He laughed and took her list. “Okay, Stella. I’m off. Maybe I’ll stop in to see Atillio as well. Any, you know, ‘message’ you want me to pass on?” He winked at her and was rewarded with her lovely blush.
“You’re a bad man, now get out of my kitchen.” Stella turned back to her cooking.
It was market day, and the streets were packed with people. Row upon row of stalls crowded the edges of Via Bottega selling fruit, clothes, salami, cheeses, shoes and more. He squeezed into the narrow aisles between the stalls and wandered along slowly. A few odd stares and some heated whispering alerted Dean to the fact that there were folks in Borgotaro from further afield today. His presence in the town had caused a few days of ruckus, but now he’d become one of the crowd. Folks called out, “Ciao!” and gave him friendly pats on the shoulder as he passed through the busy aisles. A few even stopped to attempt chit-chat, even though his Italian was appalling. Because this was a tourist town, most of the residents had a smattering of English. He had it in mind that he would look for a gift for Isabella today. He was feeling guilty about his undeniable attraction to Hazel. He had always brought Isabella gifts, so perhaps the normality of the gesture might ease his anxiety a little. He’d once surprised Isabella with a silk scarf he’d seen in an antique market. It had a kind of old Hollywood elegance that you didn’t find in women’s clothing anymore. As soon as he’d spotted it, he had imagined it on her. Come to think of it. He’d never seen her wear it? How had he missed that? She hadn’t worn it once.
He stopped at a stall filled with tablecloths and flashed back to yesterday with Hazel. When he snatched that biscotti, he’d known he was dripping crumbs onto her tablecloth, and he had known it would drive her crazy. Her type A personality brought out the playful side of him. It was fun to challenge her a little. And he liked to fluster her even more. Laid out on the stall in front of him was a beautiful, classic, red and white checkered, linen cloth. The vendor saw him fingering the fabric and reached over to spread it out further. It was humongous. A picnic cloth for sure. He imagined it spread on some soft grass somewhere under a setting sun, it was big enough for two if they lay close together. He nodded to the vendor who folded it into a bag.
“Thirty Euros, please.”
Dean handed over the cash. Hazel would love it.
He took a shortcut through a side street and headed to Via Bellinzona, the main thoroughfare. He wanted to talk to Atillio, and he was pretty sure he knew where to find him.
“Mr. Movie Star. Hello!” called a loud voice from Gio’s bar and restaurant. It was Gio himself, of course, seated at a table on the sidewalk patio with Atillio, a glass of red wine in front of each of them. Gio wore a server’s apron over his t-shirt, but it was spotlessly clean. His role seemed to be more of a drinking companion than a server. But, Gio was one of the beloved permanent fixtures of Via Nazionale, and even with his relentless teasing, Dean already loved him.
“Dean, come and share a drink!” Atillio said.
“Posso (may I)?” Dean asked, as he picked up an empty chair from a nearby table crowded with old men and moved it to sit next to Atillio.
“Get the movie star a drink!” Gio called out loudly. Suddenly there was a glass of wine in front of him.
He swirled the rich red in the glass and smiled, he couldn’t understand the chatter around him, but it didn’t matter. The hum of conversation and clink of glasses on the patio tables under the warming sun on this ancient street was soothing. Next to him, an old man started to sing, probably a folk song of some kind, and the men at the surrounding tables all joined in, even harmonizing like a choir. This was the life.
He waited until the song had wound down and the buzz of conversation began again before turning to Attilio.
“I didn’t get the job.”
Atillio winked at Gio, who reached into his pocket and withdrew a Euro, slamming it onto the table. They both burst out in fits of laughter. “You need to persuade that lady to come down to the town with you; soften her up a little,” Atillio said.
“Ha! I can’t persuade that lady of anything. She hates me.” He stared gloomily into the bottom of his glass.
“The lady doesn’t hate you. Her head and heart she left in America. Only an empty body is in Borgotaro. If she doesn’t leave the house, she will never find her head or her heart. She needs to let Borgotaro help her.”
