Short and Sweet

by Anna Jacobs

  She had grown used to being a widow now, though it had been a shock when Paul died so young. At first the days had dragged and then, gradually, she’d developed new interests, even taken up painting again. She missed the companionship, though, and probably always would.

  Her friend Elizabeth had suggested she join an Internet dating site because she was young enough to go out and meet some men. But Jenny hadn’t wanted to do that. The very thought of dating made her feel nervous.

  She stared at herself in the mirror, pleased with what she saw. She was still slim enough for her generation’s taste, if not for this one’s. (Why did the youngsters today want to look like walking skeletons?) Her fair hair was sprinkled with grey now, but she had it styled regularly, and her complexion had always been good. Her daughter was showing sun-wear round her eyes already, from the harsh Australian sun.

  Suddenly Jenny grew impatient with herself. What did it matter if she looked good or not? Who was there to care?

  She glared round the tiny spare bedroom, rebelling at the thought of spending another afternoon mewed up here ‘resting’, to avoid those two ill-trained brats! Her glance fell on the novel her daughter had lent her. Such a miserable set of characters! Someone should have shot them at birth.

  Then she brightened. That was it! She would go out shopping, buy herself a good novel, a romance or a story about a family. Several books, even! Cheerful books.

  She opened the wardrobe and smiled. What’s more, she would wear her cream linen suit! She was sick of casual clothes and sticky fingers. The only social life Sarah and her husband seemed to want was Sunday barbecues – in the heat of the day, with dozens of children screaming round the garden of whoever’s turn it was to play host. They all made her welcome, but she found it wearing.

  When she was ready, Jenny studied herself in the mirror again. What the suit really needed was a hat to set it off. People wore shady, wide-brimmed hats here to protect their skin. She had always loved hats.

  There was a knock on the bedroom door. ‘Mum? Can I come in?’

  ‘Yes, dear.’

  ‘Oh, I love your suit, but—’

  ‘Thank you, dear.’

  ‘— but isn’t it – well – too smart for wearing round the house?’

  ‘I’m not staying round the house today. I’m going out.’

  ‘Oh. Did you change your mind about the Senior Citizens Centre?’

  ‘Certainly not! I’ve told you before: I’m not old enough to be a Senior Citizen. No, I’m going into Perth shopping.’

  ‘But there isn’t a bus until two and—’

  ‘I’m taking a taxi.’

  Her daughter’s gentle worried face, so like her late husband’s, haunted Jenny all the way into town, but once there, she forget everything except the joys of leisurely shopping.

  The centre of Perth was very attractive, she decided, standing in Forrest Place and eyeing the overhead walkways and cool verandas full of elegant shops. Just what she needed today.

  She bought two novels and, out of guilt, a pretty scarf for Sarah. Then she found it – a shady cream straw hat trimmed with a drift of pale apricot flowers! Expensive, but irresistible. She had to have it. She wore it immediately. You don’t look fifty-two, she told her reflection smugly as she paid the bill.

  Her feet were starting to ache, but she couldn’t face the thought of returning to that dreary box of a bedroom, so she got some brochures from the tourist bureau and sat on a bench to read them. She would come into town regularly, perhaps go for that cruise on the river. There were lots of things to see and do! Rebellion burned brightly within her.

  She made her way to the Cultural Centre and found the art gallery. There was a café nearby, where she ordered a pot of tea and chose a table outside.

  A silver-haired man passed by, then came back and stopped in front of her. Heavens, was he trying to pick her up? At her age! It must be the hat. It was too flamboyant. She felt her cheeks burning and had a sudden desire to run away.

  He raised his hat. ‘Scusi, signora, but – are you not the mother of Signora Shilby?’

  He looked vaguely familiar and he knew Sarah’s name. Who was he? Jenny’s first panic started to subside.

  He gave a tiny bow. ‘Please – excuse me speaking to you, but I am the father of your daughter’s neighbour. I’ve seen you in the garden with the children.’

  She relaxed a little, half-recognizing him now. Sarah and John disliked the Rinaldis, for some reason. Well, the neighbours had probably complained about the noise her grandsons made. ‘I’m pleased to meet you properly, Signor Rinaldi.’ She couldn’t help thinking what a nice smile he had.

