Her Italian Millionaire

by Carol Grace

  “Si puo ripararlo?

  “Ebbene...”

  “Quanto ci vorra?”

  Anne Marie leaned against a stone pillar which might have been there since Roman times. She studied the cobblestones under her feet, looking for ruts that might have been left by chariots racing through town on their way to Rome.

  The people who wandered by, locals or young people with backpacks speaking German or French, hardly gave her a second glance. In her Italian clothes and Italian hair, she obviously didn't stand out. Not until she opened her mouth, anyway. Maybe having her luggage destroyed wasn't such a bad thing after all.

  Again, she was seeing a part of Italy she never would have seen on her own. She owed Marco in a big way for bringing her on this trip. She owed him for other things too, like awakening her sexuality. But she wasn't likely to mention that to him.

  When Marco came out of the garage he told her the owner would order a new fuel pump and it would take several days for it to arrive from Rome.

  “If you really must get to Rome before that, there is a bus,” he said.

  “But I'd miss the crush,” she said. Get on a bus by herself? Go to Rome and track down Giovanni, who may or may not want to see her? Wander around the Coliseum and the Forum by herself with only a guidebook and no guide? She was getting accustomed to having Marco around. She liked feeling like she belonged. She liked traveling in an Italian car with the world's sexiest Italian. She liked eating outside under a tree. She liked making love.

  Yes, that's what it was all about. She wanted to do the things with him she hadn't dared do the last time. She wanted to surprise him. She wanted to please him. She wanted to show him she wasn't as unimaginative a partner as she'd been this afternoon.

  “Yes, you'd miss stomping on grapes in a wooden vat with strangers.”

  “You mean it isn't automated?”

  “Not here; labor is still cheap. Not only that, the mechanic told me the traditional way produces the best wine. Crushing grapes by foot gives the best color, aroma and flavor without breaking the bitter seeds.”

  “Can we actually participate?”

  “If you want to, along with a few other adventurous tourists and the town people. Most of the women I know wouldn't want to stain their feet purple.”

  “It comes off, doesn't it? The purple? And if it doesn't, what a story that will make back home. Wait till my friends hear about this. I can't wait to tell Tim, my son. He'll be impressed.”

  She picked up her bag and noticed he carried his with his left hand. The ice pack and the makeshift bandage were now gone, but she could see his right hand was still swollen. Then they walked down the street to check out the hostel. They passed what might have been a lemonade stand in America, but at this sidewalk stand two young men were toasting bread over a small fire. Anne Marie set her new bag down and ordered a bruschetta with chopped fresh tomato. At Marco's urging, she accepted a glass of wine too. She reached for her purse, but she was too late, as usual. One of these times she'd settle up with him.

  “Hmmm,” she said. “Very good. I guess the bare feet do make a difference.”

  Marco swirled his wine around in the glass and nodded. “They want to know if you want to see their cellar. Where they store the wine.”

  “Of course. I'd like to buy some from them.”

  One of the brothers led them around to the back of the house and down steep, cement steps to a cool room where huge wooden kegs lined the walls and a sign said, “Abandon all hope, ye who enter here.”

  “Dante,” Marco said. “Our national poet. Italy's Shakespeare.”

  “I know who Dante is,” she said. .

  “Of course,” he said. “I should have known. You probably have his books in your library.”

  “I wonder,” she said to Marco, “if I could leave my candy in his cellar. It needs to be in a cool place. Could you ask him?”

  Marco shook his head. “Why don't you just eat it and be done with it?”

  “Because it's special and it's for someone else. I told you. But maybe just one more piece.” She reached into her bag and extricated another truffle from the box. Then she closed it again and wrapped it in a plastic bag. The wine maker agreed, she put the box behind some bottles, and someone shouted from somewhere above them. The brother excused himself and went upstairs.

  “Don't let me forget this,” she said. She wouldn't want him to have to drive back to this town as he did the last to retrieve the lost chocolates. Anne Marie shivered. Marco put his arms around her. She let out a ragged sigh and pressed her face against his chest.

