She and Massimo were spending the winter holidays with family members in sunny Martinique and apparently this was a success, apart from the fact that Elena was there also and Valentina didn’t like her. She treats me like I’m ten years old! Valentina wrote.
Charli stopped reading, tried to breathe. Something was wrong with her to feel such pain at the thought of that woman with Massimo. Was Elena the next one in a line of temporary affairs?
Elena was an old friend, Massimo had said when he’d introduced them, and he’d never lied to her or deceived her as far as she knew. But what was true then was not necessarily true today. Massimo had every right to have an affair with anyone he pleased.
Charli swallowed at the constriction in her throat. She was an idiot to keep feeling so devastated every time she thought of Massimo. But she had no control over her feelings—they were there and they refused to go.
She took an unsteady breath and tried to focus on Valentina’s message on the screen.
Now and again, Valentina sent her a message, usually nothing more than a few hastily typed lines, but Charli was always happy to hear from her. She had fully expected Valentina to be too busy with her school life to ever give much thought to her, Charli, now that she was no longer a presence in her daily life.
She closed the laptop and put it away.
Bree arrived, bringing in a wave of cold air and a happy grin. “I just love all this snow! You wanna go outside and play? Make a snowman?”
“No, I want to be in the Caribbean, in the sun.” It slipped out before she could think about it.
Bree laughed as she dumped her bag by the door and flipped back the hood of her coat. Her long red hair tumbled around her rosy-cold face. She unzipped her coat. “Well, that’s progress. Up to now you just wanted to be in Italy.”
“I just got an e-mail from Valentina. They’re in Martinique for the holidays.” She left out the news that Elena was there also. She didn’t feel like analyzing her feelings. Her useless, irrelevant feelings.
Bree shouldered out of her coat and frowned. “So no progress.”
“I’m a big bore, I’m sorry. I just never knew I could miss somebody that much.”
Never had she known such utter desolation. She’d tried to hate him for hurting her, but she was incapable of it. He was the man she wanted, the man she loved.
Never again, she thought. Never again will I fall in love and let myself in for this kind of agony. I can’t stand it. I just can’t stand it.
Bree was looking at her, concern in her eyes. “Charli,” she said slowly, “I’m beginning to think you should do something.”
“Do something? Like what? Jump off a bridge?”
“Like tell him you love him.”
Charli stared at Bree, digesting the words. She thought of the terrible day she had left Rome, of Massimo letting her go. She thought of Elena. She gave a bitter little laugh. “You’ve got to be kidding.”
“It’s the truth, Charli, and he doesn’t know it.”
“He should know it! He has to know it!”
“But you never told him!”
“And you think that might have changed his mind about wanting a future with a wife and kids in it?”
Bree sighed with exasperation. “I don’t know, Charli, and neither do you. But if he is the man you want, maybe you should fight for him.”
Charli said nothing. She felt utterly helpless. How did you fight for a man who didn’t want you?
Bree hung up her coat and picked up her bag. “Enough said.” She plopped herself down on the sofa and fished out a couple of video cassettes. “Let’s watch a movie.”
Several weeks later the weather had not improved, but at least her teaching job kept her mind busy most of the time if not all of the time. In unguarded moments she kept thinking of what Bree had said, and always the question returned in her head: how did you fight for a man who didn’t want you? If he wanted her, Massimo knew exactly where to find her.
And a few weeks later he did.
Seeing his name and address in the In Box of her e-mail program came as a shock. Her heart crashed against her ribs, then started pounding like mad. She opened the message.
Dear Charli,
I trust you are well. I am writing concerning Valentina. You’ve probably already been informed by her that I have finally relented. She will start her studies at the University of Pennsylvania in September.
I will have business in New York at the end of February and would like to come to Philadelphia to see you and discuss my concerns about Valentina being so far away from home. May I take you out to dinner?
Regards, Massimo.
He was coming to Philadelphia and he wanted to see her. About Valentina. Of course Charli knew about his change of heart, had received a jubilant couple of lines from Valentina not long ago.
She read the message again. It was a very businesslike little note which could have been directed to anyone. Nothing personal to indicate they had once shared some very un-businesslike nights and days.
He wanted to meet with her. Talk about Valentina.
Damn him! she thought suddenly, as a painful rage surged through her. He doesn’t want me in his life, but he wants me in Valentina’s. I’m not going to let him do this to me. I don’t want to see him. I couldn’t bear it.
Her head hurt. The headache she’d been nursing all day was turning ugly.
The thought of seeing him again, sitting across from him and having a polite conversation about Valentina filled her with dread. How could she possibly manage not to fall apart?
Because she was a strong person, that was why. She had her pride. She had her dignity. She had her cussed American toughness.
She replied to his message in an equally businesslike tone, telling him to let her know when he was in town and she’d meet with him.
She hit Send and got up, her head pounding. She felt like death.
It wasn’t just a headache but a case of full-blown flu and she spent the next week in bed, feverish and semi-delirious, dreaming twisted dreams of Massimo, which fortunately she lost as soon as she awoke. In her more conscious episodes, she wished for oblivion while she coughed herself dizzy. With her parents in Hawaii on a winter vacation, Bree took care of her like the good friend she was.
