The Sexy Series: The COMPLETE SERIES Box Set Page 2

  The cars behind me honk, and I gently shift my vehicle into drive and delicately accelerate onto the dark road. The city lights are almost close enough to touch. A few corners later, I’m off the hillside.

  3

  It takes me a while to find a safe parking space—one where my Fiat isn’t in jeopardy of getting dented or bumped. Parking in Italy can be nerve-racking. I scurry up the jagged cobblestone sidewalk, make it to the front door of La Terrazza di Rossa, and catch my breath.

  Two men whistle and say, “Mama mia,” as they walk past me and enter the restaurant. It happens so often that I’ve learned to ignore it. It happened more when I was blond. In the last six or seven months, I’ve let my hair stay its natural brown.

  Now that I’ve found some composure, I walk into the restaurant. The scents of garlic and cooking wine stimulate the air. The space is probably about a thousand square feet with not a lot of ambiance—just good food. I search the tables for Salvatore.

  The maître d asks, in Italian, if he can help me. I ask if he has a reservation for Salvatore Bovetti. When he tells me that he does but my dinner companion has not arrived, he shows me to a nice table along the window with a city view.

  “Would you like a drink, madame?”

  As usual for Italians, he stopped speaking to me in Italian as soon as he figured out I’m American. I long for the day when my Italian is so precise that they assume I’m from here.

  “Vorrei un vino di rosso,” I say, telling him I would like a red wine.

  Now that we’re back to using his native language, he asks me which kind, and I tell him.

  The waiter soon arrives with my wine. I sip it and feel kind of exposed as I wait. You mean to tell me that my father would still be alive if I had never married John? That sick feeling returns to my stomach. I’m not even hungry anymore, and I’m also starting to wonder why I’m still sitting here, waiting for a man who hasn’t thought enough of me to call to say he’s running this late.

  “Un altro bicchiere di vino?” the waiter says, offering another glass of wine.

  “Si, grazie,” I say.

  I’m halfway through the second glass when Salvatore walks through the door. I glare at the man who somehow ended up my boyfriend as he leans in close to the hostess, who was not at the door when I walked in. She has long blond hair and is wearing a dress cut so low that she’s only a quarter of an inch away from displaying her areolas. I don’t know what he’s saying to her, but he hasn’t even acknowledged me sitting here.

  Salvatore likes blondes. When he saw that I changed my hair back to its natural color, someone would’ve thought I kicked him in the forehead or something. Heck, I almost went back to Natalia, my stylist, and asked her to make me blond again. But for some reason, I was averse to turning back.

  Finally, Salvatore and the hostess look in my direction. My instincts direct me to smile weakly, but I can’t muster up the expression. He touches the young lady’s bare back. She’s grinning sheepishly, and her eyes appear glossed over.

  When he reaches our table, he tells the young lady to stay and sits right down. It’s as if I’m watching an actor on stage as Salvatore announces that he’s hungry, picks up the menu as if he hadn’t read it at least ten times in the past, and orders the agnello scattadito, which are the lamb chops, from the hostess.

  “And you?” he says without looking up.

  I blink rapidly, lost for words. Then I’m suddenly lightheaded, and it’s as if all the voices and clinking silverware in the restaurant are as loud as thunder. I glance at the hostess, who’s watching me impatiently. I’ve been here enough to know that taking our order is not her job, yet she’s willing to venture off course for this man.

  I scratch my head as I pick up the menu. I’m confused. Normally I get the salmon, but this evening, I want to order what I think will take the shortest period of time to eat.

  “Vorrei zuppa di pesce,” I say, ordering the fish soup.

  The hostess maintains her pasted-on smile as she takes our menus. Salvatore’s eyes pass over me to watch the hostess walk away. He often stares at women as if he’s undressing them. He stared at me that way when we first made each other’s acquaintance. I was just like the hostess back then—feeling kind of special.

  I pick up my glass of wine and hold it close to my lips. “So why were you so late?”

