Allison started giggling, which apparently made the foot rub feel ticklish, because the next thing Nick knew, she’d jerked her right foot out of his hands and kicked him in the jaw hard enough to knock him onto the floor. She looked horrified, for a second, until she saw he was cracking up, too.
After she helped him back up, she caught him in a long, warm hug.
“So what was it about me that drove you away?” he asked, rubbing his jaw.
“You just started spending so much time with your collection, with your classes, with Ben.” She shook her head. “I think you resented me hauling you out to the middle of nowhere.”
“Yeah, maybe.”
“It just got to the point where I thought, ‘He’s hard not to like, but he’s hard to like a lot.’ You know?”
“Like Professor Ricks quoting the famous scholar Dave Matthews: The space between.”
“I’m not opposed to taking another shot,” Allison said. “I know you’ve sold your collection and all. But it kind of feels like…” She puffed up her cheeks and slowly blew out the air.
“I know,” he said, thinking: However good it felt now, there was too much bad history waiting to drag them down. In a few weeks, they’d be wondering who’d been stupid enough to suggest getting back together, and fighting over which one of them was to blame. Besides, Nick realized he was really looking forward to the Verona trip. He owed it to himself to see what—and who—might be waiting for him there.
Allison took his hands and he walked her to the door. When she left, he didn’t turn off the porch light until long after she’d rounded the corner at the end of the block.
Chapter Twenty-two
Lia surprised her father with a peck on the cheek when she found him sleeping at the kitchen table. Salvatore woke with a start and lifted his head to reveal a sheet of paper stuck to the other side of his face. It was from a stack of festival notes he was trying to wrap up in the week before Giulietta’s annual celebration and the end of the Roman Arena’s opera season. The club’s hand-picked Giulietta—the brassy Fortunata this year, for some reason—and a local-boy Romeo would perform the play’s balcony scenes for the crowds at Giulietta’s house, a half-hour of tragedy played as broad comedy. From there, the Medieval Festival would take over the cobbled streets, with strolling musicians, magicians, dancers, jugglers, falconers, face painters and jolly peasants entertaining amid stalls of food vendors and artisans.
In addition to the annual presentation of the Scrivere per Amore International Literary Prize to the author of the past year’s most romantic novel, the club was assembling something special this year: Two hundred painters would crowd into one end of Piazza delle Erbe on the festival’s last morning and collaborate on a mural celebrating love. Art schools would be emptied for the occasion. It was this kind of big-hearted, silly event that the festival had become known for. As much as she resisted the cult of Giulietta the rest of the year, Lia joined the city in embracing it during her birthday week.
Lia would stand in the courtyard staring up at the balcony with a goofy grin, whispering along with those immortal lines and allowing herself to be transported by the whole wonderfully ersatz thing. If it was good enough to draw a million and a half tourists to visit Giulietta’s house throughout the year, rubbing the breast of her bronze statue for luck and sticking their proclamations of love onto the walls with chewing gum, Lia could give in to it for a few days. Truth be told, she rather looked forward to it.
“You seem in a good mood after another long shift,” Salvatore said, taking off his glasses so he could rub the sleep from his eyes. “While I find myself in the all-too-common position of old men the world over, having to be awakened for bed.”
“I was just thinking how proud I am that you bring so much joy into the city,” Lia said as she helped him order his papers.
“The joy is waiting to get out,” he said. “I just help channel it. Not that it’s easy figuring out how many bottles of water to order for thirsty jugglers and which stalls to put all the competing potters in so that they don’t start breaking crockery over each other’s heads. Although the tourists would eat that up.”
“Is there anything I can do to help?”
Salvatore looked at her with a supplicating expression he reserved for whenever he needed a big last-minute favor. “Actually, there is one thing,” he said. “I forgot to mention it earlier.”
“Well, don’t be shy about it.”
“You see, I need someone to play Giulietta...”