It took another week to get back to something resembling normal.
One cold and frigid Saturday morning she was gripped by the urge to cook. This hadn’t happened once in the last few months, so it was nothing short of a miracle, and possibly a sign of something, but she didn’t know what. She went shopping and then took her time putting together an old-fashioned beef stew with fresh ingredients, actually taking pleasure in the activity of cutting carrots and onions and potatoes, cleaning plump mushrooms, browning the onions and chunks of meat. She washed a bunch of parsley and set it in a glass on the counter, enjoying the rich, lush green of the pretty leaves. After the misery of the flu it was good to feel alive again.
She went back to work grading English papers while the stew bubbled away on the stove, filling the apartment with its lovely homey aroma. This was not gourmet cooking, but it was good for the soul on a winter night.
By six the stew was ready. She adjusted the seasoning and added a glass of red wine for a decadent touch, although that wasn’t part of the recipe. She tasted the final result. It was very, very delicious.
She was reaching for a big bowl when the phone rang.
“Hello?” she said into the mouthpiece.
“Charli?”
Her heart stopped. Then started racing. She knew that voice, would recognize it anywhere, anytime.
“Hello, Massimo.”
He was at the airport, he told her, and apologized for not ringing her earlier but his plans had changed. Could she meet with him tomorrow for lunch, or was it at all possible for him to come over now and take her to dinner this evening?
Her mind scrambled feverishly considering the positives and negatives of the two choices, the worst n
egative of the lunch plan being that she’d be awake all night going crazy waiting for tomorrow. She just wanted it over with.
“Just come over now,” she said.
She looked a mess. She’d been cooking wearing an old sweatshirt and ancient jeans. No make-up graced her pale winter face and she looked sixteen. Her hair needed a shampoo. No way did she want him to see her like this.
She rushed into the bedroom, stripped off her clothes, dashed into the shower. Thank God it would take him a while to get here from the airport.
When the doorbell rang she was ready, wearing clean jeans and a soft fuchsia sweater, casual but nice. Her face was made-up and her hair was washed and dry—well, just about. The color of the wool sweater was cheery. She wanted to look cheery. And happy. And perfectly fine. She wanted to look as if she had been doing just brilliantly without him in her life.
She buzzed open the downstairs front door. It would take him a couple of minutes to climb the three flights of stairs and she stood by her apartment door, waiting for him, her heart pounding wildly. No matter what she said to herself, she couldn’t feel calm.
The man standing in front of her was a stranger. He didn’t look like she remembered him. Wearing a long wool overcoat, a scarf and leather gloves, he looked quite imposing and elegant and totally alien. His right hand gripped the handle of a small overnight carry-bag on wheels. She assumed he’d made a hotel reservation somewhere.
“Hello, Massimo,” she said politely. She moved aside to let him in and closed the door behind him.
He put the bag down and smiled at her.
“Hello, Charli.” He took both her hands in his gloved ones, leaned forward and kissed her on both cheeks—right, left, right. “Come sta?” He looked right into her eyes.
All strangeness fled. He was the Massimo she knew, all right. The same warm brown eyes looking straight into hers, the same charm.
“I’m fine,” she lied. She wondered if he could hear the sound of her heart pounding.
He released her hands. “You look beautiful, as I remember,” he said, taking off his gloves.
“Thank you,” she said politely. His Italian charm in her American living room seemed a bit out of place.
“I apologize if I inconvenience you by coming with so little notice.”
“It’s not a problem.”
He glanced at his watch. “It is not too early for dinner in America, so perhaps you know a suitable restaurant nearby?”
“We can stay here. I have food.” She didn’t know why she invited him, except that it came to her naturally. She would have said that to anyone coming here tonight. It was freezing cold outside, and she had a pan of stew on the stove.
“You are so generous, but no, I cannot accept. I promised you—”
“Massimo, it’s freezing out there. I’d rather not go out and I can give you a superb American dining experience right here in my humble abode.”
“Abode?”
She made a grand sweeping gesture. “My residence,” she said loftily. “The place where I live.”
He glanced around. “It’s very nice, warm—it shows your personality.”
“Thank you. It’s a bit small, but I like it.” Such a polite little conversation, she thought dryly, and under the surface I’m a nervous wreck. She ran her fingers through her curls. Underneath they still felt slightly damp.
His attention had been caught by a painting on her wall, done by an artist friend.
“Take off your coat,” she said, “please. You can hang it over there.” She pointed at the rack by the door.
He hesitated, then without further comment he shrugged out of the coat. He wore a dark business suit, a gorgeous silk tie and a white shirt. His hair, stylishly long, touched the collar of his shirt. Thick, dark and silky, it begged to be touched and for an agonizing moment she remembered the feel of it against her hands, her skin.
Don’t go there, she admonished herself. Be cool. You can do this.
You have to do this.
He pushed his jacket back and slipped his hands in his trouser pockets. “So what is this superb American dining experience you are offering me?” His voice, warm and deep, curled through her like dark honey.
