by Carrie Elks
‘But you’re exhausted. You have bags under your eyes.’
‘So do you,’ he pointed out.
She pretended to look affronted. ‘Well that’s not nice.’
‘What’s sauce for the goose is sauce for the gander.’
‘Shouldn’t it be the other way round?’ Cesca asked. Her voice sounded softer somehow, in spite of her amusement.
‘In what way?’ Sam frowned.
‘Well in this case if I took your saying literally, I’d be the goose and you’d be the gander. So it should be “What’s sauce for the gander is sauce for the goose”,’ she explained.
He shook his head. ‘I’ve no idea what you’re talking about.’
This time she laughed. ‘Nor have I really. I think I’m delirious. I should probably get some sleep.’
‘We both should.’ But he didn’t want to. Not at all. There was something different between them, different and miraculous. What was it they said about there being a thin line between love and hate? No, not love, Sam told himself. Friendship. That’s what was growing in this room, some kind of tentative camaraderie that he didn’t want to let go of. As though they were taking tiny footsteps towards each other, trying to shrug off the anger and the disappointment that had come before.
It didn’t mean anything else. Didn’t mean he had to confide in her or tell her his secrets. He could handle this.
Finally, when neither of them could hold back the yawns any longer, they made their way up the stairs, and he whispered a quick good night to Cesca before she disappeared into her bedroom.
He was half asleep before he’d even climbed into bed, and by the time he sank into the mattress, all sense of consciousness was gone. He must have slept restfully, because when the late morning sun stole through his curtains, he woke up in the same position he’d fallen asleep in. He practically jumped onto the wooden floor, pulling on the first pair of shorts he could find, and dragging a freshly ironed T-shirt over his messy hair, not bothering to attempt to calm it.
Cesca was already awake. He could hear her typing away in the library. A rhythmic tapping that occasionally stopped, long enough for him to imagine her taking a sip of water, or scribbling something on that notepad she always had near. Sam walked into the kitchen, grabbing the coffee pot and filling it up. It was a rare day that he could face the morning without a caffeine injection. The pot had just started hissing when the library door opened and Cesca walked out. As soon as she saw him leaning against the kitchen counter she smiled, and Sam felt himself relax.
So she didn’t still hate him. That was a good thing. He was planning to keep it that way.
‘Morning.’ He smiled back at her.
‘Is it?’ Cesca asked, her voice teasing. ‘I thought it must be afternoon. Some of us have been up for hours, you know. Sorting out the house, talking to the gardeners. Writing a play.’
He liked the lightness in her tone, enough to match it in his own. ‘I believe you’re getting paid for most of that.’
‘Not by you.’
‘True enough.’
‘Though there’s something you could do for me.’ Cesca reached across him, grabbing a couple of cups from the shelf. Sam leaned back, but her arm still brushed his chest, making him grab hold of the counter, when his first urge was to steady her.
‘Apart from make you a coffee?’
She offered him the cups and he took them from her. ‘Well that, too, of course. But I’ve finished the second act, well, the first draft of it. Do you think you’ll have time to take a look at it later?’ She gave him a tentative smile. ‘No rush, of course. But I’d really like to get your opinion. Some of the dialogue was really tricky to write.’
‘I’d love to.’
She blinked, although the sun was shining nowhere near her eyes. ‘Really?’
Her hesitance did something to him. Turned whatever strength was left inside him into mush. ‘Really,’ he said solemnly. ‘The first part of that act was amazing. I can’t wait to see where you’ve taken it. I love the way you’ve woven the two stories together. Made it so that the modern-day couple are acting the story of the older ones. There’s something so elegant about it.’
‘I don’t know what to say.’ She grabbed the milk from the refrigerator. ‘Thank you.’
‘I’m only telling the truth.’
‘Even so, it’s lovely to hear it. Being a writer, it’s such a lonely job. You spend all day staring at a blank screen, the voices in your head clamouring to get out. And half the time whatever you write is so terrible you have no choice but to trash it. But then sometimes, every once in a while, you manage to craft a piece of dialogue that’s so exciting it makes it all worthwhile. Even then, you’re scared to show it to somebody else, in case they burst your bubble.’
