And it wasn’t like his dad hadn’t fashioned his own rich fantasy world to hole up in. Nick’s parents had split up when he was too young to realize they couldn’t stand each other. His father had hit the road for years, a bar postcard here, a rambling, post-bedtime phone call there. On his rare visits back to Issaquah from Seattle or Portland or whatever other Northwest city he was underachieving in at the time, he’d take Nick out for pizza and bowling and inevitably get drunk enough on tap beer to try to explain himself to his son, who’d never asked for an explanation and anyway didn’t appreciate the inevitable pleading that, “Your mom’s crazy.” His dad couldn’t have known how accurate that assertion would prove to be.
Nick was in high school when his mother’s forgetfulness transformed from charming quirk into full-blown dementia. By the time he started college she no longer recognized him. He’d allowed himself to be sucked into campus life so completely that he managed only a couple of gut-wrenching visits to her nursing home in Issaquah every year, fending off all those lonely, gibbering old crazies in the TV room and watching his mom guzzle Cokes with abandon. Most of the time, she didn’t even look over at him.
That’s when his dad was pulled back into his mother’s orbit by twin tractor beams of guilt and love. Nick understood the guilt part, but he challenged the notion that those daily visits to walk his oblivious mom around the tree-shaded, wood-chipped paths of her secure care facility had anything to do with affection. As the years passed, though, and his dad kept showing up to listen to his ex-wife babble and wipe the drool from her mouth, Nick became a grudging believer.
“When your mother still had her marbles she was such a bitter bitch that I had to get away,” his father had explained one day over fast-food salads. “Some of that was my fault, of course. I didn’t make things easy for her. But I never, ever stopped loving her. She needs me now, and what’s left of her is as sweet as can be. I’d like to think she’d do the same thing for me.”
Nick caught a whiff of his father’s fear that day. The woman he’d once planned to spend his life with had lost her mind in her forties while he’d been out knocking around and thinking he had nothing but time. He’d left her for no one in particular and ended up with no one at all. Part of this newfound dedication to his mother had to be wrapped up in the knowledge that no one—not even his son—would really be there for him in similar circumstances. And throwing himself into her care gave him a socially acceptable way to keep avoiding the hard work of figuring out a career, starting new relationships and settling into a worthwhile adult life. It was, Nick thought, a selfishly selfless act. But if it worked for his dad, so be it.
Though Nick did wish he’d stop thinking the Joan of Arc bit gave him some moral authority over the son he’d more or less abandoned the first time shit had gotten tough. Dad hadn’t earned the right to become a respected adviser, but he seemed to think holding mom’s hand magically made things right with his only child. So they didn’t talk much. It was just like the old days, only now Nick was the one avoiding his father. For him, there truly was no place like home.
Chapter Eleven
Lia couldn’t remember why on earth she’d ever thought Ristorante Roma was a laid-back establishment. It must have seemed calmer from the other side of the counter. But here it was summer and, with only one cooking class under her belt, she was prepping a never-ending stream of fresh ingredients for the chef to whip up into dishes for the tourists. The more furiously Lia sliced tomatoes, diced mushrooms and drizzled olive oil on discs of mozzarella, the more serenely the chef, 20 years her senior, churned out fluffy gnocci, addictively crispy pizzas and risotto that melted creamily across the taste buds. And then, at the end of every day, Lia’s new mentor walked her through one of the signature dishes in slow motion until she was competent to cover a slow lunch shift. Or so the chef told her, urging her on to full culinary independence.
Lia thought she’d been careful what she wished for, and she’d been elated when she actually landed the job. But now she was seriously wondering if her arms, legs and heart might just give out when the high season kicked in. With no air conditioning in the kitchen and an unseasonably warm June, she already felt like she was melting. After pushing yet another tortellini set-up down the prep line so it could be drenched in white sauce (poco grasso for the ever-dieting tourists, of course), Lia looked up long enough to catch a glimpse of herself in the stainless-steel refrigerator door. It wasn’t even noon and already her curls were wriggling free of the hair band in a seemingly organized prison break. She couldn’t help admiring the taut, well-muscled arms in constant motion on either side of the tan, spaghetti-strap tank top that had become her unofficial uniform—along with knee-length shorts and comfortable flats.