“A one-pot meal. No antipasto, no primo, no secondo, no contorni. Maybe dessert, we’ll see.” Did she have ice cream in the freezer?
He arched his left eyebrow in amusement. “And what is the name of this food?”
“Stew. Beef stew, to be exact. Surely you’ve had something like it in England when you studied there.”
“Yes, I have, I remember. Everything cooked together in sauce.” The tone of his voice did not speak of much admiration.
She almost laughed, amazing herself. “Yes. And the way I make it is very good. And we might as well have some right now if you’re hungry. Oh, and I have wine. A California syrah, very American, very good also. Would you mind opening the bottle?”
“Not at all. Where can I wash my hands?”
“Oh, sorry, over there.” She pointed at the bathroom door. “Clean towels on the rack on the wall.”
She’d wanted to be cold and businesslike, but she couldn’t manage it. It was not in her to be cold and businesslike with this man. She’d wanted to hate him for not loving her enough, and she couldn’t do that either. A terrible despair rose inside her and she cursed herself for her stupidity. Cold or not cold, she should have gone out to a restaurant with him. Wouldn’t it have been much easier to be calm and businesslike while eating in public than in the intimate surroundings of her own apartment?
She put her computer on the floor, out of the way, arranged place mats, napkins and bowls and glasses on the small table. Should she light the candle? It was on the table already—she always had one on the table. This was ridiculous—why was she asking herself if she should light it? She always lighted a candle when people came over for dinner.
She struck a match and held it to the wick. It flared instantly in a dance of light.
When Massimo appeared at her side she gave him the wine bottle and the opener.
“So where have you been on your travels lately?” she asked casually. She wanted to say something, talk about neutral things. “Was your trip to South America a success?”
She ladled the stew into big pottery bowls as he talked. Snipped parsley on top. Cut a loaf of crusty bread. Put some butter on the table. Kept her hands busy as she asked a question here and there, trying to concentrate on his words. The sound of his voice, rich and deep, stirred the embers of buried emotions, warming her when all she wanted was to stay cool and calm. It was so awful to still feel the same attraction, now worse because of its hopelessness.
They sat down, and she spread the napkin on her lap. She picked up her glass of wine and managed a smile at him. “A toast to Valentina’s happiness,” she said, and he smiled back and touched his glass gently with hers.
“To Valentina’s happiness,” he repeated.
They drank the wine. “Very good,” he said, a sudden gleam in his eyes. “For not being Italian.”
“Gee, thanks. I’ll take that as a compliment. And what about the stew?”
He glanced down at the bowl in front of him. “It is superb,” he said, picking up his spoon. “Because you prepared it.”
What else had she expected him to say? He’d eat it no matter how bad it was, which of course it wasn’t. It was superb, indeed. Which he acknowledged as they continued eating, talking about Valentina.
Halfway through the meal, the phone rang. She came to her feet and picked it up from the coffee table.
An old quavery voice asked to speak to Jake.
“There’s no Jake here,” Charli said gently, visualizing a frail old woman on the other end of the line. “I think you have the wrong number.”
“Oh, dear. It’s my glasses, they’re broken. I’m sorry to bother you, honey.”
“That’s all right, no problem.”
She put the phone down. Massimo was looking at her.
“Jake? Not the new man in your life?”
“No. Wrong number.” She sat down again and picked up her napkin. “There’s no man in my life.” She hesitated. “What about you? Valentina wrote Elena spent the holidays with you.”
Annoyance flashed across his face. “Elena is an old friend. A family friend, actually. That’s why she was there.”
He had never lied to her. She felt a ridiculous relief, a flare of hope.
“She doesn’t want to be an old friend,” she said. “It seemed rather obvious to me when I was in Rome.”
“Fortunately she’s found more agreeable prey,” he said dryly. “She’s hooked herself a Brazilian banana baron, so I heard last week.” He spooned in another bite of stew, clearly not finding the subject of interest.
They continued talking about Valentina. He was concerned about her being so far away from home and not knowing anyone but her friend Melissa, whose diplomat parents were moving on to Thailand for their next post.
“I will be here,” Charli said. “You know I’ll do anything for her.”
“I know,” he said, and she saw the gratitude in his eyes, felt her heart fill with some warm, sad emotion she didn’t have a name for. She took a swallow of wine.
“And my parents are here, and my best friend is here. We’ll all be happy to help her, invite her for weekends or holidays, take care of her if there ever is a problem or a need.” She pushed her empty bowl aside and leaned her arms on the table. “But you know what will happen?”
He frowned. “What?”
“She’ll be so busy making her own friends, she’ll not need us much. She’s a big girl, Massimo, and she’s smart. She’s a lovely, charming girl with a good set of brains and she’ll be fine here in America.”
“I’m pleased you have such confidence in her.”
She smiled. “I got to know her pretty well in all those weeks we spent together.”
“Yes.” He looked at her, his eyes filled with some dark emotion she could not identify, some struggle she didn’t understand. He folded his napkin and put it next to his plate, saying nothing more.
“I’ll make coffee,” she said.
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