Dean decided right then that Atillio was some sort of Oracle, full of wisdom. He looked down the street at the people wandering. Not one of them looked stressed. They all were just going about their daily Monday activities as though they had all the time in the world. Sure, there were those that were working today, but right now they would probably be at home eating with their families. After they worked in the afternoon they would wander downtown for an apperitivo. Then they’d stroll up and down Via Nationale until they had worked up an appetite for their evening meal. Then the Borgoterese would either go home to share a meal at a huge table with the entire family, or they would wander into one of the many restaurants in town and while away the evening with food and wine. He compared this to the rushed, individualistic life in LA and he felt a little broken. Italians knew how to do life right, and they were teaching him how not to be broken. Hazel needed the same cure.
Stella would kill him if he weren’t back at the house in time for lunch, so he finished his wine, tried to hand Atillio some Euros which he waved away, and rushed over to the forno for the focaccia. He had picked up the rest of what she needed at the market. In a moment of spontaneity, he also grabbed a huge bunch of wildflowers for Sara. She had been looking pretty down lately, and she needed cheering up.
Waving to the old men lounging at Gio’s, he headed out of Via Nationale. As usual, he crossed the street in front of the old hotel. A feeling of wistfulness crept over him as he made his way up the stones steps to the empty hotel patio and peeked in through the grimy windows. This place was calling out for some loving. He could just make out the majestic soaring ceilings of the space on the other side of the window. A massive oak bar, it’s size and grandeur imposing, stood against the left-hand wall, and dusty chandeliers hung over the large room.
He imagined tables with crystal and roses and delicate china plates. He felt a pang of sympathy for this neglected old place. Ever since Stella had started him thinking about his carpenter past, he’d found his hands itching to get into a project. That’s why the idea of working with Hazel had excited him; at least he had convinced himself that was the reason. Now he wondered who owned this grand, old dame of a building and decided to ask Atillio. Maybe the owner had plans to renovate soon. Maybe he could offer his assistance. He turned reluctantly from his fantasies, crossed to Via Bellinzona and began to climb the hill. The sun pounded on his head, and he stopped to catch his breath after only the fourth house. Old Mr. Parala passed him, and he felt a bit embarrassed. He started his climb again. Sara had told him that Mr. Parala was 91 years-old, and here he was flying by Dean on the steep hill.
He’d just decided that when he got back to the townhouse a nap was in order when he heard a commotion from a house up ahead. Was that Hazel’s house? Yep, there was Hazel’s voice. He heard her curse loudly, he’d never heard her curse before, and there was a male voice protesting loudly, as well as the occasional scream of either frustration or amusement, it was hard to tell which, from the mother. What was her name? Rainbow or something? He quickened his pace and headed to the back door.
“Why did you do that?” Hazel was screaming.
“I did not a thing!” yelled the man’s voice. “I cannot take a bath?”
“Of course you can take a bath, but not on every floor, oh for goodness sake put some clothes on!”
“Ahhhhhh, aahhhh.”
“Mother, you’re not helping.”
And then he heard water dripping, no, not dripping, pouring, inside the house. He dropped his purchases on the back step and raced inside. He headed into the living room; no one was there. He hesitated briefly but t
hen turned and headed up the steps. Maybe he was trespassing, but surely Hazel couldn’t be angry if he was coming to help.
He followed the second floor hallway, tracing the source of the screaming, to a bedroom on his right. The door was open, so he crossed through and tried to take in the chaotic scene before him.
A teenage boy, that he’d never seen before, was running around the bedroom. He was dressed only in a towel wrapped around his skinny waist (it was amazing that it was staying there) and trying to mop the floors that were swimming with water. It was everywhere. The bed was a pool of sodden bedclothes, the rugs were squishy with absorbed water, and there was more pouring rapidly through a crack in the ceiling. The mother was racing around the room screaming and trying to move items away from the water, but it was pointless.