Her reddened face glistened and half-moon stains outlined the bottom of her breasts where the sweat pooled up. She couldn’t decide if that was more embarrassing than the fact that her sore nipples put on a lurid show thanks to constant friction against the fabric—an unfortunate byproduct of giving up bras at work in a desperate attempt to stay cool. Of course, the bus boys didn’t seem to mind.
In short, it could have been a nightmare, oppressive in more ways than one. But Lia felt exhilarated. She felt the tingle of joy even through her exhaustion. This was the life she’d always wanted. And after a too-long period of licking her wounds, she was living her dream. With a few more years of experience and some start-up funding from savings and her doting father, she’d open her own café. Every morning, she’d visit the farmer’s market for fresh produce and then return to write the day’s menu on a chalkboard, following her whim to the specials of the day.
Lia felt so good, so on track, she’d even begun planning her divorce from Antonio. She wasn’t looking forward to the inevitable fireworks, but she’d dropped him a vague note asking if they could meet for a talk and start sorting things out, moving forward. She’d mailed it a week ago, and hoped for a response in the next few days. Luckily, Antonio had been born in the Italian Swiss canton of Ticino to a Veronese father and Swiss mother. With his dual citizenship, they could quickly dissolve their marriage in a European Union court instead of having to wait three years under the Italian system. They could at least spare each other some pain and suffering in the end.
And after they disentangled themselves, who knew? Maybe Lia would even find time to date again. She’d already surprised herself by noticing a few of the more dashing regular customers, confident young businessmen with impeccable style and easy manners. The world was more full of possibility than she’d remembered. Lost in her visions of the future, she didn’t notice she’d nicked her finger until she looked down and saw her blood dripping into a milky slice of fresh mozz.
She dumped the plate into the trash and held her finger up. She caught the chef’s eye, and she cocked her head toward the bathroom. Lia nodded and left her station to wash up, grab a bandage, and splash some cool water on her face. The smile Lia wore from her little joke disappeared as she rounded the corner and saw Antonio Valerio sitting at a window-side table and flirting with the waitress while she opened a bottle of water for him. In a sudden panic, she retraced her steps and pressed her back against the wall. Feeling the color drain from her face, she reminded herself to breathe.
Her husband couldn’t just do the decent thing for once and respond to her note by suggesting a time and place to meet. No, the arrogant prick had to keep her on her toes, show her he was still in control of the situation and, by implication, of her. Not this time, Lia thought. She’d wanted a meeting with him. So what if he arrived unannounced? His silly game would simply start the wheels in motion on their divorce that much sooner. She’d tell him she was grateful for his thoughtful gesture. See if that would make him choke on his panino until olive oil started running down his stupid stubbly beard.
She stepped back around the corner confidently and was just barely able to keep the bright smile plastered on her face when she saw that Antonio had been joined by a knockout lunch
date clad in a sheer cream blouse and black leather miniskirt she’d probably been kicked out of Catholic school for wearing sometime in the past year or so.
Before she could run back into the kitchen, Antonio looked up at her and did a grinning double-take. “Lia! You work here?” he asked. There was mirth in his voice, but his green eyes remained flat. “I guess I don’t have to respond to your letter now.”
“No,” she said as she made her way robotically toward his table. “What a happy coincidence.”
“I’d like you to meet my new friend, Marina,” he said, clearly relishing Lia’s humiliation.
Marina extended a delicate hand palm down, as if the poor wretch standing before her might curtsey and kiss it. Fighting back tears, Lia completed the awkward handshake.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you,” she said.
Marina grimaced in response. “Antonio,” she cried. “She’s bleeding on me!”