  He looks at the next table and does a double take at the attractive woman who’s having dinner with her male counterpart. I shake my head. Why hasn’t the fact that he can’t keep his eyes to himself bothered me as much as it does right now?

  Salvatore shrugs half-heartedly. “I had business.”

  “You’re over an hour late. You could’ve called.”

  “Then why did you wait?”

  I tilt my head to study him incredulously. What a great question. “I don’t know.”

  “Listen…” He shifts in his seat and puts on a charming smile. “You are right. I should call. The next time, I will do it.”

  The next time? This surely isn’t the first time he’s made me wait so long for him. Suddenly I want to prod him and test him just to see what this relationship is really made of.

  “Anyway, I learned some horrible news today.”

  His eyebrows furrow as if he’s interested in hearing more.

  “My ex-husband has been arrested.”

  “I see… and that is horrible why?”

  “It’s because of what he did.”

  He grunts impatiently and looks a little to my left and past me. “Should I guess, or will you tell me?”

  I scratch my scalp and once again ask myself what’s going on here? Why do I feel as if I’m experiencing déja vu? Every nerve in my body cringes. Now that he’s done following whatever caught his attention across the room, he sets his eyes back on me.

  I open my mouth to speak, but there’s that feeling again. His eyes are so familiar—the distance, the coldness.

  “Well… I wanted to ask you a favor,” he says.

  Now he’s watching me as if I’m the only woman in the world.

  I tilt my head and furrow my brows. “What favor?”

  “I need a loan.”

  “What kind of loan?” I ask, but I already know the answer.

  “It will be not much. It is why I am late. I have funds tied up…” He explains this great dilemma of his, and my stomach continues to turn in knots.

  His eyes…

  Who do they belong to?

  What must I acknowledge?

  Why are my eyes burning with tears?

  And what must I do next?

  4

  Eighteen Months Ago

  I’m in my father’s study, gazing out over the backyard. The grass holds memories of the years I lived in this house with my parents. I see myself playing jump rope and turning cartwheels with Nolan whenever he came to stay with us on weekends and most holidays. Although Nolan and I don’t share a mother, they’re both the same kind of self-indulgent woman. But my mind won’t let me bellyache about my mother right now.

  All I see is Nolan and me in our favorite spot—kicking a ball between us, throwing a baseball, and playing on the Slip-n-Slide. We are eight and ten, then ten and twelve. We’re running back and forth in front of this window with our dog, Harry. I’m giggling, Nolan is rolling over laughing, and Harry is barking—it’s the perfect song to finally get what we want.

  Then our dad appears. Bill Patrick. He’s standing exactly where I’m standing now. His 6’4” height makes him look like a beautiful giant. It’s early fall and a little nippy, so he’s wearing his cream turtleneck sweater. He’s taken a break to suck on his pipe for a while.

  Nolan and I stop and wave at him. He waves back and laughs when Harry tackles Nolan and licks all over his face. My brother and I could always rest assured that we made our father happy.

  I take my eyes off those memories and see new ones in the lake beyond the grass. My dad would watch as Nolan and I swam or rode the jet skis. When we became t
eenagers, he’d go boating with us on Sunday afternoons. We weren’t the kind of kids who got too old for our old man. The older we became, the more valuable he was to us.

  My dad was our pillar of wisdom. He taught us how to solve our problems, and when we couldn’t come up with an answer, he didn’t browbeat us until we did. He loved us. He hugged us. He stood beside us through the darkness until we found the light.

  The last thing John, my ex-husband, said to me was that having our son was my wish, not his. Therefore, he doesn’t need to have anything to do with him. I’ve been in a daze ever since then. I left the lawyer’s office, got into my car, and drove until I ended up here. This room still smells like citrus and fine cigars—the same scent my dad carried on his clothes and skin.

  Less than an hour ago, I signed divorce papers and said good-bye to a relationship that I thought would last forever, but I’m only heartbroken by the absence of my father. I try to think of what he would say to me at this very moment, but nothing comes to me. Even if I latch on to his odor and his energy in the air, I get nothing.

