Vespucci looked around the table to make sure everyone had heard what I’d said. He clapped me on the back. “Doesn’t that sound fantastic folks? Marco, you and Maggie will have your very own love story.” Everyone looked at Marco, and I looked at him as well. He smiled, though his smile looked forced.
“This sounds fantastic, Tony. I couldn’t ask for a better gift,” Marco said, as he looked at Maggie who was beaming.
Vespucci smiled. “Good. So everybody, make sure you give Jon your contact information before he leaves tonight so he can schedule a sit-down with you.” He raised his glass of wine. Everyone followed suit. “To Jon Fixx and his ability to put true love on paper.” The table collectively sipped their glasses.
A moment later everyone was filling their plates with spaghetti and meatballs, salad, and hot bread. For a few moments no one spoke, the food more important than talk. I was hesitant to put too much on my plate, but Vespucci encouraged me to fill it up. “You must be hungry after your trip. Don’t be shy. Take as much as you like.”
I filled my plate with far more spaghetti than I could eat.
“Tony, where did you find Jon?” Caroline asked. “I mean, it’s such a unique thing that he does. I’ve never heard of it before.”
“Cranston Jefferson, my textile guy,” Tony answered. “I was in his office a couple of weeks ago and saw his sixtieth wedding anniversary book on his desk. There was a photograph of a much younger Judith and Cranston on the front cover.”
I knew that picture. Luci and I had agreed it should go on the cover. The picture was taken in front of the first home they shared together. The two of them are standing stiffly before the camera, Cranston wearing a dark brown suit circa 1947, Judith wearing a long, slim, formfitting dress with a red-flower print that carried just below the knees. I made a mental note to make sure I had a sit-down with Cranston before I left.
Maggie asked, “When did you write the book for the Jefferson’s?”
“About two years ago now.”
“I got the impression from Cranston, Jon, that you’re in regular contact with him. Is that true for all your clients?” Tony asked.
“Not generally, no. But Cranston is a special person, and we hit it off.” I felt I was revealing too much, though Tony seemed satisfied with my answer.
Caroline responded, “That’s really neat. You must learn so much about people.”
With a clever smile, I said, “More than I ever thought possible.”
Out of the corner of my eye, I caught a frown forming on Marco’s face in response to my words, but when I turned his way to make sure I wasn’t seeing things, it was gone.
As random talk resumed around the table, I took the opportunity to watch Maggie and Marco as they ate, my sixth sense making noise in the back of my head. Marco had said very little, and I could tell he was going to be a hard nut to crack. As I considered the possible outcomes of a one-on-one interview with him, he turned my way, catching me staring at him. I blinked and shifted uncomfortably in my seat. His eyes reflected power, intelligence, danger.
“So, you’re like Don Juan’s ghostwriter?” Michael asked.
“Without any of Don Juan’s abilities,” I responded.
Everybody laughed, except Marco.
Maggie’s mother chimed in, “Surely, Jon, you’ve got somebody back home. How does she feel about having such a hopeless romantic for a boyfriend?”
“How does she feel? Uh . . . ” How does she feel about having a hopeless romantic writer for a boyfriend? I didn’t know the answer to that question. “I don’t know how she feels about it, to be honest with you. We never talk about it.”
The women at the table exchanged surprised glances.
“She must love it. I can’t see how she’d feel otherwise,” Barbara responded.
At that point, the conversation steered away from me, to my relief. Family matters were taken up. Mikey Jr. and Sabrina were discussed at length. I didn’t talk much through the rest of dinner, listening instead to the rise and fall of the family chatter. If I had been unaware of Tony Vespucci’s alleged position in the Mafia, I never would have guessed it while sitting with his family at dinner. From all angles, they didn’t seem much different from the many other families I’d spent time with. In fact, by the end of dinner, I found myself liking them more than I usually did when I first met a family. I waited until dinner was over and the dessert had been served before looking across at Maggie and Marco and asking if they could sit for the initial interview. Maggie looked to Marco who, after the briefest of pauses, nodded in agreement. The table was cleared and we moved inside.