Lia had forgotten all about the cut, beset as she was by much longer knives. Horrified, she dipped a napkin in a water glass and began trying to dab at the few drops of blood she’d left on the young harlot’s hand.
“This seems like a bad time,” Antonio said. As he stood, Lia noticed his gaze lingering on her tank top, and he was still leering when he met her eyes again.
“Let’s go, Marina,” he said.
In full pout, the girl stood abruptly and knocked her oversized water glass onto the terrazzo tiles, where it exploded with a liquid thud. All eyes in the restaurant were on Lia now as she knelt and began gathering up the shards. While Marina flounced into the street, Antonio turned at the door. “I’ll be in touch,” he said, “soon.”
And then, just as Antonio had done so many times before, he left Lia in tears on the floor.
Chapter Twelve
After the last meeting of his Shakespearean lit course in June, Grant Ricks caught up with Nick outside the lecture hall and invited him for a chat in the cluttered office he kept in the vine-covered English Department building next door.
“I have something for you,” Ricks said as he moved a small pile of textbooks off of the visitors’ chair. “Please make yourself at home. And will you be finding a home among the bookish classes?”
Nick shrugged.
“You’ve got the brains, interest and moody temperament for academia,” the professor continued as he searched through his desk drawers. “I’d be more than happy to help you look for a position for the fall. But you’d better decide soon or there won’t be any chairs left when the music stops.”
“I appreciate the support,” Nick said. “And I’ve had a great time teaching composition. I enjoy guiding students to new discoveries.”
“Plus you get summers off!” Ricks exclaimed, partly because he’d finally found whatever it was he was searching for in the desk. He handed an opened envelope across to Nick.
“Juliet sends her regards.” Ricks sat back into his creaking wooden swivel chair and laced his hands behind his head.
Nick removed the letter and started to read: Dearest heartsick friend…
“Not so fast,” Ricks interrupted. “Smell the perfume. Violet-scented paper. A nice touch.”
And it was. Nick held the page under his nose and inhaled. He could stand a few more love letters like this. Opening the paper, he read on, and found the ending especially moving: The true love of which you speak can never end. Keep your heart open to it, and it will find you. That I promise. Forever yours, Giulietta.
“She’s good, isn’t she?” Ricks asked, as if nudging him to check out a hottie on the beach. The attitude annoyed Nick a bit, but Ricks had made the assignment and sent the first missive off to Verona, so it was understandable that he wanted to be in on the climax.
“It’s an effective letter,” Nick said. “She’s giving real hope to a guy who talked about killing himself. I must say I’m impressed. I thought they might send back form letters, or nothing at all in a case like this.”
“That’s the other reason I asked you in here,” Ricks said. He stood and looked out over a small grove of trees. Nick followed his gaze.
“You haven’t really been feeling suicidal, have you?” the professor asked, his back still to Nick. “This is awkward, but if I didn’t bring it up and you actually did something, well, I might kill myself.” They shared an awkward laugh as Ricks turned to face his student.
“I appreciate your concern,” Nick said. “But no. The closet I’ve come to killing myself this semester was when you told the class, ‘Shakespeare’s prose is as muscular as a John Bonham drum solo.’”
“Too much?” Ricks asked, chuckling. “I thought I was on a roll with that Dave Matthews line.”
Nick folded the letter and slid it back into the envelope. “This was an assignment,” he said. “That’s all.”
“It just seemed so heartfelt…”
“Maybe I’ll make a good con man someday.” Nick stood to leave and took the professor’s hand when he offered it.
“Good con men make great teachers,” Ricks said.
“I’ll keep that in mind.”
As Nick entered the hallway, he nearly bumped into Allison. He didn’t have to wonder if she’d heard his conversation with Ricks. He could see the wheels spinning as she tried to decide whether to lie about it. He guessed right about how she’d play it.
“So you did write that letter,” she said, following just behind his right shoulder as he started down the hall.