  I hug myself tighter and the words, “He’s never coming back,” escape me.

  My dad isn’t here to give me what I need, and I still have no idea what that is. I’m about to sit at his desk and wait it out until an answer comes to me, but I’m struck by a prevailing need to escape.

  As the late afternoon sun drops to the other side of the world, I turn my back on the window. This house used to be one place I could go to find clarity, but now the air smothers me. The silence is creepy, and my heart wants my feet to run as far and fast away from here as I can. So I rush out of the house that was once my father’s but now belongs to a ghost.

  As soon as I make it to my car, I call Elsa Leoni, a friend of mine who lives in Bari, Italy.

  Elsa picks up on the second ring. “Is this Liza?” she says in a colorful English accent influenced by Italian, British English, American English, and her native Scottish heritage.

  Hearing her voice makes tears roll from my eyes. She’s on the other side of the world, and I just know I’d feel much better if I were in her company.

  However, I smile hard to keep myself from blubbering. “Yes, this is she.”

  “Come stai?”

  I can tell her a lie or admit the truth. “Non sto bene.”

  “No?” she says in a sympathetic tone.

  I turn down Ashe Street. I’ve taken this road probably a million times. The sight of the same large trees and small lakes threatens to choke me to death. Maybe because they remind me of how I felt making the drive up this street many times before, knowing that I was either going to see my dad or had already seen him and was feeling much better.

  “I was wondering if your offer still stands?”

  “Absolutely,” she says.

  “I think the baby and I are ready to be somewhere else, at least for now.”

  “Then come! When?”

  I wasn’t prepared for her excitement, and I’m so happy to be accepted with such wide-open arms. “As soon as possible.”

  There’s a loud voice on her end of the line. Now Elsa is speaking, but she sounds muffled. She must’ve put a hand over the phone.

  “Liza, I must go. The cameras are not working in one of the studios. Call me when you arrive, and I will come for you, okay?”

  I cover my mouth with one hand and nod. “Okay,” I say, miraculously without crying.

  When I get back to my house, I pay the babysitter and send her home. Then I pack Aiden’s things, bringing enough blankets, bottles, bibs, and onesies to last at least two weeks. Next I pack for myself, taking enough for a few weeks at least.

  I go online to search for a comfortable first-class ticket to Italy. I find a flight that leaves in four hours, book it, and call Elsa with my flight details. I’m blessed that Aiden is such a good baby. He’s in the living room, strapped in his convertible stroller, captivated by the purple dinosaur dancing, singing, and playing with kids on TV. I dart from one end of the house to the other, making sure I’ve left nothing important.

  I’m antsy until the cab arrives. I don’t want anyone to catch me. Deep inside, I feel as if I’m sneaking away from my life. When the taxi arrives, it’s as if I remember to breathe again. Like a busy ant, I race all three pieces of my luggage out to the curb, along with Aiden’s convertible stroller. The driver helps me pack everything into the trunk.

  “You plan on coming back?” he asks with a laugh.

  I bite my lip while pondering what he said. Do I plan on coming back?

  I don’t have to answer now because the driver smiles and says, “That’s it. We’re ready.”

  I get in the backseat and strap Aiden in beside me. As we ride out of the neighborhood John and I so meticulously sought and found, thinking that we would raise our family here and live happily ever after, all I can do is try to answer the last question asked of me. It may have been rhetorical, but it was vital.

  Am I coming back? The answer is yes. I have to come back. What else can I do? Where else can I live? Who else can I be but sprawling colonials, trimmed grass, and mounds and mounds of trees that have outlived generations?

  Eighteen hours later, after a layover at JFK, flying into Rome, clearing customs, and taking a shorter nonstop flight, we reach Bari. God must’ve known John would be a deadbeat human being because Aiden is a fantastic travel companion. All I had to do was feed him, burp him, change him, and remember to keep his ears plugged so that he could tolerate the altitude. But for the most part, he remained asleep for the eighteen hours.