  ‘It is not Rinaldi, signora – my name, I mean. My daughter is Rinaldi. I am Parvone, Niccolo Parvone.’

  ‘Oh, well – I’m Jenny Reid.’

  Gravely he tendered his hand. She liked the way Europeans always shook hands. You felt they had truly noticed your existence.

  ‘You permit?’ He indicated the empty seat next to her.

  ‘Please.’

  ‘You are awaiting your daughter, no doubt?’

  ‘No. I’ve escaped for the day.’

  He laughed aloud. ‘Escaped! Ha!’

  She felt embarrassed. Would she never learn to watch what she said? ‘Sarah’s boys are a bit – er – lively.’

  His eyes crinkled up at the corners. ‘I make a confession, signora. I, too, have escaped from my daughter for the afternoon.’

  She relaxed and they exchanged smiles.

  ‘Have you ordered?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘May I share your table? I, too, am hungry.’

  It was pleasant to sit there chatting. Afterwards they went into the art gallery and walked round the permanent collection. She was entranced. What marvellous paintings!

  ‘Silly, isn’t it?’ he said at one stage. ‘I have never been here before. But I shall come again. I want to see the aboriginal collection next.’

  ‘Oh, yes, but I’m getting tired now.’ She looked down at her feet, grimacing, and then spied some seats. ‘Shall we?’

  They sat in comfortable silence for a while. He was a very restful sort of man. ‘Are you visiting your family, Signor Parvone?’

  ‘No, signora. My wife died – oh, three years ago – and now I live with my eldest daughter.’

  ‘Is that wise?’ She could feel herself blushing. ‘I’m so sorry! How rude of me! I didn’t mean to – it’s none of my business.’

  He threw back his head and laughed again. ‘But you are right, my dear Signora Reid, it is not at all wise to live with one’s children.’

  ‘Then why did you . . .’ Jenny clapped her hand to her mouth. ‘I’m sorry. It’s none of my business.’

  He shrugged and stared into the distance. ‘I moved in with Gina because I wasn’t thinking clearly after my wife’s death.’

  She reached out to pat his hand, he looked so unhappy. ‘I was exactly the same when my husband died, but luckily for me, Sarah was ten thousand miles away.’

  He nodded and gave her a wry smile. ‘For women it is much easier to live alone, I think. For men like me, Italian men of my generation, housework and cooking are great mysteries.’ He stared down at his hands, spreading them out and turning them over as if he had never seen them before. ‘Yet it takes only two hands to do such things and these I have.’

  He gave her one of his slow, warm smiles. ‘I think I must buy myself a house and move out.’ The smile faded and he began to pick at the crease in his trousers. ‘Only, this will offend my daughter, who works hard to look after me.’

  ‘Yes, I can see your difficulty.’ Jenny caught sight of her watch and gasped. ‘Oh, dear, look how late it is! I’ll certainly have offended my daughter, Signor Parvone, by staying out so long. I wonder – could you tell me where I can find a taxi?’

  ‘I have my car. It is no trouble for me to take you home.’

  ‘I couldn’t impose!’

  ‘It would be a great
pleasure for me to have your company for longer.’

  When they stood up, he contemplated her for a minute, then leaned forward. ‘Scusi. Your hat, signora.’ Very gently he straightened it.

  The admiration in his eyes made her flush.

  ‘Bellissima!’ The word was a caress.

  For a moment, their faces were close together. They were the same height. That felt strange in a man. Paul had been tall. She’d always had to look up at him and their steps hadn’t matched very well.

  Sarah stared at her in horror. ‘Mum! Are you absolutely mad? You accepted a lift home with a strange man! I remember all the lectures you used to give me about that sort of thing.’

  ‘You were a young girl then. I’m not. Besides, Signor Parvone isn’t a stranger! He’s a neighbour of yours.’

  ‘And don’t we know it! You might have thought of us!’

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘You know we don’t get on with them, Mum.’ She scowled in the direction of the house next door.

  ‘That’s your business. I like Signor Parvone.’

  ‘But . . .’