He turned and stared at her. “Did you need to see Professor Ricks? Because he’s still in there.”
She gave him a condescending head shake. “That can wait. I’m worried about you, Nick. We all heard Ricks read that letter in class. It was scary-sad. I can’t help thinking maybe you need help getting over… us.”
This was one of those moments when Nick wished he hadn’t quit smoking.
“Like I told Ricks, it was fiction. It has nothing to do with us.”
“I should have known,” she whispered.
He should have resisted, but couldn’t. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“First you lose yourself in that ticket collection and now you’re sending suicidal
letters about our relationship to fictional characters. You not only live in the past—you live in the fake past.”
“It’s not exactly fake,” he said.
“It’s not exactly real, is it?” Allison replied.
“So you’re saying we’d still be together if I’d burned that other ticket?”
“No, I’m saying we’d still be together if you were the kind of guy who’d burn that ticket. I wouldn’t have wanted you to do it just on my account.”
“I think you’d have run off with actor boy either way.”
“His name is Trevor.”
“You’re right, after seeing his ass pumping away in my bed, I should be on a first-name basis with him.”
“I don’t know why I even bother,” Allison spat.
“Don’t,” Nick called out to her retreating form, and then thought: Is love a tender thing? It is too rough, too rude, too boisterous, and it pricks like thorn.
He headed back home to draft a response to his Juliet.
Chapter Thirteen
Dearest Juliet,
How could I end my life when I was already dead? Your kind response has stirred in me the knowledge that I have been a spiritless spirit, a phantom sleepwalker. What a wonderful revelation! All that’s left for me is to find new purpose for my renewed life force.
With all my awakening heart I believe we may be kindred souls, you and I. It would touch me deeply and help light the path ahead if we might continue in earnest our chaste correspondence. Rather than say it is too much to ask, please expend that energy to share more insights into the magical power of love. Truly, your words play like music in my dreams.
Forever yours,
Nick
Even though he didn’t need a love-sick paramour mistakenly falling for him, Salvatore couldn’t help but
enjoy the latest letter from Nick Moore of the United States. Viola’s advice had helped turn another life around. It was a proud moment, a bright spot during a hectic and difficult period.
Only two months until mid-September’s Festa Medievale and its attendant celebration of the Compleanno di Giulietta, and Salvatore was in the thick of planning. If he wasn’t getting the club’s red velvet banner cleaned for proper draping over the balcony at Casa di Giulietta, he was scheduling rehearsals, ordering brunette wigs and keeping his brood of hens from pecking each other’s eyes out.
And those were just his club duties, he mused as he made his way past the lovers strolling along the Adige on this brilliant summer day. At home, things with Lia seemed better after she started her job at Ristorante Roma. But after a few weeks, his daughter had come home one day ready to quit and give up on her dreams. Salvatore knew women’s moods could swing like the pendulums of the old clock towers, but this was an unexpectedly intense shift. Every time he’d tried to talk to her for days afterward, she’d snap at him and retreat to her room.
It had been two weeks since her big night of despair, and she’d finally leveled back out. But even though she’d kept the job and kissed his cheeks in apology for pushing him away, he didn’t sense the joy seeping back into her life as he had when she’d started cooking again. Perhaps Antonio was antagonizing her. If that was the case, Salvatore wondered what he might be able to do about it. He wasn’t up for a fight, in any case, but thought he could muster up a stern talking to. But would that only make matters worse? Unsure, he tried to tread lightly around Lia while giving her as much love and support as she could bear.
Nick’s latest letter had arrived via e-mail submitted through the club’s Web site. But Salvatore sat down on his bench as always and used pen and paper to channel Viola’s response. And then, after a spritz of her violet perfume, another old-fashioned love letter would be ready for the mail. Not only did Salvatore prefer to work this way, as a practical matter it would slow the process down, perhaps allowing Nick’s passions to cool. As the young man reengaged with life, surely he would lose interest in corresponding with a fictional muse.
Finding Juliet Page 4