She swatted him with a sheaf of papers. “I know Fortunata is playing the role—just as you know I would not consider it for a second. I’m sure your friend the fat orange cat will enjoy hearing all about the real favor you need when you’re eating a cold breakfast with him on the landing tomorrow.”
“Seriously, Lia. I hate to ask, but…”
“Spit it out,” she said with a laugh. “I’m not going to beat you again.”
“We have a… special guest coming in this year, and the club would like to throw a dinner party for him on the eve of the festival.”
“Next Friday?” she asked. “Here?”
Salvatore nodded sheepishly. “Now that you’re a professional cook, we wondered if you might be willing to put together a light meal?”
She sighed in mock exasperation. “How many, father?”
“Say ten or so, depending on who brings a date.”
“Are you seeing someone you’re not telling me about?”
He gave her what appeared to be an embarrassed shrug, which surprised her. But her mind was already moving on to possible recipes.
“Okay, we’ll make it an even dozen portions just to be on the safe side—buffet style.”
Salvatore clasped his hands together like a true believer witnessing a miracle. “Thank you so much,” he said. “I could not ask for a better daughter.”
As her father disappeared into his bedroom, Lia realized he hadn’t told her anything about this special guest. It was probably the year’s prize-winning author, she thought, or whatever mid-level celebrity they’d roped into handing out the prize. She decided not to worry about it. A little mystery was always good for the soul.
Chapter Twenty-three
From 3,000 feet, the water of the Mediterranean appeared to be rolling beneath a vinyl pool cover of gunmetal gray. Giant creases alternated with placid flat surfaces. As the jet made its approach into Nice, Nick popped two cinnamon Altoids, rolled his shoulders, and checked the travel wallet hanging around his neck for passport and international driver’s license.
His parting gift to Ashland had been to donate $240 in yard-sale proceeds to a YMCA after-school program. He could afford it. After depositing his check from the sports memorabilia buff for half his collection, and meeting with an Experience Music Project curator in Seattle to iron out the details for adding his tickets for unplayed concerts to the museum’s permanent exhibits, Nick had spent two days walking around his old haunts in rapidly gentrifying Lake Union and the still-funky Queen Anne district. He’d caught up with a couple acquaintances, grabbed a latte from Allison’s old coffee counter in the bookshop, and assiduously avoided the street where his beloved husky had been run over.
Seattle didn’t seem to fit him anymore, either.
From there it was on to Sea-Tac for his international flight to adventure. Flying into the south of France was significantly cheaper than traveling direct to Milan, so he’d opted for a ticket to Nice, where a rental car awaited. After a night on the French Riviera, he’d hit the A-1 for Monaco and San Remo before hanging a left toward Verona with potential side trips to Lake Como and Milan. For a guy who’d barely been to Canada, it was an extraordinary itinerary, he thought. He glanced at the Italian Visual Language Guide poking out of the seat-back pocket and hoped he’d meet a few English speakers in his travels.
Customs was confusing but quick, and the deliciously chic rental-car clerk hooked him up with a disappointingly nondescript Clio Renault Sport. Withi
n 45 minutes of landing he was shifting gears and balancing a map on the dashboard as he swerved his way to the opulent Hotel Negresco, a “steal” at 300 euros a night.
As if Nick had stepped onto a conveyor belt of luxury, a valet took his car for safekeeping as soon as he pulled up to the entrance and he was escorted to check-in while uniformed bellhops whisked his luggage up to his ocean-view room. Key in hand, he soon followed, wondering if they ever needed lifeguards to pull guests out of the deep hallway carpeting.
The room was impressive—fabric wall-coverings and a postcard view of the Côte d’Azur—but the bathroom was spectacular. A spacious marble floor led to a glass-door shower stall big enough to hold a soccer team. Of course, they called it football over here, and he doubted any teams had piled into these facilities, but still.
It was early afternoon by the time Nick unpacked, and he wanted to check out the beach walk before sunset. But first he thought it would be a good idea to hit the exercise room for a light workout to fend off jetlag, followed by a quick shower in his amazing bathroom.
