by Katy Regnery
How dare she bully Carina, who has been through so much?
“Calmati,” I tell myself, as I speed walk past the café where we often have lunch, but it’s easier said than done.
Why am I paying to have my daughter here in this place, where she is being abused by other children?
My temper is flaring, but before I meet this other mother, I need to get it under control. It won’t do to arrive flustered and furious.
I slow down at the Water Garden, reminding myself that the other child is just as small and young as mine, still learning important life lessons about how to treat others. My anger has no place in the meeting I’m about to attend.
Trying to distract myself, I check out my reflection in the pond—Gucci sunglasses, butter-yellow silk tank top by Escada, cropped Lily Pulitzer jeans in white, and chic Valentino wedges—and raise my chin.
You are a princess. You can be disapproving without being terrifying.
And then I turn to the right and continue on to the Children’s Garden.
“Wait for me here?” I direct Gaspare, who nods, stationing himself nearby.
Surrounded by a cream-colored picket fence, the Children’s Garden is where Carina is dropped off and picked up every day; it’s also there that she tends her own garden plot, plays games with the other children, has a mid-morning snack at the picnic tables and does seasonal art projects with materials collected from the many surrounding gardens. Per usual, the children are outside playing when I arrive, Carina and another little girl staring down at something on the ground while Miss Meyer explains that caterpillars turn into butterflies. She looks up as I approach, shielding her eyes.
“Mrs. Trainor. Hello.”
“I don’t want to interrupt you,” I tell her.
“Not at all,” she says, standing up. “I was just telling Carina and Millie about Mr. Caterpillar.”
My daughter looks up at me before springing to her feet and wrapping her arms around my legs. “Mamma!”
“Hello, darling.”
“Miss Meyer said I get to stay extra today.”
“That’s true,” I say, sliding my eyes to Miss Meyer. “Is Millie’s mother here yet?”
“Oh!” she says. “No. It’s not Millie who...” She looks over at a group of boys sword fighting with twigs. “Dylan! Can you come and join us?”
A little boy with dark hair and blue eyes turns from the pack to look at her, his expression curious and defiant at once. “Do I have to?”
“Yes, you do,” says Miss Meyer, her voice even and kind. “Come along now. I want to speak to you and Carina inside.”
His shoulders deflate as an annoyed expression passes over his features, and though I stifle it, I want to smile. Something inside of me admires his spirit.
“Oooo-kay,” he sighs, walking over to us with lead feet. “But my grammy’s not here yet.”
“Actually,” says Miss Meyer, a slight blush pinkening her cheeks, “your father is coming to join us.” She glances at her watch, then looks up, a winsome smile exploding across her features. “Look! Here he is now.”
I turn my head, following her gaze to the tall, dark-haired man stepping inside the picket gate. He wears a business suit and sunglasses, but there’s something instantly familiar about him and a shiver trails up my arm, even though I’m standing in a beam of August sun.
As he approaches, he pushes his sunglasses to the top of his head, revealing dark blue eyes fringed with long, dark lashes. My heart quickens to a double-time beat as my eyes glide to his left cheek, daring the scar not to be there.
But it is.
It is.
My God, it’s him—HIM!—developed from the film of my dreams.
“Sorry I’m late,” he says, coming to a stop in front of Miss Meyer. “Traffic.”
Even after fifteen years, I recognize the low grittiness of his voice, the soft burr of his brogue rolling the tr- sound. Without realizing it, I hold the breath in my lungs as he slides his eyes to my face.
With a shaking hand, I reach for my glasses, pulling them from my eyes and listening as my breath releases raggedly.
“Ian,” I whisper.
His eyes widen, then narrow, the rest of his face slack with shock as he leans closer, scanning my features.
“Tina?”
I nod, too dazed to follow-up with any comment of meaning. He is older. Taller. Broader. He is a man now, and when he left me all those years ago, he was still a boy.
But I recognize him. I see him. I see the boy I knew in the man before me.
