Paris Is Always a Good Idea

by Jenn McKinlay

  “We haven’t had much time together.” I gave him a pointed look, and instead of looking abashed, he grinned. Classic Knightley. I tried not to be charmed.

  “Has it ever occurred to you, Martin, that you were a different person on your year abroad and you loved men then that the person you are now could never love?”

  “No, it hasn’t,” I said. “Because the whole point of this trip is to remember who I used to be, and that Chelsea was very much in love with Marcellino DeCapio. What’s more, I liked her. She was fun and adventurous and bighearted.” I rubbed my knuckles over my chest. “I miss her.”

  “Well, I can’t weigh in on that debate, since I didn’t know you then,” he said. He put his hand on the back of his neck as he studied me from beneath his lashes. “But I can say that I like the Chelsea Martin who’s here right now. I think she’s pretty damn special.”

  He turned and walked away, leaving me staring after him as he strolled through the enormous oak barrels, which were stacked up to the ceiling. He liked me. Why did that make me feel all fluttery, as if I’d achieved something rare and precious?

  I mean, it was Knightley. He liked everyone. But for the first time, I knew he liked me as a person, and it meant something to me—it meant quite a lot, in fact, especially now that I knew his past was so much like mine. I felt that we had a bond, and I realized I cared about him. I cared about him very much. I wasn’t sure what to do with these feelings, but I wasn’t going to pretend they didn’t exist. That wouldn’t be fair to either of us.

  Instead of dwelling on this startling realization, I hurried to catch up, keeping my thoughts to myself until I knew exactly what I was feeling. I showed Jason the rest of the cellar, where the casks of wine were stored, and the bottling room—my favorite—where one big steel machine bottled, corked, and labeled all the wine. I used to love watching the bottles come out on the line and had often volunteered to help box them. Many were sold in the gift shop, but more were shipped to stores and restaurants all over Italy.

  Jason picked up a bottle and studied it. Marcellino didn’t use the traditional Chianti fiasco, a bottle whose rounded bottom was covered with straw. Rather, it was a regular dark-green bottle with a cream-colored label. In stylized script it read Castello di Luce Chianti next to an artist’s rendering of the castle in shades of light brown and rose, the same color as the castle stone.

  “Is it any good?” he asked.

  “The best in the region,” I said. I felt a surge of pride. I’d loved working here that spring so long ago, and I really believed that the wine was the best.

  “Grazie, dolcezza.” Marcellino appeared in the doorway. “Your confidence in our wine warms my heart.”

  I felt myself blush. I wasn’t sure why I was embarrassed. Because Marcellino had praised me in front of Jason? Or was it having Marcellino find me alone with Jason? That couldn’t be it. He was the one who’d suggested I give Jason a tour.

  “Your vineyard is beautiful,” Jason said to Marcellino.

  “Thank you.” Marcellino moved to stand beside me and took my hand in his. “Chelsea, I was coming to see if you wanted to join us in tasting the Riserva?”

  I glanced at Jason and explained, “The Riserva is the Chianti that has been aged for over three years.”

  “Join us, Jason,” Marcellino said. “You will like it.”

  Jason looked mildly chagrined by Marcellino’s friendliness but forced a smile and said, “That’d be great. Thanks.”

  As we walked back through the narrow corridor, we were forced to go single file with Marcellino in the lead, then me and Jason bringing up the rear. I was hyperaware of him behind me but tried to shut him out. He made it impossible, as he leaned forward and whispered in my ear, “He really is the perfect guy, isn’t he?”

  I glanced over my shoulder at him and met his gaze. I didn’t know what to say. I believed there was a reason that of all the people I’d met and of the three men I’d fallen in love with during my year abroad, Marcellino was the only one I’d kept in touch with. What that reason was, I had no idea, but there was no arguing that he was a heck of a guy.

  “He’s handsome, successful, and really, really nice,” Jason said. His voice was so low I could barely hear him when he muttered, “How’s a guy supposed to compete with that?”