  “We should go,” she said. “The hostel may be filled up.”

  “Ah, you Americans, always in a hurry,” he said.

  The truth was, she didn't want to go anywhere. She wanted to stay in this cool cellar, surrounded by vats and washtubs and kegs and bottles, and eat a truffle with the pungent smell of wine grapes in the air and the taste of home in her mouth. She wanted to slow down.

  She ate the whole truffle in one bite, closing her eyes to concentrate on the intense flavor. When she opened her eyes, Marco was staring at her.

  “I'll remember the candy for you, but you must remember this day. You won't forget, will you? No matter what happens?”

  “No, of course not. I'm going to buy a bottle of wine and take it back with me, for a souvenir.”

  “When you open it, and inhale the scent of oak and grapes you'll think of Maggiore.” He looked so serious she stood there staring at him, wondering what had come over him.

  She'd think of Maggiore, but she'd remember Marco more than any town. She'd remember how he looked standing there in the middle of the cellar, his shirt unbuttoned just far enough to expose a glimpse of tanned chest, his sleeves rolled up, showing his muscled forearms. Yes, she'd seen it all before. She'd seen his naked body looming above her, but this was how she would remember him.

  Would she be happy? Back in California by herself? Back in her same house, at her same job? Under the same California sun where she'd lived her whole life, where every day was the same? It sounded unbearably dull.

  “I wish...” she said.

  “Yes?”

  “Sometimes I wish my vacation would never end.”

  “It doesn't have to. You could stay here.”

  “Here?” She gulped, imagining a small house overlooking the sea, done in blues and yellows. Then she came down with a crash to reality. “You sound like Giovanni. He used to tell me to come and live in Italy. Tell me, how would I live, without a job? Unless I win the lottery. What would I do here? I have a job at home, a house, a son, friends...”

  “And an ex-husband.”

  “By now he's probably found someone else to take Brandy's place. Have you ever had a mid-life crisis?” she asked, placing her hands on her hips.

  “I don't think so,” he said. “What does it mean?”

  “It means you suddenly wake up one day and realize your life is half over and you haven't done what you wanted to do. You haven't found the job you wanted, or the woman you wanted. So you drop everything, quit your job, leave your wife, and act like you're twenty again. It's especially dangerous if you never acted like you were twenty when you were twenty. Then you have a lot of living to make up for.”

  “Is it just for men, or do women have mid-life crises too? Have you had one?”

  “Maybe I'm having one now. Maybe that's really why I came to Italy, to see a man I hadn't seen for twenty years. Maybe that explains...” Explains why she was falling for an Italian she didn't really know at all. Maybe she was having her own mid-life crisis. Everyone was entitled to one. Maybe that explained making love on a picnic blanket with someone whose job, he said, was to show tourists a good time. He'd done that, all right. She'd had the time of her life. Now the regrets came flooding in, as inevitable as the tide.

  Marco asked, “There was another reason, wasn't there? Another reason to come to Italy, to see Giovanni again.”

  “You mean to bring him the
yearbook? Yes, but that was just an excuse. I needed to get away from Oakville. Evie suggested Italy. She came here after her divorce, and I'd always wanted to come. So I picked up his yearbook for him. I think he appreciated it; he said it reminded him of the happiest time of his life. I was surprised to hear that. High school was full of anxiety and uncertainty for me.”

  “Is that all?”

  “Isn't that enough? I also felt like an outsider, different from everyone else. I didn't have a boyfriend. It was only later I hooked up with Dan.”

  “I mean is that all you brought? Didn't you bring something else for Giovanni? Didn't he expect something else, something more?” His face was set in a grim line, his mouth was tight, his eyes were suddenly colder than the walls of the cellar.

  She shivered. “It's cool in here. Let's go up.”

  “You didn't answer my question.”

  “The answer is, it's none of your business what goes on between me and Giovanni,” she said briskly and went back up and out into the sunshine.