  Elsa and her husband, Giovanni, are already waiting when I reach baggage claim. They’re both waving. Elsa always reminds me of Gwyneth Paltrow because of her short blond haircut, gracefully long neck and limbs, and effortless but chic style. I push Aiden’s stroller toward them, and Elsa waits with open arms. My feet turn heavier and my eyes burn. I feel like crying and confessing all of the stuff that’s been hurting me, but I still can’t articulate what that is. Regardless, when I make it into her arms, I feel as if I’ve finally reached the finish line.

  Elsa lives in a flat near the TV station she owns and operates with Giovanni. They occupy the entire top two floors of a seven-story building, which is one of the few older residential buildings in the city with a nice-sized elevator. As we ride up with my baby and luggage, Elsa tells me for the umpteenth time that I need to get some food and sleep. She laid out the plan in the car ride over, and we follow it.

  I kiss Aiden and hand him over to Elsa. She kisses his cheeks and calls him a sweet bambino. She promises to bathe him and feed him. She and the kids will play with him because they’re happy to have a fresh new baby in the house, and when he’s all tired out, their nanny will lay him in the crib beside my bed. I’m so mentally and emotionally drained that I follow Elsa thoughtlessly to the room she has prepared for me.

  “You go bathe, and I will have your luggage and food brought to your room,” she says, stroking my cheek.

  “Thank you.”

  She takes my hands. “We will try to make it all better, but first, you must rest. It does not look as though you have had much of it.”

  “I haven’t,” I confess.

  “And you’re thin.”

  I nod. Although I just had a baby, during the pregnancy, I wasn’t able to gain much weight because I was busy at work, and after delivering the baby, I lost more weight due to stress.

  Elsa leaves me alone, and the first thing I do is go into the attached bathroom and take a hot shower. With each passing moment, my eyelids get heavier. After my shower, I put on one of the fresh white nightgowns hanging on the wall rack. Elsa keeps them and all the essentials of living ready and waiting for her guests; it’s like staying in a luxurious five-star hotel.

  When I leave the bathroom and go back into the bedroom, I discover a fresh cheese and pancetta panini and a cup of hot tea waiting on the nightstand. I crawl into the comfortable white bedding, take a few bites of the sandwich, two sips of h
ot tea, and before long, my eyes are closed and I’m fast asleep.

  I spend the next three weeks crying, sometimes while nursing Aiden, but many times as I lie in bed alone. I cry a lot with Elsa after she gets home from work. We sit on the balcony and talk, drinking decaf coffee for me and red wine for her.

  Tomorrow I’m to fly back to Minnesota. Today’s weather is perfect, and when I opened my eyes this morning, I felt as if all the tears had drained out of me so I could finally step back into my body. I found myself alert at breakfast. Elsa even commented that the color had finally returned to my complexion. After our café lattes, breads, cheeses, and fruit, we decided to take the kids to the sea.

  Now Elsa and I are sitting on a blanket in the sand. I’m probably the only woman who hasn’t gone topless. At first seeing women without bikini tops was jarring, but then I remembered this is Italy. Not even the children are traumatized by the slew of nipples and slopes.

  “You know I’ve been cooped up in your lovely house for the last three weeks.” I take a deep breath, tasting the salty air. “I would’ve loved to have gone to Rome, Bologna, and Milan. Then down to Cannes. I’d cruise the Italian Riviera all the way to Naples.”

  Elsa stops rubbing sunscreen on her shoulder. “Then stay, and you and I will do it.”

  I raise an eyebrow, intrigued. “That actually wouldn’t be so bad. Three more weeks. That’s it.”

  “Or however long it takes.”

  I gaze off to picture how wonderful that would be. “I would definitely have to bring Aiden.”

  “And my nanny.”

  I quickly face her. “Your nanny?”

  “Yes.”

  We look at the shore, where Floriana, the nanny, has Aiden dangling in front of her in a sling. His legs are still a little stiff, but every now and then, they kick happily. One of Elsa’s kids dives into the water, showing off for Aiden. I chuckle.