  Again, I didn’t know what to say, so I said nothing.

  chapter twenty-five

  THE FOLLOWING MORNING kicked off the first day of the week-long wine festival, which began with the infiorata, a flower festival held in the center of the village. I glanced out the window of my cottage and noted that the weather was so perfect it felt as if it had been specially ordered. The sun was warm and the breeze cool but so light that no petals from the elaborate works of art that decorated the town would be disturbed as the air gently moved through the narrow cobbled streets as softly as a whisper.

  I dressed in a pale-pink sundress paired with a wide-brimmed straw sun hat decorated with silk peonies the size of my fist. I kept my makeup light and wore my hair loose. Comfortable brown sandals were the footwear of choice, as Marcellino had told me we would be doing a lot of walking.

  As the owner of the castle and the employer to most of the town, Marcellino was expected to attend the festival and admire the floral works of art, talk to the residents, and basically be the benevolent castle dweller of their humble village. I, as his date, was expected to do much the same.

  While I had visited the village several times during the past few days, I hadn’t gone there as Marcellino’s special lady friend, so being out in the public eye with him in this capacity felt like a very big deal, and I was extremely nervous. What if the locals rejected me? I wondered if it was too early for wine.

  I stepped out of my cottage and found Marcellino waiting for me on the terrace. He looked devastatingly handsome in a lilac dress shirt, gray slacks, and casual shoes, with his thick dark hair brushed back from his face. His grin when he saw me made all my efforts on my appearance worth it.

  “Will I do?” I asked.

  “Bellissima,” he said. “You will more than do. You are perfection.”

  I felt my face grow warm at his words. So charming.

  Yesterday had been spent anticipating the arrival of Severin. Unfortunately, it wasn’t until late in the evening that Robbie texted Jason to tell him he and Eleanor had been delayed by an unexpected business meeting. They were now hoping to arrive at some point today but would keep us posted. I kept my impatience at bay by thinking of what an incredible boon their donation would be to the ACC.

  Consequently, with Jason underfoot, Marcellino and I hadn’t had any time alone. My desire to have him kiss me had been repeatedly thwarted, making me surly and frustrated.

  I glanced around the terrace. There was no one here now. Pushing down all the anxiety screaming inside of me that this was not a great idea—What if he doesn’t want to kiss you? What if it’s terrible? What if there is no spark?—I stepped close to Marcellino and gazed up at him. I tried to make my signal that he was all clear to come in for a landing as obvious as the guys on the airport tarmac with the big orange flags, but still, he didn’t move.

  I decided to take the initiative. I slid my hands up his arms and around the back of his neck. I rose up on my toes at the same time I pulled his head down to mine. I put my lips on his, fitting our mouths together the way I remembered. Finally, his hands moved hesitantly around me. At last, we kissed fully and completely, and it was . . . meh.

  When we broke apart, he leaned back and his face was quizzical, as if he were trying to detect the subtler notes in a glass of wine but couldn’t quite place them. His expression of puzzlement was exactly how I felt, so much so that I laughed. To my delight, he did, too.

  “That was—” I stopped, stumped for words.

  “Noioso,” he said.

  “Boring?” I cried. Then I laughed harder, becau
se it really was. Despite the fact that my potential romantic relationship with Marcellino had just gone poof, there was something so ridiculous about the moment that I couldn’t help but be amused. What thrilled me the most was the realization that this, right here, was exactly how the old Chelsea would have reacted. Not with anxiety or upset but with genuine belly laughs at the ridiculousness of it all.

  Marcellino thought it was funny, too, which made me laugh even harder. It became a contagious fit of the giggles that was unstoppable. Every time we looked at each other, we cracked up again.

  “Allora, dolcezza, I think perhaps we are meant to just be friends,” he said between chuckles.

  “The best of friends,” I agreed. Still grinning, I hugged him tight, and he picked me up off my feet, squeezing me hard in return.

  “Hey, Martin, let’s get this party started!” Jason called as he turned the corner.