‘It’s not a bubble.’
‘It feels like it though. And I know it will never be perfect at the first draft. Not even at the second or third. But unless it has good bones, it’s impossible to flesh it out. That’s why your feedback is so important.’ She took his arm. ‘But, Sam, you have to promise to be honest. Don’t be kind. Tell me where it works and where it doesn’t, please. Even if you’ve no idea why you don’t like it, or why some of the speech jars, tell me anyway, OK?’
His throat was aching. He knew how hard it was to put yourself out there, to request the kind of open response that could leave you feeling so low. It was a part of their jobs – his and hers – to allow themselves to be critiqued, but to invite it so openly took a lot of guts. He didn’t know anybody in the business who hadn’t read a bad review and had it slaughter them. Even after six years, a few unkind words had the ability to sting like a bitch.
‘Of course.’ His voice was hoarse from the lump in his throat. ‘But if today’s work is anything like the rest of your words, I already know it’s going to be good.’
She was still holding his arm, and he could feel the warmth from her hand covering his skin. ‘Thank you,’ she said.
‘It’s a pleasure.’
After he poured them both a coffee, Sam followed Cesca into the library, taking the printout of her work and grabbing the old pen he’d found the day before. While Cesca sat back at the desk, resuming her pattern of typing and stopping, with long sections of deletes, Sam sat back on the old velvet sofa, squinting as he read her words.
That’s where they stayed for the rest of the day, one of them writing, the other editing. By the time the afternoon sun began to fall, they were completely worn out and hungry. Neither of them had eaten much all day, and from the sounds of gurgling coming from both their stomachs, they were paying for it now.
Laying his wad of paper on the desk, Sam waited until Cesca looked up from her writing, not wanting to interrupt her flow.
‘Come on, it’s time for dinner,’ he said, gesturing at her to close down the computer. ‘This time it’s on me.’
Cesca trailed him into the kitchen, carrying the empty coffee cups and glasses they’d accumulated throughout the afternoon. Her body was stiff, muscles aching from hours of sitting in the old leather captain’s chair, and from the way Sam was rolling his shoulders, she suspected he felt the same way. Leaning down to put the dirty cups into the dishwasher, she glanced at him from the corner of her eyes.
‘Can you even cook?’ she asked.
His head tipped to the side. ‘What do you mean “Can I even cook?” I’m Italian, of course I can cook.’
The injured expression on his face made her want to laugh. Instead, she swallowed down her amusement and turned on the tap, washing her hands in the basin. ‘That doesn’t mean anything. The other half of you is American. Your dad’s from the States, right?’ Her voice trailed off, memories of the previous night stealing her breath away. Was she being nosy again?
Sam’s voice was soft as he replied. His eyes even softer. ‘Italian. I’m all Italian.’
She nodded. ‘OK.’
‘I have a complicated family, Cesca. It would take too long to explain.’ He t
urned around, rifling through the cupboards again.
She wanted to say something to break the quiet, but nothing sprang to mind. She wasn’t exactly an expert on families, after all; Cesca had been the master of keeping her own secrets, hiding them away in case her family thought less of her.
When he finally looked back, Sam’s expression had regained an equilibrium. A hint of a smile played on his lips, though it hadn’t yet made it up to his eyes. ‘Well I guess I should concede defeat. Even I can’t make a meal out of thin air.’
She could feel the tension disappearing. It made her a little giddy. ‘But I thought you were totally Italian. What a let-down.’
This time his smile creased the skin around his eyes. ‘Sorry to disappoint you. Maybe if the housekeeper kept the refrigerator stocked we wouldn’t be in this position.’ His wink was enough to tell her he was teasing. It also made her chest feel tight.
‘You obviously don’t pay her enough. I’d give her the push if I were you.’
‘I’ve tried, she just won’t leave.’
