-curled preternaturally
black-dyed hair the only contrast, besides me.
Feeling as though I'm going to sully the upholstery of
the chair, I shift and cross my legs, try to make
myself smaller by folding my hands over my knee the
same as she does as I straighten my posture in this
unforgiving chair.

Auntie says, "Don't you have better things to spend
your money on?"

"Oh, um, it wasn't that much, really," I tell her.
"I got a good deal on the airfare and I didn't stay on
Lake Como the whole time. I went to Milan and the
hotel there was less…"

"Not the trip," she says, cutting me off. "The
bauble on your neck, dear."

I reach up and finger it lightly, as if to reassure
myself, though that makes no sense, considering it's
obviously in place because she's noticing it, she's
talking about it.

"It wasn't all that much," I say.

It's a lie.

It was a lot. It was an awful lot. And of course I
have better things, more important things, to spend my
money on. Retirement savings, mortgage payments,
Ricky's nest egg, cancer research, health club dues,
taxes, Christmas presents, charitable contributions,
makeup, condoms, liquor, clothes, car, whatever.

This, this thing around my neck, it's useless. It's
frivolous and extravagant. It doesn't do anyone any
good.

"Do you really need something like that?" she asks
me.

But it's pretty, this thing dangling from my neck.
It's sparkly and shiny. When I tried it on, it made
me feel special.

"I wanted it," I tell her, dragging my fingers away
before they tarnish its shine.

"So it is real, then," she nods. "You kids. You
want everything without having to earn it. A diamond,
dear, is a symbol of love. Not a vanity piece."

My cheeks go hot, and I pin my gaze on her hand, the
one primly folded on top of the other, resting on her
knee. On her ring finger, on her right hand, is a
sparkly rock. It's my nonna's engagement ring.

I can't hold my tongue, but I measure my words
carefully. Nodding at the ring, saying, "Then what
exactly is that symbolizing?"

This woman, my great aunt, she is not to be trifled
with.

Her eyes flash and her lips go narrow as she hisses,
"It's a remembrance of my sister. And I told you to
never mention it again."

I'm a rotten niece. I'm rotten because I'm pleased
that it upset her. I'm rotten because I know she's so
defensive because she knows she's wrong.

My grandmother was plump and lush in her body, and
she was soft and sweet in her soul. After my mom
died, my nonna helped my dad take care of us. She
made us rigatoni every Sunday and when she was getting
older she took me aside and told me stories as she
opened up her photo albums and jewelry box and showed
me pictures of my grandfather and the ring he gave her
when he proposed. Holding the ring, Nonna told me, "I
want your brother Ricky to have this when I'm gone."

And I asked, "Why Ricky?" I wasn't mad and I didn't
feel slighted. I just wondered why him instead of my
older brother Gianni, since he was closer to marrying
age anyhow. Or me, I guess, cause I was a girl.
Ricky was just a little kid.

And she said, "Gianni has your mother's ring. And
you, someday a man will fall for you the way your
grandfather did for me. The way your father did for
your mother. And then you'll have your own. But
Ricardo, he's just a bambino. He needs to remember
his family. He needs it the most."

That was my grandmother. That used to be my family.

My grandmother knew her sister could be prickly, but
she wouldn't like me causing dissent or ill-will, even
if Auntie is wearing what was meant to be my brother's
ring. My face flushes again, I drop my eyes and
apologize. Backpedaling, "I didn't mean it like that,
Aunt Marie. I just meant that it doesn't have to be
about a romance, that's all."

"No, but it's a token of love," she says. "If you
bought it yourself, that devalues the whole idea."

I don't bother to tell her that the intent, or lack
thereof, sure didn't cut me a price break -- the value
is still pretty damn high according to Tiffany & Co.
I just finger it again. It's a one carat round
solitaire pink diamond. It's a contrast to the three
stone white diamond ring I wear on my right hand. And
the white bracelet I have. I haven't taken the
necklace off yet.

I bought the three stone ring after Jack broke my
heart by cheating on me. I got the bracelet after
Vince told me it wasn't me, it was him - and then he
got engaged and subsequently married six months later
to another woman. The necklace, this necklace that
Aunt Marie's riled up about, the one I can't stop
touching, I just got it a couple days ago in Milan.
His name was Romeo, this guy who inspired this new
luxury purchase.

I met him on the beach in Bellagio outside the Villa
Serbelloni. It was magic hour, that luscious time of
day between sunset and dusk. That twilight time that
lingers briefly, where a divine light glows with soft
edges and misty rapture. The Italian Alps framed the
background as he strode out of the azure lake, water
skimming off his taut muscles, dripping from the
ringlets of his shaggy dark hair.

I knew he was trouble right away.

He dropped to his knees in front of me. In a
Milanese dialect he said, "Bella regazza. Sempre sarò
triste se con me Lei non avete pranzo."

This guy, Romeo, that's what he said to me.

In English, that roughly translates to: "Pretty
lady. I'll be unhappy forever if you won't have
dinner with me."

And in my American, 30-year-old, single-girl jaded
dialect, it translates like this: "Nice tits. Wanna
fuck?"