  He stopped short when he saw us, and Marcellino gently put me down. He adjusted my hat and said quietly, “But that one, I don’t think it is friendship he feels.”

  I opened my mouth to protest, but Marcellino had already turned away to greet Jason. “Buongiorno, Jason. Have you ever been to a flower festival?”

  “No, this is my first,” he said. His gaze darted between me and Marcellino as if he was trying to read the room.

  “I think you will enjoy it. The artists make intricate portraits and landscapes all from the petals of flowers,” Marcellino explained. “And, of course, there is music and food and dancing with pretty girls.”

  “And wine,” I said. I smiled at Marcellino. “Don’t forget the wine.”

  He put a hand on his forehead in mock alarm. “How could I?”

  As Marcellino walked down the path, leading the way, we fell in beside him. I glanced at Jason out of the corner of my eye and noted that he was dressed like an Italian gentleman, in beige slacks and a white dress shirt with brown woven loafers, no Converse high-tops. To complete the look, he was wearing a straw trilby with a dark-brown band around the crown. He was handsome in a suave, cosmopolitan way, like Cary Grant, and my inner Audrey Hepburn was crushing hard. As if sensing my interest, he turned and smiled at me, and I literally got dizzy.

  My awareness of him as a man was as visceral as a punch in the gut, and I wondered if Marcellino was right. Was Jason still interested in being more than coworkers? He seemed to be—at least, he was very flirty and charming—but he had respected my boundaries and hadn’t said anything specific since Paris, keeping it strictly business between us.

  In all fairness, how could he do anything else? I had shut that shizzle down. But even if he was interested, there were issues. We worked together, after all. What would that look like? Even without Michelle in HR, the no-dating policy remained. Would one of us have to leave the ACC? Was I willing to do that for a relationship?

  It was one thing to leave the ACC because I was going to take up residence in a vineyard in Tuscany. It was quite another to walk away from a career in the city to which I planned to return. I had worked so hard to get where I was, and now that it appeared my quest to find my old self was a bust, my career was the only thing I had. My brain shorted out at the mere thought of leaving it for a relationship that might or might not work out.

  When we approached the festival, Marcellino was greeted by everyone we encountered, with Jason and me introduced as his guests. It was clear he was well liked, and I wasn’t at all surprised. He was a good man. I did notice that some of the residents of the village were uncertain as to my relationship with Marcellino and how Jason factored into the equation. I knew exactly how they felt. I didn’t know how Jason factored into my equation either.

  The first infiorata at the entrance to the festival was an elaborate depiction of Castello di Luce. It was done in a carpet of thick petals, seeds, and grass, all in pastel shades. I caught my breath at the precision of the piece; each castle stone was done in exacting detail. I knew the artist had been working on it for days, and by the end of the day’s festival, it would be gone.

  “Questo è magnifico!” Marcellino said.

  “It’s incredible,” I said.

  “That’s wicked awesome.” Jason nodded.

  A little girl who looked to be about four years old, in a darling white dress and wearing a wreath of blue delphiniums and baby’s breath perched on her honey-colored curls with trails of blue and white ribbons dangling off the back, approached me with a flower. It was a rose, a single perfect pink rose. She shyly handed it to me and then ran and hid behind her mother’s skirt. I held the flower up to my nose and called, “Grazie, bambina.”

  And so it went with every stop we made to appreciate the elaborate works of flower-petal art done in the middle of the street; young children would come forward and give me a flower. I was charmed all the way down to my toes by them, and when we reached the center of the village, which was marked by a large fountain, my arms were full of the beautiful blooms.

  The tiny town consisted of three-story stone buildings that housed businesses on the ground floors and residences above. There were all the usual shops—grocer, baker, butcher, leather goods, pharmacy, hardware—and even a small lending library tucked into a corner building. An enormous church resided on the far end of the main road, with a cemetery adjacent. I had walked through the cemetery before and had been awed to find headstones that dated back centuries, their epitaphs faded and covered in lichen.