Cesca raised an eyebrow. ‘Maybe you haven’t pushed hard enough,’ she told him. The space between them seemed to be narrowing, less than two foot now. It meant she had to look up, her petite frame dominated by his tall, muscled body. His proximity made her feel anxious and yet . . . safe?
‘Maybe I don’t want to,’ he said softly.
Another hesitation, this time even more loaded than before. From her vantage point, she studied him, taking in the sharp, chiselled jaw that was already shadowed with a day’s growth of beard, and the full lips that so many Italian men seemed to wear so well. She had to clench her hands into fists to stop herself from touching him, to feel that stubble. What on earth was wrong with her?
When she looked down at Sam’s own hands, she saw they were also bunched. His knuckles were bleached white. She was completely confused by the easy banter between them, and the way it was making her feel inside. Like a volcano filled with molten lava.
She squeezed her eyes shut, but the loaded moment followed her in. Instead of seeing him, she could feel him, smell him, hear his rhythmic breaths. If she breathed in hard enough, she could probably taste him, too.
The next minute, it was as though a thread was being broken. She opened her eyes to see Sam standing a few feet away, far enough to remove the aching connection that had existed between them only moments before. She wasn’t sure if it was relief she was feeling or something else. Whatever it was, it made her nerves buzz and her head feel full of cotton wool.
‘Dinner, then,’ Sam reminded her. He looked strangely calm.
‘Or lack of it.’ Cesca moistened her dry lips. ‘I guess we could eat bread and cheese again.’
Sam frowned. ‘No, I promised I’d get you dinner, and that won’t do. We’ll have to go out and get some.’
‘But you can’t go out. People will recognise you.’ Since he’d arrived he hadn’t so much as left the gates. ‘Make a list and I’ll go and buy the food.’
‘The grocery store will be shut. We’ll have to find somewhere to eat.’ Another dazzling smile. ‘I’ll go incognito.’
A deep breath restored some of her equilibrium. Enough for her to start thinking straight. ‘Seriously? You won’t make it five minutes up the road. Even if you’re not surrounded by photographers you’ll have a thousand predatory women sidling up to you. Why don’t we just order some food to be delivered or something?’
He shook his head. ‘I want to take you out to dinner.’
Oh.
‘We can take the rental car. I know a little place that’s completely out of the way. No tourists, only locals. We’ll drive there, have some food and then drive home again. It’s dark, nobody will see us.’
He’d knocked the wind out of her sails again. She frowned. Her whole body was telling her this was a bad idea, but for the life of her she couldn’t articulate why. ‘Are you sure?’
‘It’s just dinner, Cesca. Two friends – or at least I think we’re friends – sharing some food and looking out over the lake. What’s wrong with that?’
So it wasn’t a date. Just friends. She could cope with that, couldn’t she? A few weeks ago she’d hated this man’s guts, and the only way she’d eat dinner with him would be if she could sneak a bit of arsenic into his pasta. But now things were different. Friends went out to dinner together all the time.
‘OK,’ she said. ‘But I’m only going if you drive.’
He reached out for her hand, folding his palm around it as he shook. ‘It’s a deal.’
Letting out a long exhale, Cesca tried to let her body relax. A night-time lakeside drive followed by dinner at a local restaurant was the perfect way to spend an evening. It was exactly the sort of thing people dreamed of, when they made plans to vacation at Lake Como. Though her inner-girl was excited at the thought of it, it was almost impossible to ignore her inner doubts.
Sam released her hand. ‘Let’s go and get ready.’
She nodded. Game on, then.
17
If music be the food of love, play on
– Twelfth Night
The drive to the restaurant did nothing to ease Cesca’s nerves. An awkward silence had filled the car as Sam deftly manoeuvred around the lakeside road, his bicep muscles flexing every time he changed gear. His other arm was resting on the door, where the window was wound down, letting in the cool night air drifting in from the water.
Sam was right, wherever they were going was really off the beaten track. He drove further up into the Grigna mountains, the lake receding into the distance, and she could feel her ears start to pop with the change in air pressure as they ascended. Finally, when it felt as if they were in the middle of nowhere, he turned a corner and they stopped beside a cliff-side cave.
