Chapter Fourteen
Lia was cranking one of the restaurant’s three sidewalk table umbrellas closed at the end of a particularly hectic lunch shift when Serafina walked by, nose buried in a book.
“Ciao, stranger,” Lia said cheerily. Serafina was her favorite secretary of Juliet; the four-year difference in their ages and the psychologist’s gentle insights into human nature made her feel a bit like the big sister she’d never had. Plus, Serafina also drove a scooter—although it was a newer Lambretta in Ferrari red.
Serafina laughed as she snapped the book shut and took in the world around her as if she’d just landed on the planet. “Ciao, Lia. How rude of me to walk by without a glance. I’ve been engrossed in this examination of the psychology of Shakespeare. I read it in English when it first came out, but there’s a new Italian translation and I couldn’t resist diving in again.”
“It does sound interesting,” Lia said, pouring two glasses of water. “What have you learned?”
Serafina sat in front of one of the glasses and Lia joined her at the table, which was now fully exposed to the late-afternoon sun.
“More than anything, I’ve reaffirmed that Shakespeare’s works can be adapted to serve almost any literary purpose, and thus to explore every aspect of the human condition. His plots are universal.”
Now it was Lia’s turn to chuckle. “I thought mining his works was simply the province of lazy writers,” she said.
“Well, there’s that, too,” Serafina agreed. “But the themes—family strife, betrayal, thwarted love—they resonate still.”
Lia thought back to the lines she’d recently read from her parents’ edition of Romeo and Juliet. “Is that why you participate in that silly club?” she asked.
“I guess it is silly, a little,” Serafina said, “but I like to think I help people work through their emotional upsets. It’s free therapy, really, and it helps keep me sharp. I admit I am a bit of a romantic, too.”
Sensing she might have offended her friend, Lia quickly added, “My father says the club would be folly without you.”
Serafina brightened. “We make a good team, Salvatore and I. “
“We used to as well,” Lia said, and then immediately wished she could take it back.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to imply that I’ve taken your place,” Serafina said, taking Lia’s right hand in hers.
“Oh, I know,” Lia said. “And it’s not that he has somehow cast me aside. I’m the one who has grown more distant from him, even though I know he would do anything for me.”
“I think you have both done as well as could be expected, considering…”
“He took such care of me in those first years after my mother died that I was almost able to pretend we had a normal life. But now that I am a supposedly independent woman, I miss her more than ever. For all the advice my father gives to the lovelorn, he can’t help me with that.”
Serafina gave Lia’s hand a gentle squeeze. “A mother’s insight and support would certainly be useful to you now, I know. I can’t fill that role, but if you need a woman’s perspective, I am here for you.”
“Thank you,” Lia said, using her free hand to wipe away the tears she hadn’t even realized were running down her cheeks.
“As a woman, a psychologist and a friend, the first piece of advice I can offer is this: Stop feeling guilty for growing more distant from your father. It’s the natural course of things. You still love him—we all do—but you must make your own way as an adult. This is all part of reasserting your independence after that shit Antonio tore you apart.”
Lia nodded, feeling a wave of relief for the first time in recent memory.
“My second piece of advice is something you know well yourself: It’s time to put Antonio behind you for good. Only then will you be able to move forward and build the adult relationship with your father that you both want.”
The thought had occurred to Lia more than once, but it was always swiftly followed by another one: Where would she find the strength to confront Antonio and officially turn Antonio into an ex?
Chapter Fifteen
It was during graduation week that all hell broke loose. Ben Cameron’s editor at the Seattle Times held the story on Nick until the end of June, and at first there hadn’t been a discernible splash.
But several days after the big Sunday features spread hit—and several other papers picked the story up in syndication—Nick found his dance card filling up fast. He heard from the business manager of a sports-memorabilia buff offering ten grand for the baseball portion of his collection. More intriguingly, he’d talked with a curator at Seattle’s Experience Music Project, the hipster museum funded by Paul Allen’s Microsoft millions, about creating an exhibit around his cache of tickets for canceled concerts. It sounded like they might even be willing to pay a nice five-figure price to add them to their permanent collection.
At first, Nick wasn’t sure which way to jump. But when a CNN producer called to pitch him on doing a story about single-handedly creating a collecting craze (no thank you), he knew his days of trolling through sleepy online auctions for great additions to his stash were gone. He had no desire to make a career out of his hobby like that guy who’d amassed a ton of old lunchboxes and then produced a collectibles guide that left him sitting on a wealth of prime inventory. It was probably time to sell.
As he and Ben enjoyed a last celebratory pitcher before the young reporter set off to meet his destiny in the Emerald City, Nick felt elated and empty at the same time. Here he was about to receive his literature MA and cash some good-size checks, and yet he didn’t feel his spirits lifting. He’d already lost a long-term relationship with Allison and his comfortable life in Seattle. Now he was going to part with school and his collection as well. It didn’t seem to leave him with much.
With Grant Ricks’ help, he’d applied for a few English instructor openings at small colleges, but hadn’t heard back anything solid yet. Maybe he’d have to learn how to be a reporter and take Ben’s old job at the Daily Tidings. That reminded him of the tagline he’d seen on his friend’s manuscript all those weeks ago.
