Reminds me of a bad movie where both costars are overacting. I can’t see the guy’s face, but the back of him is worthy of admiration. An ass I could bounce quarters off, thick head of hair, muscles developed by obviously consistent workouts. Great-fitting clothes. Yummy yum yum. I’ll add one more yum to that assessment. He could look like Frankenstein from the front, but this view does the man justice.
Suddenly the woman looks at the tables next to theirs, scanning for something. Only she knows what. Without a word she picks up a half-finished glass of red wine from the shocked woman it belongs to and throws it on the sexy Italian’s crotch. By his reaction he didn’t see it coming. His hands lift in the air as he looks down at his expensive, perfectly tailored stained pants.
This would be a great photograph. Italian Saturday captured in a telling frozen moment. I grab my cell and become the photographer. The twenty or so customers at the café are shocked at first. Then it turns into amusement. I’m chuckling too.
In all my travels I’ve never known a culture so passionate. They’re vocal and demonstrative in their love. Doesn’t matter who sees it either. Tears and arguments are both expected, accepted and part of the romance. Oh! That’ll be my slant on the blog next month!
The click click clicking of the woman’s heels walking away and the pinched look on her face ends their conversation. The man takes his napkin and dabs the front of his pants.
I’m not sure these two were destined for more. But sometimes the draw of a pretty face, or strong arms, or an exceptional cock makes a compelling argument. You stay together because of the visual. Everyone says you look great together. It’s a rookie mistake, forgivable only in the young. If you stay with someone solely for their looks after you’ve passed thirty, you’re a dick. Male or female.
The man turns around and puts an abrupt end to my fantasies. As soon as I see the face, I know exactly who it is. A feeling of happiness bubbles up inside me. Holy shit, I’m sixteen again! But now I’m looking at a grown man. A handsome one.
“Fig!” I stand and call across the tables. “Figaro!” I wave.
His eyes search the tables, looking for a familiar face. They settle on me. Brows knit together and his head tilts. It takes him a moment to put it all together, but when he does a crooked smile lifts the corner of his mouth. My arms open wide and my fingers wiggle, calling him to me.
He lifts one finger, asking for my patience. Taking out some cash he places it under the edge of the napkin of the woman whose wine was thrown. He says something to her and extends his hand. She accepts and nods her thank you.
As he comes toward me, arms open like mine, he’s laughing. He dips his head and nibbles on his bottom lip. Damn. Can he be any sexier?
“Zarah! You’re like a mirage in the desert. Come here!” he says taking me in his awesome arms and not letting go.
I feel enveloped in affection. It’s sincere and welcoming. And man, he smells great. What is that cologne? Fuck Me Now, by Dolce and Gabbana? When we part I feel his biceps.
“Wow! Those are new,” I say.
He’s a bit embarrassed. I recognize the shyness that I knew in school. He was always the quiet Dragoni twin. But the sensual Italian accent never failed to dazzle me. Even when we were freshmen in high school and his voice was made of changing octaves.
Now a soft-spoken, deep tone has replaced it. Unexpectedly, he takes my face in his hands and kisses me right on the lips. I know it’s just a friendly gesture, but I can’t help but notice they’re soft, luscious and every other adjective that means the same.
“I always wanted to do that,” he says. “Thank you for giving me an excuse.”
“Well, don’t keep me in suspense. Was it good for you?”
“Of course. Just as I suspected,” he says, eyes twinkling.
I throw my arms around his neck and return the kiss, making sure to give it my best. It surprises the hell out of him.
“I agree. Just as suspected,” I say.
He looks deeply into my eyes and nods his head in amazement.
“It’s been seventeen years, Zarah. I can’t believe you’re here. Are you in Italy by yourself? Or maybe with your husband?”
“I’m single. And here for three more days, anyway.”
“Good. Let’s visit. I want to know everything,” he says.
He holds out a chair for me to sit, and when I do, he makes sure to push it in till I’m comfortable. It doesn’t escape me that I’m not looking my best. Shorts, discarded sneakers, Stones vintage T-shirt. So generic. And I’ve got that stupid Batman band aid on where I scraped my leg. Crap.
He comes around and sits across from me. Leaning in he takes my hands in his. “I’m so happy to see you again,” he says softly.
How is it I forgot about his hazel eyes? They’re not only gorgeous, but kind. They radiate a soulful quality. Somehow, I didn’t notice back then. As stupid as it sounds it could have happened. I was more popular with the girls than the boys in high school, and my exposure to them was limited. Plus, I put some off with my do-anything say-anything personality.
“I’m surprised you even remember me, Fig. I hadn’t gone gray yet then, so I know it's not the hair.”
“It’s great by the way. Very chic. And you’re kidding about remembering you, right? I had a crush on you, bella.”
“What?” I think my mouth must have just dropped open.
“You didn’t know? Come on.”
I would say he’s kidding, but by the serious look on his face I know I’d be wrong.
“I was never the girl boys were interested in. I was a flat chested, braces wearing loner.”
“That’s not what I saw,” he says locking eyes with me.
“Really?”