  ‘I don’t choose your friends, dear, and I don’t expect you to choose mine.’

  Sarah clutched the tea towel to her bosom. ‘You haven’t – you couldn’t have – you aren’t going to be seeing him again, are you, Mum?’

  Jenny tried to look airy and confident, but wasn’t sure she’d succeeded. Then as her daughter started scolding again, she asked sharply, ‘Why should I not see him again? He’s a charming man.’

  ‘Mum, you can’t! After father, that lumpy little man! And what will John say? He can’t stand them! Why, he had a row with the husband only last week about their sprinkler system. No, no, you’ll have to tell him you’ve changed your mind.’

  Jenny could feel herself stiffening. ‘It really is no business of yours – or of John’s – whom I see or do not see! And as a matter of fact, I’ve already accepted an invitation to go out to dinner with Signor Parvone.’

  This time she did slam the bedroom door behind her.

  Next morning, Jenny faced herself in the mirror again. You’ll just have to go next door and invite him out, she told her reflection. Nothing to it! Women invite men out all the time nowadays. But she had never done it, she thought in panic; never in all her life had she invited a man out to dinner. What if he refused? She’d be so embarrassed!

  She sagged against the wall, swallowing hard. She couldn’t do it. Definitely not.

  Only – she straightened up again – that meant she would have to confess everything to Sarah. And that would be worse. Far worse. After the way John had gone on about it last night, she would die before she would admit to him that she’d been lying.

  She dressed carefully in a pretty floral dress in soft blues and pinks and that gave her a bit more courage. Bellissima, he’d said. Taking a deep breath, she opened the bedroom door, squared her shoulders and set out on her great ordeal.

  As she walked out of the front door, she saw Sarah’s bedroom curtains twitch and stopped to glare at the window. How dare her daughter spy on her!

  The anger carried her up the next drive to the ornate two-storey house with its carved double doors and, before she knew it, she had rung the bell. The butterflies in her stomach were fluttering about wildly, but it was too late to back out now.

  Mrs Rinaldi, a plump young woman, answered the door and sniffed when she saw who it was. ‘Si?’

  ‘I would like to see Signor Parvone, please.’

  A stubborn look came over the woman’s face. ‘Non capisco.’

  ‘Oh, dear.’ Jenny couldn’t think what to do. She didn’t speak any Italian.

  Then Niccolo came running down the stairs, with his wide smile and his hands reaching out for hers. He bowed her in as if she were a queen. ‘Signora Reid! How lucky that I saw you walking up to the door. This is a great pleasure! Please come in.’

  ‘Papa, non è—’

  ‘It is not polite to speak Italian in front of a guest, Gina. And have we no manners, to leave a visitor standing outside the door like this on such a hot day?’

  Gina flushed.

  ‘The signora would enjoy some refreshments, no doubt.’ He didn’t wait for an answer, but shepherded Jenny up the stairs to his sitting room.

  It was lovely in the shade of the balcony, but Jenny couldn’t relax. She decided to get it over with – then if he refused, she would make some excuse and leave. She tried desperately to find the words to ask him out, but couldn’t even think how to begin.

  ‘Hey!’ His broad capable hand stopped hers from mangling the handkerchief. ‘There is something wrong, I think?’

  She nodded.

  Footsteps approached. ‘Momentito.’ He got up to open the door. Gina entered, slammed down a tray and left.

  ‘She – your daughter – she doesn’t approve of my visiting you.’

  ‘She has begun to treat me like one of her children. Where am I going? Why do I not stay quietly at home? I shall most definitely buy a house of my own.’

  He poured her a cup of coffee, insisted she take a pastry and piled two on to his own plate. ‘Now, please, if there is some way I can help you, for me it will be a pleasure. Or if you have just come to visit, that will also be a pleasure.’

  There was no easy way to do it! ‘I came to ask if you . . .’ Her voice faltered, but she took a deep breath and said rapidly, ‘Would you like to come out to dinner with me – to a restaurant – one evening?’ Oh dear, she could feel herself blushing! She couldn’t even meet his eyes.

  ‘I shall be delighted. What about tonight?’

  Sighing in relief, she looked up, and his smile was so kindly, she confessed, ‘That’s the first time I’ve ever invited a man out.’