And there, in the middle of it all, was Hazel. She was standing on her tippy toes, on a wobbling chair, pressing a blanket against the ceiling and trying to block the tsunami pouring through. It was a pointless effort , but she didn’t seem to know what else to do. Obviously she’d been caught by surprise and the perfectly put together Hazel was far from her usual buttoned-up self. She was wearing a tiny pair of khaki shorts and a white t-shirt that was now soaked through. Her black bra was visible down to the shape of the lace. Her hair was loose, long and dripping wet; the water from the leak was pouring directly over her head and streaming down her long locks like a waterfall. Her face was flushed pink from exertion and make up free, except for some sexy smudges of eyeliner left over from the night before. He’d never seen a more beautiful woman.
“Aaaaah… a knight in shining armor!” screamed the mother, running forward and throwing her arms around him. He was instantly soaked.
The boy looked up from his useless mopping, “Mio Dio, Grazie. Auito! Aiuto!”
Hazel looked up, caught his gaze, and her eyes flashed in irritation. She shook her head, water splattering from her in all directions, and said, “Oh God, what are you doing here?”
23
Hazel
Hazel was about to tell Dean that he was the last thing she needed right now, but that wouldn’t be true. One look at his muscular, capable body and her irritation at his sudden appearance faded into relief. She’d been standing under this geyser for a full five minutes with these two crazy people running around her, trying to think what to do. The only thing that seemed important was to stop the water. It was ruining the ceiling, the furniture and the beautiful hardwood floors, all of which would now need to be replaced. Her arms were killing her, the stress was overtaking her, and she was fresh out of ideas.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean that,” she said. “Can you please help? Stefano tried to take a bath in the upstairs bathroom. I hadn’t even looked at it yet. Obviously, we have a leak problem.”
Dean gave her a sideways grin, and she was suddenly incredibly embarrassed by her current appearance. What must she look like? And her bra was showing! She even tried to shift her elbows into her chest to cover herself but noticed Dean grinning at her again and stopped. He chuckled under his breath and turned to Stefano to ask the one question that she hadn’t even thought to ask.
“Did you turn the faucet off?”
The sudden horror visible in Stefano’s face might have been funny if her arms weren’t about to fall off. He dropped his mop and took off running, his towel flapping around his ankles. Dean barked a laugh and ran off after him.
“Why didn’t you ask him if he’d turned the water off?” Indigo yelled. “He should have turned the water off.”
“Weren’t you standing right here as well, Mother? Or did I imagine you?”
“Well, I’m not in charge, am I? You wouldn’t even let me film it! I was going to start a blog!”
She was saved from getting drawn into a twilight zone conversation with Indigo about blogging when she felt the weight of the water, pushing against her upraised arms, lessen. She breathed a sigh of relief. Thank God for Dean. This soaked blanket had been getting unbearably heavy, and she was going to have a crick in her neck for the next few days.
Dean was back in seconds. “It’s eased, but the pipe behind the tub has burst. Not surprising given all that rust. Where’re your mains?”
“Everything is in the cantina, the cellar, out the back door and to the right. It’s the door under the fig tree.”
Dean gave her long, slow smile. “You don’t have to stand there any more, you know. It’s not helping. It’s only a drip now, and I'll help you clean it all up afterward.”
She lowered her arms gratefully and smiled back. He was a good guy, that was clear enough. Maybe she should cut him some slack. Surely she was capable of having him around without falling all over him like a groupie. Water dripped onto her head, and she realized how terrible she must look. She checked to see if he was laughing at her. No, he was just smiling.
“Ummm…,” Indigo said. She was staring at them with an amused smile of her own that brought Hazel back to reality. What was she doing standing practically naked in the middle of a puddle, sharing a moment with a guy she was supposed to be avoiding. “The water, you two? You need to turn off the water!”
“Yeah, sorry!” Dean said. He shot her one last grin and ran from the room.
Stefano appeared again in his towel, a face full of chagrin. He looked pretty pitiful. “I’m very sorry. Very, very. I will pay for fixing, and I will fix it myself.”
Hazel felt a surge of hope. “You know how to fix things, Stefano? Have you studied plumbing?”
He wiped one hand across his wet face and reached down with the other to grab his slipping towel. He looked like a chastened little boy. “No plumbing. Computers.”