At that moment, I felt lucky that genetically I got
Nonna's plump curves instead of my aunt's trim
efficiency.

Oh, Romeo. Yes, they actually have guys in Italy
named Romeo.

I didn't go there to meet a man. But what the hell,
I was on vacation, he was charming. I went to dinner
with him. Halfway through the meal, as his mouth
poured impromptu poetry, extravagantly laced with
glowing compliments to weaken me, I told him the deal
straight up. I said, "Romeo, you're very handsome.
You're very sweet. But this isn't necessary, you
don't have to sweet talk me. I'll sleep with you
anyhow. I'd prefer it if we kept it honest like
that."

He frowned and said, "You Americanas. You've all
forgotten romance. I say these things not to have sex
with you. I say them for they are true."

I knew better. I knew the lavish compliments weren't
sincere, they were just a means to an end. But even
though I have that hard, wise shell outside, inside
I'm still soft and sweet. And stupid.

Inside, there's still that glimmer of hope.

So I asked him to stop but he poured the wine, saying
all the right things. Saying all the wrong things.
Saying things to make my head spin and face flush,
kissing me to make my heart flutter, going slow with
his hands and making my pulse race.

Repetition works, and it wasn't long before that
glimmer sparked and I started to feel the shine of
possibility, though I was careful to keep my mouth
shut.

When he leaned over me and growled in my ear, "A
woman like you, cara mia, I could die for you," I knew
better. I didn't ask it aloud, but still I had a
fleeting thought: Yes, Romeo, but could you live with
me?

And I thought briefly, maybe, someday, he could be my
family.

Romeo, Romeo, I'd have slept with you anyhow, Romeo.
But I've since figured out that Italian men don't
court the same as American men.

But they leave the same as American men.

That translates this way: Romeo dogged me a couple
days later. No note, no arrivederci, no nothing. I
saw him frolicking on the beach later that afternoon
with a new, thin girl. I waved to him and he turned
away and whispered something in her ear.

That's what he did, that guy, Romeo.

This is what I, the 30-year old jaded American girl,
did. I got what I needed at the local farmacia, and
when I spied Romeo and his bony blonde having dinner
that night, I tromped right over. I didn't take a
seat. I just stood there and pulled the package of
lice shampoo out of the box and set it on the table
next to him. I raised my voice an octave to sound
sweet and innocent. To sound stupid. And I said,
"Oh, Romeo, I know you're probably still mad at me
for, well, you know." I mimed a scratching motion in
front of my crotch. "But here, I got you this. The
guy at the store said it would take care of the crabs
right away." I smiled and cheerfully chirped, "I feel
all better already!"

Romeo glared at me. The blonde, she stared, mouth
agape. She leaned away from him. I said, "Oh, sorry.
Guess you're gonna need some of this too."

It was worth making myself look like an ass to so
effectively cock-block the player. Self-satisfied, I
skipped up to my room. But the satisfaction was short
lived. Even if I didn't take it very classy, the fact
remained, I'd still been dumped. Again.

So I moved on to Milan, feeling foolish and forlorn.
Feeling twice the fool for feeling forlorn because I
knew better anyhow. Window shopping, the necklace
caught my eye. A solitaire in a simple setting.
Pink, playful and romantic, glinting with girlish
romance. But tough too. Harder than a rock,
virtually indestructible. I didn't trust the salesman
when he told me how lovely it was on me. I trusted
how it made me feel. Besides, it wasn't really
useless. Someday, maybe Ricky could get the setting
changed and use it as an engagement ring when he
decides to start his own family.

But for now, it's for me. Sometimes, I need a little
something sparkly on the outside to reflect that
rapidly diminishing glimmer on the inside. Maybe, a
little eye-catching glitter will catch someone's eye
and they'll stick around long enough to notice I can
shine.

I don't tell my Aunt Marie any of this. She's still
staring at me, expecting an explanation, a defense.
Her lips, they're pursed.

I stay silent as I look back at her. I don't reach
up to touch the stone, I can already feel it, resting
gently at the base of my throat. I know it's there.

My uncle shuffles through the room, winking at me,
saying, "Welcome home! Did you have a nice time?" He
takes a seat on the on the soft divan next to my aunt.
He says, "Scootch over, Dovey." That's what he calls
her, Dovey. Short for Lovey Dovey. I know, if they
weren't so old it'd make me nauseous.

Antie answers for me, telling him, "She did plenty of
shopping, that's for sure. Look at her neck,
Theodore. Gracious."

He squints and smiles, pats his wife's knee. "Oh
Marie," he chuckles and moves his hand up, covers her
hand. Her right hand with my nonna's diamond on it.
He pats her hand and says, "She's got a good job, it's
nice to have a souvenir from a trip."

Auntie sniffs, but she just can't let it go. "A
souvenir, yes. But that's extravagant." She pins me
in her gaze again. Saying, "It's useless. It doesn't
mean anything! Really dear, a single girl like you.
Do you really need something like that?"

My face flushes, again. But I don't break her stare.
I say, "I think single girls need something like this
the most."