  ‘It’s the first time a woman has invited me out. I like it. I like it very much.’ He took another huge bite of his pastry, waved it in a flourishing gesture and added, ‘My daughter made a big fuss that I brought you home yesterday. Yours, too?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘They do not like each other, our children.’

  She sighed. ‘No, I’m afraid not.’

  ‘So we must teach them the lesson, eh? Not to treat us like little children.’

  ‘You’re very kind.’

  ‘I enjoy your company, signora. We understand one other.’

  ‘Yes, I think we do.’ It was often easier to talk to people of your own generation and he was a charming companion.

  They sat on the balcony for quite a long time, chatting about this and that. When she rose to leave, he smiled and said softly, ‘I’m looking forward to this evening, Signora Reid.’

  ‘I am, too. And – and I think it would be better – I mean, I’d like it better, if you called me Jenny.’ Oh dear, she was blushing again!

  His hand captured hers and he raised it to his lips. ‘So. Jenny. Pretty name. And my name is Niccolo.’

  He stood at the door, waving, and that gave her the courage to march into the house and say to her daughter, ‘I won’t be in for dinner. Niccolo is picking me up at seven.’

  During the next fortnight, Jenny and Niccolo dined out four times and made several daytime excursions in his huge white car. He’d retired early from his building business and found time hung heavily on his hands.

  The atmosphere in each house grew steadily cooler, but they laughed about that and agreed to ignore it. Well, why should they stop enjoying themselves? He had a dry sense of humour that touched a similar chord in her. And not only did he seem to enjoy her impulsiveness; he often matched it with his own.

  One evening, Sarah and John put the boys to bed early and took Jenny to sit in the formal lounge room, which they rarely used.

  ‘Mum, we’re . . .’ Sarah faltered and looked helplessly at John.

  ‘A little concerned,’ he filled in smoothly, ‘about the amount of time you’re spending with that man.’

  ‘His name’s Signor Parvone. It’s not hard to say. Try it! Par-v
o-ne.’

  ‘Mum, you’re avoiding the issue!’

  ‘What issue? It’s surely my own business whom I see or do not see. Or are your guests not allowed out on their own?’

  John leaned forward earnestly. ‘We just don’t want you to get hurt, that’s all, Mother. These holiday romances . . .’

  She could only gape at him. Romances! She wasn’t in love with Niccolo! He was just a friend – a very comfortable friend of her own age. Romances, indeed!

  Then she remembered how his smile crinkled up the corners of his eyes – his fondness for pastries – the way he held her arm as she got out of the car. Her breath caught in her throat and her cheeks began to burn. She saw Sarah exchange a meaningful glance with her husband and anger began to rise inside her.

  John went on with what was obviously a prepared speech.

  Jenny sat there fuming. When she couldn’t bear to listen for one minute longer, she stood up. ‘Please excuse me. I’m very tired.’

  She heard Sarah burst into tears as she walked swiftly along the corridor to her room. She felt guilty for upsetting her daughter, but she wasn’t going to give in about this. She’d been having such a good time with Niccolo.

  But she couldn’t settle to sleep. At three o’clock in the morning she abandoned the attempt. It was so hot still she put on her blue satin housecoat and tiptoed out into the garden for a breath of fresh air. The moonlight was bright and it was deliciously cool outside.

  A figure approached the fence and a voice whispered, ‘Hey, Jenny!’

  ‘Niccolo!’

  ‘You can’t sleep either, eh?’

  It seemed quite natural to clasp the hand he stretched out to her.

  ‘Tonight,’ he said, ‘they bring my brother and my eldest son to speak seriously to me. About you.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘I am making a fool of myself, it seems. An old man’s romance.’

  ‘You’re not old!’ she said hotly.

  He raised her hand to kiss it. ‘I’m glad you don’t think so.’

  Her breath caught in her throat at the expression on his face. ‘Sarah and John had a talk to me as well, Niccolo. Holiday romance, they called it.’

  ‘I see. They mean well, I suppose. Only, Jenny – when they talk, talk, talk at me, I suddenly thought, hey, I am getting fond of her!’