“Tell me about the ‘virtual porn star love shack,’” Nick said as he topped off Ben’s pint glass.
“My editor at the Times didn’t go for that. I might pitch it to a magazine, though. Or it could be part of the book, if I try to pitch a book.”
“What’s the story?”
“It’s this freaky guy that lives around here.”
Nick mustered a half-smile. “Town’s full of them.”
“Yeah, listen, are we still all right?” Ben asked, looking down at the beer coaster he was batting back and forth like an obsessive cat.
“We’re all right. Just giving you a hard time. So about your latest freak…”
“No, this one’s truly nuts. I was interviewing the guy for a Daily Tidings story on hunting. He owns a gun shop.”
“Gun collector?”
“Yeah, but that’s not the weird thing. After the story came out, he called to tell me how much he liked it. How he was wary about talking to the media, but I could be trusted. And he wanted to show me his secret collection so maybe I could write it up for a ‘special magazine.’”
“What the hell?”
“I know, I know. The guy had the hairs standing up on my neck. But since I was thinking about writing a story on your collection I thought, hey, possible series. So I met him at his house after work one Friday. Guy’s got this mousy little wife, very quiet, but nice. She got me a soda and then went off to fix dinner or whatever. So that set me at ease. But the fact he’s married made what happened next even stranger.”
“Did he make a pass at you?”
“No. That would have been less surprising than what did happen, actually. After we make some small talk and I finish my Coke, he takes me out to his shed in the backyard where he works on his guns and whatnot. Turns out, he’s also got this hidden display cabinet. He slides back a wall panel a
nd goes, ‘This is what I wanted to show you.’”
Ben leaned in to whisper the punch line. “I’m telling you, man, it was just pussies as far as the eye could see.”
“What?”
“The guy collects porn-star genitalia.”
“I’m sorry?”
“Me, too. But there are companies—big companies—that use the latest, most pliable plastics to mold exact replicas of porn-star privates. They do penises, too, but this guy only had vaginas. So I guess he’s a totally heterosexual freak.”
“He wanted you to write that up for the Ashland paper?”
“No way. He doesn’t want his wife and customers to know. But he’s so proud of his collection, he wants to share it with the rest of the pervy world somehow. He asked me to do a story on him for, like, Hustler or something. That way, he’d be the envy of all the other freaks. And if anyone around here found out about it, it’d only be because that guy was a porn-crazy nut job just like him.”
Nick shook his head. “That’s nuts,” he said.
“And that’s not the half of it,” Ben continued. “He keeps all of his collectibles in their original packaging—like they’re Star Wars action figures or something. But they’re not. They’re free-floating privates, set into these pink plastic slabs about a foot square.”
“Mounted like deer heads?”
“That’s about the size of it. In fact, if I ever write this thing, I might steal that image from you.”
“I wish you could erase it from my brain.”
“At least you didn’t have to see them first-hand.” Ben shook his head. “And I think he must have had a few, uh, working models stashed away somewhere, because I also saw a bottle of Before & After Adult Toy Cleaner. Everything in there had a ridiculous product name. Like the Tyffany Mynx Ultra Realistic Vibrating Pussy & Anus.”
“They come with anuses?” Nick asked the question loudly enough that a passing waitress stopped and frowned at him before hurrying to the next table.
Ben laughed. “Most of them do,” he said. “Double the pleasure, double the fun, I guess. There’s one model from Jenna Jameson and Juli Ashton has two—a regular one and a special tenth anniversary edition. I have no idea what the difference would be. And of course I can’t leave out the Sunset Thomas Vibrating Realistic Vagina.”
“Does Sunset’s real one vibrate, then?”
“Apparently. They couldn’t say it if it wasn’t true, right? And just think of all those women having to make the product molds, sitting there with crotches full of plaster.”
“The mind boggles.”
“Looking at a wall full of plastic-wrapped vaginas, it felt like I’d stumbled into a serial killer’s lair. So I asked him, ‘What does your wife think of all this?’ And he turns on me real quick like he might attack me. But then he looks back over my shoulder and whispers, ‘All this is off the record to my wife.’”
“The guy’s crazy.”
“I agree. But crazy makes good copy—just not in a family newspaper. I’m still deciding who to pitch it to.”
“How about Psychotics Today?”
“That’s a thought, my friend. Maybe after I get out of rifle range.”
Nick paused. It had just hit him that Ben’s Seattle adventure would leave him no one to drink beer with. He polished off half his pint in one gulp. “When are you leaving, anyway?”
“Next week,” Ben said, more subdued now, too. But then he brightened. “Hey, are you thinking about moving back? You should, man. We could hit some Mariners games, have something good to watch while we drink.”
Nick nodded along. “Maybe. I don’t know. I’ll figure something out.” Whatever it was, it had better be soon, he thought as they killed their last Ashland pitcher.