It’s him! my heart sings.
It’s him, my mind spits.
“You already know each other?” asks Miss Meyer. “Oh! That’s terrific. Then, this should be quick.” She gestures to the education building. “Shall we go inside and chat for a few minutes?”
Ian’s eyes trail across my face, lingering on my lips before quickly seizing my eyes again. We stare at each other, unmoving except for our chests, which rise and fall with similar shallow breaths.
“Mamma?” asks Carina, who is still standing against my legs. “Miss Meyer wants to go inside.”
“Y-Yes!” I blurt out, finally turning away from Ian to give Miss Meyer a deranged smile. “Of course. Andiamo.”
I let Carina pull me inside.
***
Ian
When Dylan’s nanny, Angela, who generally picks him up at school, told me that Miss Meyer had called about him bullying another child in the class, I insisted that she not call Brenda and told her that I would attend the parent-teacher meeting myself.
I don’t believe in handing off dirty work to someone else. If Dylan is being aggressive or mean-spirited, it’s up to me to tackle the problem with him and make appropriate apologies and promises to the parent of the other child. It’s called ‘responsible parenting,’ and it’s important to me.
That said, I assumed I’d meet with the kids, Miss Meyer and some young, hip Brooklyn mom. Dylan would say he was sorry. I would promise to work on better behavior at home. And then, if Brenda would come and collect Dylan for lunch, I might even be able to fit in a quickie with Rachel—ah-hem, Miss Meyer.
Never, ever—not in my hottest, hungriest, or wildest dreams—did I imagine the mother of the bullied child would be Valentina De’Medici. If anyone had warned me, I would have called them daft. I couldn’t have fantasized such a meeting. I wouldn’t have allowed myself such a bittersweet delusion.
And yet, here I am, following her, our two children, and their teacher into the education center at the Brooklyn bloody Botanic Gardens. My mind skims seamlessly over the years to the last time I saw Tina. She was dulcet and naked, her gorgeous body only half covered by tousled sheets, and she’d offered me a dreamy smile as I waved farewell and slipped out of her hotel room through the secret door.
How I wanted to stay.
How I wished I could have offered her the world.
How the entire course of my life changed that day.
She is as beautiful as ever and a quick glance at her ass in tight, white jeans confirms that her figure hasn’t suffered from motherhood. She’s gorgeous. My one-time dream girl has blossomed into a vibrant, stunning woman.
“Take a seat,” says Rachel, gesturing to a ridiculously low table with six tiny chairs. “This will only take a minute.”
The kids sit down side by side, and Rachel sits beside Valentina’s daughter, presumably in solidarity of the wronged party. Valentina sits next to Rachel, and I take a seat beside my son, feeling ludicrous on a chair so tiny, my knees almost touch my chin.
When I look up, I zero in on the fact that Rachel and Valentina are sitting side by side.
And call me a bastard, but I’m sorry to say that Rachel, who’s been a decent friend-with-benefits, suffers in comparison. She’s young and fresh-faced in her yellow t-shirt and denim overalls—but no more than a kid herself, really, with none of Valentina’s life experience or gravitas.
In contrast, more a princess now tha
n she ever was, Her Serene Highness radiates composure, sophistication and grace. I have a quick flashback to standing on that stage in Limerick, the first night I ever saw her—how struck I was with a desperate, concentrated urge to see her, to know her, to touch her, to be with her.
All over again and without warning, those feelings flood my being for the second time in my life as she raises her eyes to mine, then quickly looks away.
“So!” says Rachel, looking back and forth between me and Valentina. “How do you two know each other?”
Valentina’s dark eyes flick up, glancing at me first, then Rachel. “We met years ago. In Ireland.”
“Oh, my goodness!” says Rachel, looking at me with a too-big smile and questioning eyes. “So you’re old…friends!”
“Sort of,” I say at the same time Valentina says, “Not at all.”
Rachel chuckles awkwardly, speaking into her fist like it’s a microphone. “Ref, can we have a verdict?”