“I saw a delicate girl with dark green eyes that have golden flecks in them. And she had the most delightful laugh.”
Am I blushing? It sure feels like it, as unfamiliar as the event is.
“I never knew.”
“Plus the fact you’d say the word fuck every so often, no matter who heard. I thought you weren’t afraid of anything.”
“I always had a sailor’s mouth.”
“It was charming to me.”
Luckily my embarrassment is interrupted by the young white-aproned server offering us menus.
“No, no. No need for menus,” Fig says turning to me. “Shall we enjoy a little wine?”
“Definitely.”
“Vino Brunello, per favore.”
He nods to the server and as the man walks away, Fig leans back in his chair and just grins at me.
“What?” I say.
“You’ve completely turned my day.”
I pitch my thumb in the direction his last companion went. “If I can ask, what was that about? It was very entertaining.”
He shakes his head. “I’m embarrassed. It’s not like me at all. Really, don’t judge me because of what you saw. That woman didn’t take what I had to tell her well.”
“Then she’s the injured party?” I say.
He thinks for a moment about how he’s going to respond. “She shouldn’t be. We only went out once. She had ideas.” He makes a circling gesture to the side of his head. “We weren’t compatible in any way.”
“She was stunning.”
“Was she?” he says with a lopsided grin.
The way he’s looking at me is making the back of my neck hot. Not to mention my southern territories.
“So you’re living back in Italy now?” I say, changing the subject.
“No. I’m here for a friend’s wedding. And to visit the familia. I’ve been living in New York for two years.”
“I’m still a New Yorker too! Whenever I’m not traveling. I have a travel blog, Zarah’s Way.”
“How wonderful. You were always interested in seeing other countries. And you were independent. Even at fourteen. I remember,” he says tapping his temple.
As the waiter reappears and uncorks the bottle, Fig tells me his story. What came a
fter our years together at Mater Dei High School. How the Dragoni Tire Company grew to be a worldwide brand, and how Fig and his brother Luca have worked in the family business for over a decade now. He for the last few years in New York and Luca in Italy.
I’m listening to every word, but something deep inside me is focused on the silent conversation we’re having. The one made entirely of subtext. The look in his eyes, the smile on my lips, the occasional touch of our hands. And above all the za za zing that’s passing between us.
“My God. I’ve taken over the entire conversation. Blah, blah, blah. I’m boring you for sure,” he says in that adorable accent.
I think he’s nervous. Awesome!
“Of course you’re not boring me! It’s gonna take us at least three more long conversations to catch up. Don’t you think?” I say.
“At least three. Maybe more. And while we do that we might as well catch a few sights. Maybe I could take you to some of my favorite places around Positano and Rome. We could put your last few days to good use…you know, for your blog,” he says, eyes twinkling.
We stare at each other for a good five seconds before I respond.
“And I could show you a few of my personal favorites that I bet would surprise you. Places so exquisite and hidden they would take your breath away,” I volley.
He takes a few beats before he answers. “You’ve already done that, bellezza.”
2
Fig
“How does she look?” Luca says over the taunting background laughter of my six-year-old niece and the piercing screams of her little brother. Even through the phone they sound as if they’re right next to me.
“Bellissimo. She’s very attractive. What are you doing, beating your children again?”
He goes into a fifteen second Italian lecture at the top of his lungs that neither child is listening to. And he ends it with an English warning. “I’m sending your mother in if you don’t stop hitting each other!”
“That’s it, threaten them with your wife.” I laugh.
“You know she’d take charge. Bring Zarah over. We can go out for dinner. Caroline would love to see her again.”
I stop him there. “Thanks, But no. We’re going exploring for a few days.”
“What? You’re kidding me.”
“Not in the least. I need you to do me a few favors.”
“Sure.”
“Let Mom and Dad know I’m going out of town and I’ll call in a few days. I’ll be talking with Nona myself. And I was going to meet with my former staff for lunch on Thursday. Tell them I’m sorry, but something came up. No, tell them I’m sick, whatever. Get me out of it.”
“Can I tell them your dick came up and cancelled all your appointments without your permission?”
“No. Please don’t do that, Luca.”
He just chuckles. I wouldn’t put it past him. He’s the wildcard of our family.
“When are you leaving for the wedding?” he says.
“Friday.”
“You taking her?”
“No. I don’t know. Maybe.”
He let’s out a long whistle followed by, “Oh, brother!”
I imagine his head shaking.
“What?” I say.
“This isn’t like you. None of this. The impulsive decision to travel with someone you really don’t know, the cancellation of the lunch, the idea you may be bringing her to a place that means so much to you. It sounds much more like something I would have done. You’re the predictable one.”
It kinda pisses me off to have to explain myself.
“First of all, I do know her. If you remember she was in our close circle of friends in high school. Secondly, I’m canceling a lunch? Big deal. Thirdly, go fuck yourself, Luca. Just do as I ask. Please.”
“Alright, alright. Go play with your sexy classmate.”
“Who are you talking about?” I hear Caroline’s voice, and Luca’s sudden change in tone.