Maggie led me to Vespucci’s wood-paneled study. The walls were lined floor to ceiling with bookshelves. I wasn’t sure what I had expected from Tony Vespucci, but it sure wasn’t a library stocked with highbrow literature. I walked over to one bookshelf, looking at the titles. Plato. Aristotle. Socrates. Camus. Sartre. A shelf full of philosophers.
“That’s my father’s favorite section. He loves philosophy,” Maggie said. My face must have revealed my surprise. “All of these books and no formal schooling beyond high school, completely self-educated.”
“Wow, I never would have guessed. This is a serious collection of books for anyone.”
Maggie smiled. I glanced back at the numerous books, hardcovers, all in pristine condition. Grudgingly, I felt a sense of admiration for Tony Vespucci, his collection of literature clearly put together with intention. I glanced at Maggie as she pointed out her father’s favorite books. Picking one book in particular off the shelves, Maggie stepped closer to me as she stared down at the pages of the novel in her hands. I took in her raven black hair, the curve of her shoulders, her tightly fitted blouse presenting the curves of her breasts. A wave of attraction flooded over me. Panicked, I turned away from Maggie, shoving my face into the covers of a group of leather-bound books. As soon as Maggie was out of my sight, I was overcome by a wave of guilt—Sara’s face again, looming large. My emotional self-chastisement was interrupted by Maggie’s voice.
“Jon, this is my father’s favorite book.”
She held out an old book, its edges frayed. “It’s an original copy signed by the author, Alexandre Dumas.” A copy of The Count of Monte Cristo rested in Maggie’s hands. She held it almost reverentially, like any true book lover would.
“This is your father’s favorite book?” I couldn’t hide the surprise on my face. Was this coincidence? Was fate playing some kind of trick on me? How could my favorite book be Tony Vespucci’s favorite book? I wondered if he thought his daughter looked like Mercedes too.
“What?” Maggie couldn’t avoid noticing the shocked look on my face.
“Have you read the book?”
“Sure. Good story.”
Before I could respond, I was interrupted by Vespucci’s voice from the doorway.
“Good story? It’s the best revenge story ever told. But that’s not why I like it. I like it because it clearly illustrates how God works. God helps those who help themselves. Edmond was a righteous man. Villefort, Danglars, and Morrell conspired to take away what God had given him. Therefore God gives Edmond the ability to educate himself, enrich himself, and return to enact the Almighty’s vengeance on the men who tried to ruin him.”
With Maggie close by, I was having trouble focusing, but I knew the story well enough to speak intelligently about it. “But, in the end, after Edmond gets his final vengeance and all three conspirators have been destroyed, he is surprised by his own reaction to his success. Rather than joy and pleasure at what he has accomplished, Edmond finds only a feeling of empty, disheartening, dull satisfaction.”
Vespucci smiled. “And so goes life, Jon. It’s never perfect or clear-cut or black and white. It’s messy and cloudy and ambiguous. Perfect righteousness is for the angels. Here on earth, we have to slog along and do our best, and hope God likes what we’re d
oing.” Vespucci glanced around the room. “Where is Marco?”
“He’s making a phone call,” Maggie said.
Vespucci looked irritated. Maggie took his hand in hers and pulled him onto the sofa beside her. It made for a good picture. Proud father and doting daughter. Maggie turned her attention to me, her dark brown eyes focused on mine. Again my thoughts strayed into the guilty zone. I felt her beauty in my body, inside my gut, down in my belly. She locked eyes with me, a genuine smile on her face, her father beside her. I began to feel overly nervous. I couldn’t take my eyes off Maggie’s face. I felt like I was bugging out, as if I was having a bad trip. I took a deep breath, trying to get a handle on my physical reactions. Vespucci was staring intently at me. He knew what I was thinking, I was sure. I heard Sara’s voice, “‘Jon, are you mentally cheating on me? Do you want to have sex with her? Is that why we’re having problems? Because you want to be with another woman?’”