  Chapter Fourteen

  They went to the youth hostel next, but right away Marco knew it wasn't the right place for them to stay. He had something else in mind, a place with some privacy, soft lights and a soft bed. A place to make love.

  He chided himself. Which was more important? Finding the diamond or sex with Ana Maria? Obviously it was the diamond. But that was hard to remember when she was around. It was only a hard, cold stone, while she was a warm, desirable woman. In the grand scheme of things, what was really more important? If he had to ask, maybe he shouldn't be in the business of catching criminals.

  Just one more time, one more chance to do it right, to show her how good sex could be and then he could forget her and concentrate on his work. He could have her and catch Giovanni too. If he was careful. But he didn't want to be careful. He wanted to be young and crazy and reckless.

  He wanted to make love to Ana Maria because she made him feel young and carefree. No doubt about it, she'd gotten under his skin. He didn't know what to make of her and that made her irresistible. He'd resisted temptation at every turn for so long, but he'd never known what temptation was until he met Ana Maria.

  She wasn't vain, she didn't require or demand his attention. She didn't dwell on past disappointments, like Giovanni or her room being trashed. She started each day expecting the best even though the day before hadn't quite lived up to her expectations. She didn't need fancy clothes or jewelry. She didn't mourn the loss of her suitcase, though any other woman would have been frantic.

  The hostel was completely unsuitable for her, with its bare-bones dormitories and used linen. Even though she was as low-maintenance as a Fiat, she was as classy as a Lancia and deserved to be treated as well as he would a fine car. Besides, the hostel wasn't safe - they couldn't leave their bags there, locked or not; one never knew who might wander in and out. Wherever the damned diamond was, he didn't want it stolen by some small-time crook. He pictured someone taking Ana Maria's ring off her finger while she slept in her bunk in the women's dorm. And if they couldn't get it off... he shuddered to think of what someone might do to take it from her.

  Had she really bought it on the street? He had to keep an eye on it, regardless. Certainly that was why they had to sleep together tonight. Maybe she was telling the truth; perhaps it was just a cheap souvenir. Maybe she was just what she seemed. He wanted to believe that. He also wanted to catch Giovanni.

  He himself was an oaf, a stronzo, an asshole for demanding to know what she'd brought Giovanni. She wasn't going to tell him. Why should she? Why had he pushed her? Because he was frustrated, that was why. He took a deep breath and nudged Ana Maria with his good hand.

  “Let's go,” he said.

  “Where?”

  “Anywhere but here at the hostel.” He didn't give her a chance to voice her opinion. He didn't need to. The place wasn't good enough for her. He pulled a list from his pocket where the garage mechanic had written possible rooms for rent. Dragging their suitcases, they stopped a half dozen times to ask directions. They visited two houses. One was full of children with a macho, bare-chested father yelling at them. The next was a pale, quiet widow who proudly showed off her guest room on the second floor. It was spotlessly clean with a double bed and a small balcony overlooking the vineyards in the distance. The whole scene was bathed in a golden light from the setting sun.

  “Ask her if she has another room,” Ana Maria said.

  “Why, what's wrong with this one” he asked.

  “We can't sleep in the same room.”

  “Why not? We did last night.”

  “But you slept in a chair.”

  “I can sleep in a chair again.” He looked at a large, overstuffed chair in the corner.

  “Ask her anyway.”

  “Vorei una altra stanza o una stanza con due letti,” he said.

  The signora asked him how many people in his party. When he said it was just the two of them, she threw up her hands and professed amazement. She smoothed the bedspread and told him the bed was perfect for a couple, a married couple. He nodded.

  “No, she doesn't have anything else,” he said. “She thinks it's perfect for us.”

  “Tell her we're not married,” she said.

  “She's a very conservative old lady and I'm not going to send her into shock,” he said. His gaze was focused on the bed. He hoped it wouldn't be necessary to sleep in the chair. But if he had to...