“I’m talking to Fig about Zarah. He ran into her.”
I can picture Caroline now. She’s gone silent with jealousy, punishing Luca for being himself and using the word sexy in describing another woman. Especially one she remembers from school. God help you brother, you married a ball buster.
“I’ve got to go. Ciao,” he says before disconnecting.
Just as well. Having to defend my choices was getting tiresome. I check my watch. Twelve ten. I’ve been parked here in front of her hotel for half an hour, watching people making their way to the path that leads to the beach. It’s a small hotel, but it has the charm of authenticity. This is no tourist trap.
Hope she doesn’t overpack. It passes through my mind that all she needs is a bathing suit. Or, maybe not even that. We could hole up in the spa at Sartunia and for the entire time be naked like the statues. I’ve planned the natural springs for day two. The naked part is her decision. I’m already on board.
Just as my fantasies are taking form, she walks out the front doors. I’ve made a playlist for our trip. All music from our high school years. Ricky Martin’s “Livin la Vida Loca” is playing on my cell, and it’s like the opening shot of an epic movie. A fun road trip for old friends or a journey for new lovers? I need to see the entire film to know which.
I get a wave and a smile. Wearing white jeans, sandals, and a marine-blue sleeveless top, she looks so young. She’s got the body of a teenager, lean and tight. Tiny but mighty. She only has a small roll-on and her purse. The sunlight on her hair is pretty. It’s almost platinum.
“Afternoon! Sorry I’m a little late.”
I pop the trunk and get out. We exchange cheek kisses and I take her bag.
“Is this it? Where did you store your other luggage?”
“That’s all I need. I can stay for a month with what’s in that little thing. Nice Ferrari by the way.” She gets in her side.
I shut the trunk and return to my side. Sliding in, I give her a grin. “Are you ready to start our adventure?”
The roar of the engine doesn’t drown out her answer. “Hells yeah!” she calls. “Are we winging it, or do you know where we’re going?”
“I know. Have you ever been to em—”
She interrupts me with a finger to my lips. “Surprise me,” she says.
I nod my agreement and turn the music up as we pull away from the curb. Zarah starts singing along. She knows every word. It’s not quite in tune. But it’s charming.
I know about every road in and out of Positano. Nona Rosa taught me to drive on these streets. But never have they seemed so vibrant as they do today. Songbirds fly from trees to fountains. The window boxes are packed with flowers, and the colors of the stucco homes and wooden benches lining the cliffs look so rich.
There’s an aroma of orange and lemon, mixed with lilac blossoms and freshly baked bread. I may not have paused long enough before to really appreciate what’s right here. Or maybe this woman’s enhancing all my senses. Sight, smell, hearing, all unexpectedly sharper. That leaves taste and touch. Gods be kind and let me discover what she can do with those.
By the time we’re approaching Rome, I’m second-guessing my choice. Not because it wouldn’t please her. Hadrian’s Villa and Villa d’Este seemed like something she would enjoy. And I could show off a little with my knowledge of the first and fifteenth century palaces and gardens. I’d leave out the fact I learned it all last night when I researched them on the internet.
I thought the Maritime Theater on an island separated by a moat, the bright frescos or the breathtaking gardens of jasmine and cypress trees might be a romantic setting. But there’s a flaw in my thinking, and I see it clearly now.
I hired the PhD credentialed docent to give us a private tour. Shit. Talking has been limited by the noise of the Ferrari. We had one loud conversation about our two best friends from high school, Oliver and Stori. They were our idea of a great romance back then. They had a bad breakup and never saw each other again. Funny, but I still see Oliver in New York and her best friend
is still Stori. We made plans to get them back together if we can arrange it.
Mostly we’ve been singing loudly and laughing about our less-than-perfect voices since Positano. We put memories to each song. Now if we go to the gardens, that’ll be another chunk of our limited time together spent not talking. No. I refuse to sabotage my only chance at getting to know her.
Taking the first turnoff, I pull the car into the small clearing next to an empty field and turn the engine off.
“Is this where we’re going? You did surprise me,” she says with a straight face.
I look into her green eyes with the long eyelashes. They need no makeup to tempt me. And that mouth. I want to know it.
“Whose stupid idea was it to go sightseeing?” I say.
“Yours,” she chuckles.
“I want to go to day two’s destination. Skip my original plan for today.”
“Why? What happened between Positano and Tivoli?” She looks intrigued.
“I realized the greatest adventure for us would be to get to know each other. No marble palace or beautiful garden is going to be as interesting as finding out who we’ve become.”
“You’re right.” As she says it she’s nodding her agreement.
“If I’m being truthful, I want to be alone with you. It’s that simple. Am I going too fast, bellezza?”
Her mouth curves into a smile. “We’ve known each other for twenty years, Fig. Even though most of them we’ve spent apart. I’ve decided not to count those.”
“Then I’m not counting them either.”
“Good. The new plan sounds wonderful. Tell me where we’re going,” she says.
“Sartunia Hot Springs. They’re hidden away in Tuscany. Have you been?”
“No. It’ll be a first.”
Going to the Chapel Page 10