“It was a very brief meeting,” Valentina says dismissively.
“We haven’t seen each other in—” I start to say.
“Fifteen years,” finishes Valentina, her eyes flashing with anger for a second before she lifts her chin and offers Rachel a cool half-smile. “We’re here to speak about the children, right? Perhaps we should…”
Rachel nods emphatically. “Of course. Business before pleasure!”
I stare at Valentina as Rachel asks the kids to tell us about the incident at snack time, but I can’t concentrate on what’s being said.
Tina is pissed. Even after fifteen years, she’s furious with me.
I clench my teeth, tightening my jaw as I look down at the colorful, paint-stained tabletop.
Of course she’s furious. She trusted me with her virginity, and once I took it, I abandoned her. She has every right to be angry.
But may I confess that there’s another part of me—a visceral part that exists in my most basic id self—that’s fiercely and intensely turned on by her anger? The very nature of fury is passion. And mine is skyrocketing in response to hers.
“…and was that a kind thing to say, Dylan?” Rachel asks my son in a stern voice.
Dylan wiggles in his seat, his little knee brushing against my massive one and snapping me back to reality. I take a deep breath, telling myself to calm down.
Don’t look at Valentina again. Not until this meeting is over.
“Sorry,” I say. “Can we back up? Start over?”
Rachel cocks her head to the side, her expression vaguely disapproving, like she’d like to rap my knuckles (or bum) for not paying attention. Though we’ve actually role-played at teacher-student once or twice, I’m not even a little bit aroused by the notion. If anything, it just makes me feel uncomfortable now.
What was I thinking dating someone over ten years my junior, just out of teacher’s college? I need to break things off with Rachel. The sooner, the better.
“I’ll recap,” says Rachel. “At snack time today, Dylan intercepted Carina at the trash bin, about to throw out her apple slices. Apparently, he told her that children all over the world go to sleep hungry, and if she didn’t finish her snack, she’d go to Hell.”
“Dylan said that?” I demand, shifting my eyes to my son, who’s looking down at the table miserably. “Son, did you say that?”
“Sure, I did,” he tells me with a bit of shaky bravado. “Father Darren says that at CCD.”
“That yer goin’ to Hell?” I cry, my accent stronger because some gobshite priest has had the gall to tell a four-year-old he’s going to Hell!
“He said that wasteful children are naughty, and God has a special place for naughty children,” Dylan explains, all bravado disappearing as tears gather in his eyes. “And he means Hell! I don’t wanna go to Hell, Daddy! I don’t want Carina to go either!”
Damn it, I knew that Brenda and Craig’s church was too old-school for Dylan’s and my sensibilities. I should’ve followed my instincts, but they made it so easy, picking him up every Sunday morning for services and every Thursday afternoon for Catholic education.
Well, no more. I’ll find somewhere else for us to attend mass more in line with our modern views and values.
I pull Dylan onto my lap, my heart squeezing when he buries his face in my neck and cries. Rubbing his back, I whisper, “It’ll be alright, lad. You won’t be goin’ back there again anytime soon. I’m sorry, son. I’m sorry Father Darren frightened you. You’re far too good for Hell. The second they saw you comin’, they’d chase you back up to Heaven.”
When I look up, Rachel’s watching me with Dylan, a distinct look in her eyes telling me her eggs are ready to meet my swimmers. Lord, I’m going to need to break off our affair gently.
Valentina, on the other hand, is far more reserved. She observes us, her face betraying nothing that she may or may not be feeling.
“Carina,” she finally says, taking her daughter’s hands. “You are not going to Hell, bambina. Not now. Not ever. And not for throwing away apple slices. It’s…assurdo.”
“But Dylan said—”
“Dylan has been frightened by an adult who is a—a jackass,” she says, reaching for her purse. “We can discuss it more over lunch, vita mia.” Glancing at Miss Meyer, she asks, “Is this all? Can we go now?”