Maggie’s voice interrupted my thoughts. “Jon, are you okay? You’re sweating. Do you need some water?”
I shook my head to clear it out. Sara’s face disappeared. I realized Marco had entered the room during my embarrassing episode and was standing beside Vespucci, a curious look on his face. I took a deep breath and got my bearings. “I’m sorry, I just got a bit lightheaded. I haven’t had much sleep the last couple of days, and I think the travel today just wore me out.”
“You want to call it a night and pick up tomorrow?” Vespucci asked.
Feeling unprofessional, I responded, “No, no. I’m fine. Let’s get started.” I looked toward Marco and Maggie for confirmation. “That is, if you two are up to it?”
Vespucci answered for them, “Of course they are. Let the fun begin.” Vespucci gave Marco a parting hearty slap on the back. Marco grimaced in response. Vespucci leaned over and kissed his daughter on the cheek and walked out of the room. I pulled my mini-recorder out of my pocket and set it on the coffee table between us.
Marco eyed the recorder. “You have to record us?”
“Well, as long as you don’t mind. It allows for a better flow if I don’t have to take notes. I hope that’s okay?”
Maggie gently pulled Marco onto the sofa with her. “Of course it’s okay.” Marco seemed irritated by Maggie’s show of affection as he sat down beside her.
“Let me explain how this works,” I said. “I’ll interview both of you tonight to get an idea of how you two first met and ended up together. After tonight, I’ll meet with each of you individually to fill in the gaps. After that, I’ll interview as needed. Will that work?”
Maggie looked at Marco before answering, taking his nonresponse as a yes. She turned back to me, nodding her head. I began questioning them about their history together. Initially, they talked more about their fathers than themselves. How Vespucci and Marco’s father, Giancarlo Balducci, had grown up in the same neighborhood, went to the same schools, worked the same jobs after high school. Balducci now owned and operated two foundries, one in New York and another in Italy. Marco was his second in command. Marco was five years older than Maggie, so when they were growing up they had little crossover in school and had a different set of friends. But because their fathers, and their families, were so close, they saw each other whenever their families got together, which was often. They dated briefly when Maggie was sixteen, but the relationship ended before it became serious. When Marco turned twenty-one, he went with his father to Italy to assist in opening their factory and didn’t return to the States until a little over a year ago. As circumstance would have it, Maggie and Marco had not seen each other during the many years he ran a successful business over there, which also included a cozy relationship with the prime minister of Italy.
As I sat listening to their story, I noted that Marco was a big player in his own right. His Italian business included some heavy-hitting contacts, not easily made or lightly ignored. I made a mental note to do some research on the Italian political landscape. Marco had been on U.S. soil only about a month before running into Maggie at a large family gathering. This is what I wanted to hear about.
“Was it love at first sight?” I asked.
The couple looked at each other. Maggie answered first. “When I saw Marco, it had been over ten years. He looked the same, just a little older. Yeah, I’d say there was a spark. Definitely on his side, because the first thing he asked me was whether I had a boyfriend.” Maggie gave Marco a flirtatious squeeze on the arm.
Marco didn’t respond either to the question or to Maggie’s flirtation.
I prodded him, “So there was a spark?”
Marco nodded.
“How long before you formally asked her out?”
“That same night.”
Maggie smiled. “He didn’t waste any time.”
“And how did your families react when you started dating?” I asked.
Marco answered first. “My parents were happy, especially my father. Having his son marry his best friend’s daughter was more than he could hope for.”
Maggie said, “My father’s never been an effusive man.” She left it at that. Marco gave Maggie a sideways glance, annoyed by her response.
“Well, he obviously approves now,” I added with a smile.