Nick worked out in a gym so formal it should have been called James. He felt out of place in his ratty sweats, and the platinum-haired princess in the pink Gucci exercise togs certainly reinforced that feeling with the nasty stares she was throwing at him from the gilt mirror in front of her Stairmaster. But what the hell, he thought—she’d brought her poodle in with her, so who was she to cast aspersions? Still, he left after a half-hearted weights circuit and ten minutes on the treadmill to loosen his legs.
The shower was well worth the wait—steam had never felt so luxurious—but Nick managed to tear himself away in time to grab a six-dollar bottle of water in the gift shop and hit the promenade just as the sun started to make its long descent into lustrous blue sea.
He took in the full sunset show at an apparently nameless creperie with three small tables inside and one on the sidewalk pushed up against the tall plate-glass window. The owner treated him like the only customer in the place (which he was, save for a laid-back pooch who appeared to be covered with big loops of tan yarn instead of fur), whipping up a delightful mushroom crepe followed by an even more delicious Nutella-stuffed number for dessert.
After hanging up his apron, the man poured them Kir royales and they sat and watched the champagne bubbles sparkle in the day’s brilliant last light. Three glasses later, Nick felt more lethargic than the dog. But he was also convinced that making this journey was the best decision he’d ever made.
Chapter Twenty-four
When Antonio called Wednesday evening, Lia was writing out a list of ingredients she would need for her father’s festival-eve dinner party. Her soon-to-be ex startled her with his friendly manner. He had a small child’s capacity for truth and rational behavior; unfortunately, he also had a child’s ability to turn on the charm to get his way. But if he wasn’t going to mention the disastrous scene in Ristorante Roma, neither would she.
“I want to thank you for working with my father’s attorney on the divorce,” Lia said. “You’ve been very… kind about it.”
“Why wouldn’t I be?” Antonio asked. “I care about you, Lia. I’ve always wanted what you wanted. As much as it pains me, how could I not grant your request?”
Still a phony, she thought. “I’m sorry it didn’t work out between us,” she said. “We were too young, though, I think.”
There was a long pause on the other end of the line, and Lia wondered if he too was speaking through gritted teeth, free hand balled into a fist, fingernails pressed into the palm.
“Will you keep Valerio, or go back to Cattaneo then?” he asked, finally.
“I haven’t thought that far ahead yet,” she lied, not wanting to give him an opening for anger. But then she couldn’t help herself and added, “Do you need the name back for Marina?”
More silence. Lia jumped to fill it, trying to get back to friendly ground. “She’s very pretty.”
“She left me, Lia.” And there was the familiar edge that made her shrink inside herself. “She said I was too angry.”
Smarter than she looked, Lia thought, but this time she kept quiet.
“Marina was right,” Antonio continued, back in control. “And so were you. That’s what I’ve called to tell you. I want to apologize.”
Lia was so stunned she sat down on the kitchen floor, her back pressed against a wooden cabinet.
“Can you forgive me, cara mia?” he asked.
She nodded at the phone. She would sooner expect Romeo and Giulietta to spring to life than to hear Antonio expressing remorse and taking responsibility for his actions.
“Are you still there?” he asked.
“Yes,” she said, wiping tears from her cheeks with the back of her left hand. “And I do forgive you. Thank you for asking. It means a lot to me.”
“My pleasure,” Antonio said. “There is one more thing I have to tell you.”
“Yes?”
“The initial papers will be available for us to sign by the end of the week. I thought maybe we could meet for a farewell dinner…”
“That sounds nice,” Lia said carefully. “You could come by Ristorante Roma.”
“I was thinking, if it’s all right with you, that we might spend our last married meal together in the same place we enjoyed our first.”
“Riva?” They hadn’t been back after the honeymoon. Perhaps they were both afraid of paving over those good memories with bad ones, she thought.
“So you still remember,” he said, sounding bemused. “Climbing the mountain to the monument, exploring the tower ruins.”