Indigo looked at him and tutted in disappointment, as though she wasn’t responsible for bringing this stranger into the house in the first place.
“Helpful,” said Hazel. “Why don’t you go and get some clothes on? You can help us mop up.”
Dean appeared again, and she realized that the dripping above her head had finally stopped. She didn’t like the idea of feeling beholden to someone, but at this point, she needed the help. She wasn’t going to accomplish much with a teenager and a crazy mother. She realized that the overwhelming anxiety and panic had eased now that Dean was here smiling at her. Maybe, just maybe, she didn’t need to do this alone. And it wouldn’t be a punishment doing it with Dean. He was clearly capable and was a much prettier picture than Indigo or skinny little Stefano in his towel.
He broke into her train of thought, “Mops? Buckets? Old Towels?”
Hazel shook her head. “We could only find this one mop.” She waved at the abandoned mop Stefano had been ineffectively using. “No buckets. But there might be some old towels.”
“I’ll tell you what,” Dean said, “I need to take some stuff back to the townhouse. I’ll drop it all off, borrow mops and buckets and come right back. We’ll take care of this mess in no time.”
She glanced over at Indigo, who was silently clapping her hands in relief, and turned back to the smiling Dean. “Okay,” she said. “Thank you.”
They heard the back door slam. Indigo crossed the floor and punched Hazel lightly in the arm. She was grinning like a madwoman. “I told you so!”
24
Dean
Dean whistled his way back down the hill to Hazel’s house. He was laden with mops and buckets; it was like Stella ran a cleaning company she was so stocked up. His mind was full of the image of lovely Hazel, makeup free, soaking wet and tousled. She’d looked so vulnerable and so unlike her usual, uptight self. And she’d agreed to let him come back. Score!
“Knock, knock! The cleaning man is here!”
A breathless Hazel appeared at the back door. She’d tied her wet hair into a quick bun but loose blonde waves were escaping in a very alluring manner. Unfortunately, she’d changed her clothes, exchanging her wet, white t-shirt for a clingy black one. Fortunately, she’d kept on her shorts giving him an eyeful of her long, tanned legs as she raced down the steps
to help him with the buckets.
She laughed, “Wow! Your friend must love cleaning. We’ve got like the Ferrari of mops here.” She lifted up an intricate mopping contraption for his examination, it looked like a set of gears on the shiny handle. “They take their mopping seriously in Italy!”
He laughed along with her, enjoying this surprise moment of camaraderie. “Well let’s get to work then,” he said. “I have a feeling we have a few tiring hours ahead of us.”
Hazel smiled, gave his arm a feather light touch, and it happened again, that jolt of connection. His blood hummed beneath her touch. “Thank you for doing this, Dean. It’s kind of you.”
He tried to keep his voice level. “I’m happy to! Didn't you hear? I’m an action hero. My action usually amounts to more than just wielding a mop, but I’m always happy to help damsels in distress.”
“Well, we’re not damsels and we’re not in distress!” He realized that had been the wrong thing to say. Hazel cast her eyes to the ground, picked up a bucket he’d dropped there, and marched away toward the house. “But we’re happy to have help,” she threw over her shoulder, in an obvious effort at civility.
He’d need to be more careful with his choice of words. No damsels. No distresses. Right. He followed her, but she was up the stairs and out of his sight before he could manhandle all the equipment into the kitchen. Her mother was standing waiting in the kitchen. Clearly she’d been listening. She patted his shoulder. “She’s a prickly thing,” she said, “but trust me, she has a kind, soft center.”
He put down the stuff he was carrying. No sign of Hazel. She must have headed upstairs. “I’m sorry, but I’m terrible with names. Could you tell me yours again?”
The mother blushed and held out her hand, “Indigo,” she said. “Really, you must excuse Hazel. Life's been challenging for her, what with her father dying when she was so young.” She tucked her bottom lip under her top teeth and gave him a sad look. “You and Hazel have a lot in common, you know? You see, I was so busy with my life and career, she was practically an orphan herself.”
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