I shifted gears and asked them about their courtship, what they liked to do together. In just over two hours, I got a clear idea of what their romance was like and who they were as a couple. I paid close attention to how they interacted with each other, how much they touched or interrupted one another, and how they added to each other’s thoughts. When Maggie started yawning, I called it a night. I had gotten an adequate amount of material to work with. After making plans to meet with each of them individually—Marco in the morning at the foundry and Maggie in the afternoon at a coffee shop near NYU—I said goodbye to the Vespucci clan. Maggie’s brother and his family had left earlier. Barbara gave me a hug at the door, and Maggie kissed me on the cheek. Vespucci walked me out to my waiting taxi. I spotted the ever-present Joey hanging back.
“Jon, thanks for doing this. I will owe you a debt of gratitude when you’re all done.”
I felt his praise was a bit presumptuous, given my current track record. The whole ordeal with the Internet Lovers and the phone calls from Attorney Nickels Sr. flashed across my mind.
“Don’t thank me now. Wait till I’m done, just to make sure you like what I do. You won’t owe me anything other than what we agreed to.” For some reason, I felt more like I owed him something than the reverse.
“I like humility, Jon. But I know you’re very good. I didn’t just depend on Cranston’s word. I did some checking on my own.”
Knowing Vespucci had checked on me was anything but comforting.
“I’ll do my best,” I said.
“I know you will.”
Over Vespucci’s shoulder, I saw the shades open in the colonial windows to the left of the front door. I spotted Marco standing in the first window, watching me talk to his soon-to-be father-in-law. He’d been friendly during the interview, but the sinister look on his face now was anything but. Vespucci glanced over his shoulder to see what I was looking at, but Marco was gone. I wondered if he had actually been standing there or if my jumpiness was playing tricks on me.
“See something?” Vespucci asked.
“No. Just tired, that’s all.”
The taxi pulled up and I hopped inside. My driver was nothing like the Jamaican dude. This guy asked no questions, played no music, and, in fact, didn’t say a word the entire trip back to Manhattan. I had gotten a room at the Washington Square Hotel, right in the middle of NYU, figuring it was in a hip area near enough to Greenwich Village that if I had any spare time on my hands I could take a short walk to entertain myself. Dropping me at the hotel, the cabbie pointed to the fare meter. I paid him the fare plus a tip. He nodded and was gone as soon as I climbed out of the car. I stepped up to
the gold-inlaid front doors, an attendant opening them and welcoming me to the hotel. As I checked in, I picked up French, Italian, and what I believed to be Norwegian being spoken in the lobby. The hotel was a mid-scale affair, nothing too fancy but more than enough for my modest upbringing. Having spent little time in hotels growing up, I never tired of the pleasure of sleeping in a room I didn’t need to clean, the pleasure increasing twofold because I rarely paid for my room since it was part of my fee. The desk attendant handed me my hotel key, pointed me toward the elevator, and said I should call if I needed anything. I thanked him and found my way up to my room.
I was on the fourteenth floor, facing south, so when I entered, the lights of New York lit up my room. Taken with the view, I dropped my bags on the floor and flopped down on the bed, staring out the window at the New York nightlife. Out of nowhere, Maggie’s smiling face appeared before me, followed by a quick tightening in my belly. I blinked and she was gone. I immediately chalked up my attraction to my client as nothing more than a symptom of the distance between Sara and me. I figured as soon as Sara and I were able to repair the problems we were having, my attraction to Maggie would disappear as fast as it had come.
I pulled my computer out of my bag and opened the Skype program. The hotel clock read 9:32 p.m., so Sara was still at work. I double-clicked on the call button, happily noting Sara’s Skype was on, though I couldn’t put much weight on that because she set many of the programs on her computer to automatic start-up. After only two rings, I heard the pickup ping, and soon saw Sara’s face. I met her image with a big grin, making sure I was centered in the camera’s eye.
Before I could even say hello, Sara spoke, irritation in her voice. “Jon, not a good time. I’m working on a rebuttal I need to finish before I leave tonight. Has to be handed in tomorrow morning. Glad you got there safe.”
“Oh, I understand, sorry to bother you. Just wanted to say goodnight.”
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