  Ana Maria didn't protest any further, and he paid in advance for the room. At least Ana Maria was resigned to sharing the room with him. One step at a time, he told himself. He was beginning to adopt a fatalist attitude; if it was meant to happen, it would. They left their bags and went out to look around the town.

  “I need to make a phone call to my son,” Anne Marie said. She wanted to find out how Tim was doing after his first week of college. She also needed a distraction so she wouldn't think about that bed in that room back there with the little balcony and the fresh air blowing in from the vines below.

  She knew she could trust Marco. If he said he would sleep in the chair, he would. But she couldn't trust herself. Making love with Marco in a real bed would be... would be...a different experience. Just the thought of how different caused her mouth to go dry. Sleeping together in a bed would definitely be more serious than rolling around on a picnic blanket.

  It might, just might, mean something more than it should mean. She couldn't allow that to happen. She needed to keep this whole affair casual. Any day, any moment, Marco might disappear from her life. If she'd learned one thing, it was not to get attached to another man. Not for a long time.

  Marco took her to a café where he went to the bar and ordered an espresso for her. Then he left and went to the edicola, the kiosk around the corner to give her some privacy.

  “Tim, how's college?” she asked her son.

  “Mom, how are you? Where are you? Dad's been trying to reach you,” he said.

  “Why, is something wrong?” she asked. Had the house gone up in flames or had he been fired?

  “Nothing except he got stood up,” Tim said.

  “I can't do anything about that,” she replied.

  “He wants to go to Italy.”

  “Italy? What for? He's never wanted to go to Italy.” She'd suggested it many times over the years and he was never interested.

  “To see you. He's worried about you, all alone in a foreign country.”

  She choked on a laugh. Dan was worried about her? It was a little late for that.

  “And he has the time off,” Tim said.

  “For his honeymoon, I suppose,” she said. “The honeymoon that didn't happen.”

  “I think he misses you,” he said. “Anyway, where are you?”

  “I'm in a little town you've never heard of.”

  “How did you get there?”

  “In a Lancia. I've also been on a Motoguzzi.”

  “A Motoguzzi and a Lancia? Mom, you're livin' large.”
/>   She grinned. “At last, I get some respect from you.”

  “Dad wants me to get your number.”

  “I don't remember what it is. I have a special overseas deal. Tell him I'll call him when I get a chance, but I'm pretty busy. There's so much to see and do. Like wild donkey races and crushing grapes with my feet.”

  “By yourself?” he asked

  “Oh, no. I'm just helping out. The whole village participates and a few tourists, too.”

  “I mean are you traveling by yourself? Who's driving the Lancia and the Motoguzzi?”

  “I have done some driving,” she said proudly. “But don't worry, I'm not alone. I'm in good hands.” It wasn't entirely a lie, Marco's hands were more than good. “Now tell me about school.”

  He told her about his classes, about his astronomy teacher, and a girl he'd met.

  “Mom, I think I'm in love,” he said.

  “In love? How long have you known her, three days?”

  “About that,” he said.

  “Take it slow,” she cautioned, as much to herself as to Tim.

  Tim had a good head on his shoulders and he wouldn't do anything rash. But what about Dan? Would he really take off and come to Italy? The old Dan wouldn't have. But a man in the middle of a mid-life crisis might. Even if he did, he wouldn't be able to find her. It was a liberating feeling, knowing no one knew where she was.

  She hadn't realized she wanted to be free. She was sincere when she told Marco she'd loved being married, being part of a whole. But freedom was an intoxicating feeling. Of course, her feeling of intoxication might have something to do with the wine she'd been drinking, and the man she'd been with for the past two days.

  She and Marco had dinner together in a small restaurant where an accordion player went from table to table playing requests. When he came to their table, Marco spoke to him in Italian.

  He immediately began to play That's Amore.

  She put her fork down and stopped eating her pumpkin-stuffed ravioli in wild mushroom sauce.

  “Don't you like it?” Marco asked. “I asked him to play something American. I thought maybe you were homesick.”