Isabella Rossi's life in the idyllic village of San Benedetto is turned upside down when she meets Luca DeLuca at a village festival. Their connection is immediate and intense, leading to a passionate and secret affair. As their relationship deepens...
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The charming village of San Pietro is nestled in the rolling hills and sun washed vineyards of southern Italy. It is a timeless tableau of cobblestone streets, terracotta rooftops, and the melodic chime of church bells that signal the hours. Within this fairytale setting lives Isabella Rossi—a feisty, independent young woman whose aspirations lie very much beyond the periphery of the village.
Isabella Rossi's dark locks and piercing green eyes shone like a star in San Pietro. Her brightness could light up the greyest of days with her intelligence and warmth. The inhabitants of her conventional community could not hold the spirited Isabella within the usual roles of women. She wandered much through the village, always raging in her mind about thoughts of adventure and discovery.
The house of the Rossi's was one of note. Giovanni Rossi, Isabella's father, was a master craftsman widely renowned for his fine furniture in wood that would grace the many well-to-do homes in San Pietro. His workshop—redolent with the smell of fresh cut wood and the sounds of tools shaping raw timber into works of art—was a place of pride and tradition. Giovanni's hands were calloused from years of labor; those same hands could create pieces of unparalleled beauty and elegance.
Her mother Elena Rossi was gentle and elegant. She managed the home and kept it a loving haven with a firm hand. She taught her children that family, honed and tradition was everything. A raconteur herself, she captivated the young Isabella and her siblings, Sophia and Antonio, regaling ancient legends and family history.
Sophia and Antonio worshiped the floor Isabella walked on. She was the mentor of both, the one to guide and inspire. Sophia, with her own awakening mind, often followed in the path of knowledge already trodden by Isabella, while Antonio, a mere boy, admired the strength and courage of Isabella for remaining independent. The Rossi home was filled with laughter and love, along with great indebtedness to each other.
The village of San Pietro was a hotbed of tradition. Life in the village was slower, and in the end, it danced to its rhythm originating both from nature and from customs transmitted from generation to generation. Family, honor, and community were keys to village life. Women were to marry young and have families, supporting their husbands. On the flip side, men worked the land, crafted goods, and ran businesses to offer their families a livelihood.
It was different for Isabella. She aspired to see the world out of San Pietro and wished to experience other cultures, finally to be of help to others in the best possible manner, making a difference. Hours would find her reading books and teaching her younger siblings. She imagined her life to be one where she could do the things that interested her most. She was in love with education; hence, the opportunity for study and learning would remain her noblest aspiration, something that would broaden horizons and break her shackles of restrictive traditionalism.
As much as Isabella nursed big dreams, her love for family and village ran deep. She always appeared in a tug-of-war situation between her dreams and what she felt was her duty towards the people she loved. The feelings were painfully evoked every annual village festival. The festival, running with colors, music, dance, and food, was a reminder of their heritage. A celebration of villagers where they join up to rejoice in 'we' and the shades of togetherness.
With the celebration approaching, Isabella's mind drifted her way, left alone, the heart bombarded with dual desires that fought each other. She loitered about the village her feet leading her ways around her favorite haunts. There was the very same old olive tree under which she and her friends had played as children, the same old market square packed with life, and lastly, her father's workshop. She slowed at the entrance, for he was working as usual; Giovanni molded a piece of wood into something magical.
"Papa," she said softly as she stepped in. Giovanni looked up, and then his face brightened up into a smile.
"Isabella, my dear," he said; he put his tools aside. "What brings you here?"
"I was just thinking about the festival," she replied, her eye roving over familiar surroundings. "About our traditions, our family. And about my dreams."
Giovanni flashed his crooked smile, his eyes downcast. "I know, Isabella. You've always been different. You've always reached for the stars; remember, though, it's our traditions that construct our being. They tether us to the earth and to a past and a people."
"I know that, Papa," she said—her voice full of slight melancholy. "It's just that sometimes I feel that I was meant for something more."
Giovanni sighed and had to hug her. "You are special, Isabella. You remember that. Whichever path you decide to choose, remember that we are always behind your back. You carry our love and our tradition with you."