Chapter Sixteen
In the month since Antonio had humiliated her at Ristorante Roma, Lia had made a bit of progress toward demanding a divorce. For the first two weeks, she had merely stared at the phone and willed her hand to move toward it. For the last two, thanks in large part to her conversation with Serafina, she’d regularly picked up the phone and even started to dial before hanging up. At this rate, she mused, her husband might die of natural causes before she managed to haul him into court.
Her father had been sweet and non-judgmental through her latest emotional crisis, but she’d nearly bitten Salvatore’s head off every time he’d so much as asked her to pass the sugar. Why did she do that? Lia wondered for the millionth time as she absently flipped through a wonderful out-of-print Tuscan cookbook she’d unearthed at a weekend flea market.
Focusing on the pages now, she decided to make her father a surprise meal by way of apology. Usually too tired to cook after her grueling kitchen shifts, Lia felt energized by the notion of showing the old man how much she really loved him. She pulled the flour down from its high shelf and started planning her assault on a homemade pasta primavera recipe she’d been wanting to try.
When Salvatore walked in as she was rolling out the noodles and tried to hide his surprise at her light mood, she stopped humming only long enough to meet him at the door for a flour-dusted hug and kisses for both cheeks.
“What’s the occasion?” her father asked. She could see how delighted he was even as he paused in front of the entryway mirror to brush flour from the shoulders of his green linen shirt.
“You’re the occasion,” Lia said. She waved the small rolling pin at him like a wand, bestowing a culinary benediction. “For making your daughter feel always safe, and treating her like she’s sane even when she acts so crazy.”
“You’re not crazy, princess. Just human.” He cupped a hand over the sauce pot and coaxed the aroma of simmering fresh peppers, onions, tomatoes and garlic up toward his nose. “But you can cook a meal like this for me any time the mood strikes. I’m not proud.”
“No,” she said, playfully bumping him away from the stove with her right hip. “Just impatient and hungry.”
Over dinner, she told her father all about the trouble with Antonio. He had nodded gravely—already aware of the situation, if not its particulars, as she suspected he would be. When she finished pouring out her woes and fears, he waited respectfully while she dabbed at her eyes with a napkin.
“This is a bad kind of dance Antonio is asking you to join,” Salvatore said.
“It doesn’t feel like he’s asking me anything,” Lia shot back, more fiery than she’d intended.
“I know,” her father replied, calm as ever. “But by goading you, he is attempting to draw you into a bitter struggle. You want to leave him, and he wants you to pay for the privilege.”
“But it is my right, father!” Lia felt the hot tears starting again.
“Certainly,” Salvatore said, placing his warm hands over hers. “I am merely suggesting what his perspective may be. It is important to begin the proceedings as soon as possible. But otherwise, you must refuse to engage him in battle. You must let go of your hatred and replace it with pity or even forgiveness.”
“Forgiveness,” she whispered, as if it was the basest of insults.
Salvatore squeezed her hands. “Maybe you stick with pity, yes?” They both chuckled at that.
“Which is a more powerful force, do you think, love or hate?” he asked.
She shook her head and went to work with the napkin again.
“Hate seems more powerful, in that it is destructive,” Salvatore continued. “But hate is transitory. You must work to hold onto it. Love, on the other hand—love comes at you and wants to stay. All you have to do is let it. And the best thing is, true love will never leave. Now that is power. So let Antonio waste his time on hatred. You’ve got better things to do.”
It made sense, but she knew it wouldn’t be as easy as all that. “How do I start?” she asked.
“I will call a solicitor friend tomorrow. He will contact Antonio on your behalf and start the proceedings with the EU court. With any luck, he’ll be out of your hair officially by next festival time.”
; She touched her father’s face across the small kitchen table. “Thank you so much, papa. Thank you for your wisdom, for really listening to my problems, and for knowing just the right time to step in with a solution.”
“My pleasure, cara mio,” Salvatore said. “Now, does this mean I get a special dessert, too?”
Chapter Seventeen
When Grant Ricks tapped him on the shoulder, Nick almost dropped his ice-cream cone. Ashland had come to seem like such a no-man’s land that actually bumping into an acquaintance downtown on a summer Saturday was a shocking event.
“Any word on the job front?” Ricks asked. A frisky black lab fidgeted next to the professor on the end of a retractable leash.
“Nothing yet,” Nick said. He motioned to the dog with his dwindling cone. “Can he have some?”
“Sure,” Ricks said with a grin. “But whenever you give food to Buster it pays to watch your fingers.”
While the dog lapped up the huckleberry ice cream and chewed his way through the cone and paper wrapper, Ricks rummaged inside his leather book bag and pulled out a familiar-looking envelope.
“Glad I ran into you,” he said. “Juliet seems to have taken a fancy to you—but I respected your privacy this time. I figured since you must have sent her a letter on your own this time, I had no right to read the reply.”
Nick wiped his fingers on his jeans and took the envelope. He breathed in the faint scent of violet before tucking it into his back pocket. When he hadn’t received a reply to his e-mail, he figured his attempt to start a more meaningful correspondence had failed. But now he was elated to find he might have a lovely Italian pen pal after all. It was all he could do not to open the letter on the spot.
Finding Juliet Page 5