‘This is it?’ There were a few cars parked along the grass, but nothing else. She wasn’t sure what she’d been expecting, really. Something more glitzy? Swankier? More Hollywood?
‘It looks better from the other side,’ Sam told her, climbing out of the car. Before she’d had time to open her door, he was doing it for her, offering his free hand to help her out.
‘Thank you,’ she murmured, still staring at the cliff top ahead. Holding her hand, Sam led her towards the edge. It was only when they reached it that she realised just how high up they were. The lake below looked so far away, the lights from the villages surrounding it twinkling like tiny fireflies. To the right were some stone steps, and they climbed down them, Cesca grasping the old, rusty rail that had been put there years before. Sam walked ahead, the steps only wide enough for one, but he kept looking behind him, asking her if she was OK.
They reached the bottom, which led to a stone floor, and in front of them was a wide cave. The exterior was festooned with lights and colourful flowering plants, while inside there were a few chairs and tables, as well as a bar at the back of the cave.
‘This is Grotto Maria,’ Sam said. ‘My parents used to come here when I was a kid.’
‘It’s beautiful.’ She looked all around. Cesca wasn’t sure she’d ever even heard of a restaurant in a cave before, but she could see why it was already so full of people. Candles flickered on the tables, making the jagged rock walls change in colour as the light hit them. A low murmur of conversation echoed in the cave, accompanied by soft music emanating from the speakers set into the ceiling.
A waiter came over, his face splitting into a smile when he saw Sam. They shook hands, exchanging a barrage of words in Italian that Cesca couldn’t understand.
‘This is Cesca, a friend.’ Sam finally reverted to English when he introduced her to the waiter. ‘And this is Alfredo, he’s worked here ever since I can remember.’
‘Bella, bella,’ Alfredo said, extending a hand to Cesca. ‘Have you ever eaten here before?’
She shook her head ‘No, it’s my first visit.’
‘Oh, then we will treat you like a queen. Please follow me, we can get you seated and bring you an aperitivo.’ With
that Alfredo led them around the edge of the restaurant. Cesca glanced at the customers, trying to see if they’d noticed Sam. From the way they were all so deep in conversation, she didn’t think so.
At the far end of the bar there was a small, natural doorway that led out onto another cliff. This one was narrower than the one at the main entrance, but had a guardrail all around it. In the middle of the space was a single table and two chairs, both positioned to overlook the amazing view below.
‘Signorina?’ Alfredo pulled a chair out for Cesca. Sam took the chair opposite her, waving Alfredo off when he tried to help.
There was the usual shuffle of menus and drinks, the pouring of water and the offering of a glass filled with pink liquid and a slice of orange.
‘This is a negroni,’ Alfredo told her. ‘It is gin, vermouth and Campari. Designed to open your palate for the food.’
She noticed that Sam turned down his own drink, preferring to pour some water from the carafe. Cesca was pleased about that, she didn’t really want him driving them home half-cut. It was strange, learning all these things about a man she’d thought she detested. He was responsible, kind. Words she’d never thought she’d use to describe Sam Carlton.
When the waiters left, it was just the two of them again, and Cesca glanced up from the menu, catching Sam’s eye.
‘Do you see anything you like?’ Sam asked.
Cesca bit her lip. ‘I don’t understand it all. I mean, I can read some of it, the pastas are fairly simple, and I can translate some of the seafood. But the rest I can’t read at all.’
‘Would you like me to translate for you?’
She smiled at his kind offer. ‘I’ve got a better idea, why don’t you just order for me? You’ve been here before, you must know what’s good.’
Sam laughed. ‘I usually just let Alfredo order for me. I pretty much eat anything.’
‘Me, too.’ She tried not to think of her skip-diving days. ‘So let’s allow Alfredo to order for both of us.’
‘Sounds good to me.’
Cesca took a sip of her negroni. It was cool and sweet, the orange peel adding a citrusy edge. ‘This is delicious. And probably very intoxicating.’ She couldn’t even taste the alcohol, that was always a bad sign. ‘Remind me to only have one.’