  Together, the three of us ate everything from arancini di riso, which were fried rice balls, to zeppole, a sort of doughnut without the hole. We drank copious amounts of Chianti, of course, watched people dance in front of the street musicians, and enjoyed the performance artists doing their skits and juggling and pantomime. It was a perfect, beautiful, amazing day that rolled into a gorgeous evening.

  After a final walk around town, we paused at the fountain that marked the center of the village. It was lit up, accentuating the various parts of the life-size statue. It was a couple, mostly nude, in a passionate embrace with a sheet draped artistically around them while leaving their very accurately depicted gender-specific parts in view. The couple were staring into each other’s eyes, and it looked as if they were about to kiss, but behind her back the woman held a lethal-looking dagger.

  “La tragica luna di miele, the tragic honeymoon,” Marcellino said as we paused to study it.

  “So not a happily-ever-after?” Jason asked.

  “No. The story is that Dante fell in love with Francesca, and even though she told him she would not marry him, he went to her father and got permission to marry her for the price of a flock of sheep. On their wedding night, she vowed to kill Dante and herself before she would submit to a man she did not love.”

  “That seems like overkill—pardon the pun,” Jason said. “Speaking as a guy, a simple ‘I’m just not that into you’ would do it, no need for stabbing.”

  Marcellino laughed and clapped Jason on the shoulder, almost sending him into the fountain. “I agree, my friend, no stabbing required.”

  Being the only female present, I hoped they weren’t indirectly talking to me. Did I seem like the stabby type?

  “Marcellino!” A woman hurried toward us; she was young and beautiful and cast a quickly masked expression of resentment in my direction before she began to speak in rapid Italian.

  Jason turned to me. “Damn it—I like him.”

  “It’s impossible not to,” I agreed. I glanced down at my flowers, which were looking sad after such a long day despite the wet cloth I had wrapped them in.

  “He’s handsome,” he said.

  “And charming,” I added.

  “Successful.”

  “Kind.”

  “He has a good sense of humor.”

  “He’s also very intelligent and speaks three languages.”

  “Of course he does, and let’s not forget he owns a castle,” Jaso
n said. He turned away silently, staring at the fountain. “I think this is where I leave you, Martin. Marcellino is clearly the better man. I hope you’ll be happy. You deserve it.”

  My heart stopped. The thought of Jason leaving broke it clean in two. Two halves that couldn’t function independently, leaving me to mourn what might have been if I’d just had the courage to reach for it. I tried, but my fear kept me stuck in place, unable to speak or move.

  “What about Severin?” I asked. Work—I could always rely on work. “He’ll be arriving anytime.”

  Jason turned and glanced at me. A hank of unruly dark hair fell over his brow, giving him a boyish appeal. “You don’t need me for that. You were always what sealed the deal for him.”

  He raised his hand as if he wanted to touch me, but he let it drop back down by his side. He looked resigned, as if he’d tried his best but failed and now had to accept the loss. Just like when he’d told me about Jess, seeing him hurting caused me physical pain. I couldn’t stand it. I turned away and stared into the fountain, then I cleared my throat until I felt him look at me.

  “It’s a shame, then, that Marcellino and I decided just to be friends,” I said.

  Jason went still, so still that I wasn’t sure he was even breathing. His voice when he spoke was a gruff rasp. “Say that again, Martin.”

  I turned to face him, glancing at him over the flowers in my arms. “We’re just friends.”

  His gray eyes flashed. The next thing I knew, he had my free hand in his, and he was dragging me away from the fountain, Marcellino, and the festival.

  “Sorry,” he called to Marcellino over his shoulder. “But we have to get these flowers in water before they die.”

  I saw Marcellino’s mouth twitch, and I grinned at him. He gave me a slight nod of encouragement and then held his hand out to the beautiful girl beside him. Clearly, Marcellino was going to be just fine.

  We slipped by the darkened windows of the shops to the outskirts of town. The lights of the festival, the music, the laughter, and the smell of the food faded as we found ourselves on a dark and deserted dirt road.