“Oh, well, usually we have the children shake hands and—”
“Dylan is upset, and Carina is hungry,” she says, her voice no-nonsense as she stands up from her chair and pulls Carina up with her. “They can shake hands tomorrow, okay? Yes?”
Dylan’s sobs have subsided now, and he looks up at me with bleary eyes. “I’m hungry, too. Can we go to lunch with Carina and her mom?”
“You know,” says Miss Meyer, “I think that would be an excellent idea. It would be therapeutic for the children to share a meal, and—”
“My treat,” I say at the same time Valentina says, “No.”
But Carina has other ideas. “I like Dylan! And we’re not going to Hell anymore. I want to have lunch with him. Per favore, Mamma?”
Valentina looks at me, her eyes cool. “I’m sure Dylan and his father have other plans, bambina.”
She wants me to give her an out, but I can’t. I won’t. I need more time.
“No, we don’t,” I say quickly. “Have lunch with us. Please. We can go to the Yellow Magnolia. It’s just down the—”
She takes a deep breath and huffs. “We know where it is.”
“Please, Mamma!” says Carina. “Lunch date! Lunch date!”
“Lunch date! Lunch date!” joins Dylan, scrambling off my lap to jump up and down next to Carina.
I raise my eyebrows at my one-time love. “Lunch date?”
She crosses her arms over her chest, her expression extremely annoyed, but then she looks at the kids and sighs.
“Va bene,” she says softly. “Lunch date.”
***
The kids race ahead down the path that connects the Children’s Garden to the nearby café, so Valentina and I are left to stroll together, side by side, with her bodyguard following behind like a chaperone.
We’re quiet for the first few minutes, and I wonder if she, like me, is thinking about that magical night so many years ago when we raced around Limerick and ended the night in each other’s arms.
“It was a shock,” I finally comment, “to see you after so long.”
“Hmm,” she hums. “Yes.”
“How long have you lived here? In Brooklyn?”
“My husband passed away several months ago. We moved here for a…” She clears her throat and sighs as though the next words don’t apply anymore. “…fresh start.”
“I remember reading somewhere that you’d gotten married,” I tell her. “I’m sorry your husband passed away.”
This is a lie. On a caveman level, I’m not sorry at all. No. Scratch that. To be clear, I’m sorry if she suffered in losing him, but I’m not sorry that she’s single.
“Thanks.”
; “Where were you living before?”
“Genoa.”
“What made you choose Brooklyn?”
“Steve,” she says. “My husband grew up here. I guess…I just wanted to feel close to him.”
There is a well of emotion behind her words that lights a spark of jealousy within me. Could the rumors have been untrue? Was Steve Trainor heterosexual? And was Valentina the love of his life? Was he hers?
I have no right to feel hurt by this or jealous or it, but fuck it—I am.
I can’t help it.
“You must miss him,” I say.
“I do,” she answers. “Very much.”
“And you?” she asks. “How did you end up here?”
How I want to tell her everything: that the night I was with her, my brother was killed. And the night I was supposed to meet her, I was shot. And that two days later, I was on a plane bound for New York City.
“Uh. Relatives took me in,” I say, giving her the same shallow, detail-less backstory I give everyone. “Heard about the street violence in Limerick and uh, invited me here. Gave me a fresh start, um…soon after—I mean, not long after that night. When we first—”
“Yes,” she stops me, her voice curt.
The kids stand in front of the cafe, waving to us from the glass doors.
“We’re here,” she says.
I put my hand on her arm, and it knocks the breath from my lungs when she stops walking and raises her eyes to mine. They’re hurt and angry, her lips a thin slash of pink in her otherwise stunning face. I’ve dreamed of it a million times. How strange and wonderful to behold it before me once again.
I will win you back, Princess. I swear it.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper, fifteen years of regret packed into two meager words.
She blinks at me before pulling her arm away.
“I don’t care,” she says, stepping forward to push open the cafe doors and following the kids to an available table.
CHAPTER 7
Valentina