She remembered very well what they’d done once they’d made their way inside the crumbling tower walls. It still made her blush.
“Do you imagine the old couple is still running the inn?” he asked.
“It wasn’t that many years ago. They were ancient, though.”
“That farmhouse ristorante you loved so well, it’s still open,” he said. “I checked.”
“Oh, Antonio, do you really think it’s such a good idea?”
“Returning to the scene of the crime, you mean? Look, Lia, I just want to end things on good terms. I’d like to think we might be friends again someday.”
Why was she so resistant to the idea? After all, it was only fifty kilometers. “When, do you think?” she asked, more meekly than she’d intended.
“I’ve made us a reservation for Saturday.”
“But that’s the start of the festival…”
“Exactly,” he said. “I know how much you hate that crap.”
He really didn’t understand her, she mused. But he’d always been so sure about what he thought he knew. “It’s just that my father is working so hard, I hate to leave him in the lurch.”
“Come on, Lia, it’s only for one day. That old man’s tougher than I am. He can spare you.”
She knew he was right about that, if nothing else. “Okay,” she said after a long pause. Lia almost added, “You’re very sweet to do this, Antonio,” but held back at the final moment. She had learned it was best not to give him credit for good deeds in advance.
“Then it’s a date,” he said, sounding pleased with himself. “I’ll pick you up Saturday at noon and we can take our time driving out and seeing some of the old sights.”
“I’ll be ready,” Lia said. But even as she said it, she wondered if she would be up to the challenge of such an emotionally charged evening with Antonio. His intensity made her wary still. I have no joy of this contract to-night, she thought. It is too rash, too unadvised, too sudden. She wondered what Shakespeare’s Giulietta would have done.
Chapter Twenty-five
Although he sweated out a few tricky moments at gas stations and restaurants, Nick found he could get by pretty well throughout northern Italy simply by pointing, smiling, throwing in grazie, prego and va benne at appropriate moments, and occasionally pulling out a few phrases of high-school Spanish to find common linguistic ground. He kept the picture dictio
nary handy, but never found himself in need of asking for, say, a young fattened hen (pollastro da ingrasso).
With just two days to kill before festival eve in Verona, he’d started out from Nice at 9 a.m. with the notion of hitting Monte Carlo and the north coast before ending the day in Como. But even driving the Renault at a reasonably speedy 140 kph on the Autostrade, that plan soon proved too ambitious. Driving into Monte Carlo was a hassle, and he’d high-tailed it out of the principality after dropping 200 euros in the justifiably famous casino. He was not going to be the man who broke the bank at Monte Carlo, although it would have been easy for Monte Carlo to break him. And the not-so-discreet security apparatus, which didn’t allow visitors even to linger in the parks, gave him the willies.
But not too far down the coast he had the good fortune to stop in San Remo, an Italian Riviera gem. After braving the switchback curves of the narrow highway leading down to sea level, Nick was delighted to find a charming old resort town where even the campers could find accommodations along the Ligurian Sea. He parked near the seafront promenade, a wide sidewalk of polished, multi-colored marble dotted with swaying palms, and set off on foot to explore the historic shopping district’s cobblestone paths.
Skipping the ubiquitous gift shops pushing postcards and bottles of limoncello, and the tourist meccas of Swatch and Swarovski, he spent the afternoon exploring galleries, antiques shops, flower stalls and equally fragrant produce markets.
San Remo boasted a stately casino of its own, but Nick decided to admire it from afar. Instead, he spent the money he probably would have lost gambling on three new casual outfits from a haberdashery hidden away on a side street he never would have found if he’d been looking for it.
Carrying his bags back to the car, he came to a small bed and breakfast with a fine view of the Mediterranean and booked himself a room on the spur of the moment. After checking in, he gave in to temptation and took a nap atop the soft comforter while ocean breezes cooled him from the open French doors of his private balcony.
Finding Juliet Page 7