by Susie Warren
Isabel headed to her room for a quick shower before she began the process of downloading and reviewing the images she had taken. Her mind was reeling from all that she had taken in during the day.
Over the next several days, she barely saw Marc as she explored different villages and conducted interviews. She was amazed at how open and willing people were to share their stories with her.
Almost a week into her visit, Marc returned to the villa in the early evening and found Isabel in the living room. “Alda is in bed for the evening?”
He noticed that Isabel was not dressed for dinner. Instead, she was wearing a long sleeved pink shirt with jeans, and her bare feet were tucked under her. Her graceful hands held the place in her book before she glanced up at him.
“She is feeling well, but I think she may have overdone it today a bit.”
“Why is that?”
Isabel stood up and placed the novel on the cocktail table.
“She wants to regain her strength so she has been following Dr. Bender’s exercise schedule to a tee.”
“Why don’t you change, and I’ll let Maria know we are going out?”
“You don’t need to entertain me.”
“I was hoping you would entertain me.”
Her eyes grew large and surprise was evident in her mild gasp. Her reaction stirred something within him.
Before she refused outright, Marc said soothingly, “I have been very busy since coming to Carrara. But I would like to hear how your research is going. There is a local trattoria that serves an excellent meal. Would you join me?”
Marc watched her as she picked up her novel and left the room. Her resigned acquiescence surprised him. Usually women were more than happy for his company and didn’t have to be cajoled into spending an evening with him.
Searching his memory over the last week, it seemed things were going well. Alda had ceased demanding he take Isabel out and instead was focused on her own recovery.
On edge when she reached her room, Isabel tried to banish her insecurities and reminded herself it didn’t matter what she wore. Marc was at loose ends and decided to invite her on a whim. Didn’t he realize it would only serve to encourage Alda?
Suddenly irritation flared up inside her. All of the expectations were getting to be too much.
But as she stood in front of the closet stripping off her clothes, she realized her feelings for Marc were complicated. He made her feel alive. The chemistry that sparked between them was powerful and tempted her to reveal more of herself. She acknowledged privately that he made her want to feel all sorts of things instead of locking her emotions away.
Instead of wallowing in romantic dreams, Isabel acknowledged frankly that how she felt had no basis in reality. Marc didn’t return the sentiments.
He would be horrified at the sight of her scars. She herself was shocked each time she caught a glance of the raised jagged lines left behind by the surgeon. Normally she quickly covered them, but this time she felt drawn to examine the marred skin. What would Marc say? Probably he would look away and try to hide his repulsion. Or maybe he would react as others had and avoid the subject altogether.
She knew she was lucky. Her life had been spared. In the end, skilled doctors were able to rebuild her arm and hip and the rest of her had healed. At the time, everyone was so concerned about mobility and function that she hadn’t wanted to seem superficial by talking about the appearance of her body. She had hoped the skin would improve over time. But as she examined the skin now, she realized it wasn’t just the incisions made by several surgeries on her arm, hip and leg. At the time of the accident, severe puncture wounds from displaced metal and glass had caused much of the damage. The skin covering her right hip never smoothed out. Instead, the raised, discolored patches formed an odd quilt-work pattern making the thin straight lines from the scalpel seem insignificant in contrast.
Isabel pulled out a black fitted dress from the closet and stepped into it, pulling up the zipper. Completely covered, she looked like before. Only she knew the truth.
She slipped her feet into black high heels and decided to apply a sheer lip gloss. She tried to remember the last time she went out to dinner with a man. It must have been with Dylan. She hadn’t dated anyone since she broke off the engagement almost two years ago. With Dylan, she had never felt nervous or on edge.
The memory of their last dinner came back to her uninvited. It was after the accident, and while she saw very little of him at the hospital, when she returned home to her parents’ house, he had called and suggested dinner. She remembered feeling numb and just going through the motions of getting ready. It wasn’t until they were seated in the restaurant that his resigned attitude got to her. She was not going to spend her life with someone who was badgered by his own guilt to put up with her scarred body.
She turned away from the mirror and banished the memories. The feeling of insecurity must’ve been coming from the fact Marc was interested in perfection and that he was flawless. She reminded herself that he would never see her flaws.
As Marc watched her gracefully descend the stairs, he felt suddenly very aware of her. Instead of returning his desire, she seemed as if she was blocking him out and the energy about her was one of introspection. He ruefully acknowledged it was for the best, because it would only complicate matters for them both.
Outside in the night air, Isabel hesitated and looked back towards the villa. The evening was pleasantly warm and for the briefest of moments Marc contemplated the evening ahead. He’d been looking forward to spending time with Isabel until he became conscious of the tension in every line of her beautiful body.
He stepped down into the cobblestone driveway, touching her shoulder, and she turned toward him. She looked at him but the guardedness in her gaze surprised him. He knew she was hiding her thoughts and he deliberately chose not to push her.
“I’ve had an impossible day, and with Alda already in for night, I thought you would welcome a brief escape from the villa.” He purposely kept a neutral tone to his voice.
“Yes, thank you.” Isabel moved back slightly and her gaze returned to the night.
Isabel could feel the tension winding its way through her body as Marc drove on the dark roads. Her mind tried to formulate an opening for a conversation but nothing came. Marc remained silent as he navigated the hairpin turns taking them down toward the ocean.
Marc pulled into the steep parking lot of a small tavern perched on the side of a cliff. Isabel climbed out of the car and looked at the small restaurant illuminated by the moon.
Marc lightly touched her lower back and guided her forward. “This place is rural Italy at its finest. The owner makes the best lardo in the region.”
She faltered walking across the uneven stones, and Marc held out his hand in invitation. Isabel placed her hand in his and could feel the warmth as he gently caressed her fingers. She thought of pulling away, but the excitement tempted her. She enjoyed feeling like a young woman out for an evening.
As they walked in, the owner of the tavern greeted them with a warm smile. “Marc, my friend,” he said, clapping him on the back, “it is good to see you.”
Isabel stood back as the two men shook hands. The tavern had a marble bar that ran along the far wall and a dozen or so tables set near large windows overlooking the view of the ocean.
“Hello, Bruno. I would like you to meet Isabel Neri. Isabel, this is Bruno Gestri, the owner of the tavern as well as the local lardo expert.”
Isabel extended her hand to Bruno. He moved forward and placed a kiss on each cheek.
“Isabel, it is a pleasure to meet you.”
“Your restaurant is amazing perched among the cliffs. But I must admit I’ve not heard of lardo before.”
“Making lardo is a labor of love. The recipe was handed down by my great-grandfather. It is a staple of this region. I’ll bring you some to try.” Bruno was looking around the small restaurant for a table.
Marc indicated an emp
ty table in the back of the dining room.
As soon as they were seated, Bruno asked about their wine preference and then if they preferred white fish or roast chicken. Marc looked at her questioningly and then chose a red wine with the roast chicken.
“This is not the type of place where an expansive menu is available. Usually you have the choice of two entrees, and they will serve the evening’s antipasto, vegetable and cheese plate,” Marc told her.
Isabel watched Marc from across the table. His skin was golden and the dark eyebrows combined with dark brown eyes were a perfect match for his wide mouth and beautifully white teeth. She thought of the images she had captured of him and how the camera seemed to love him.
“What is lardo?”
“It is unique to Italy. The lardo is a regional dish made from pork fat, salt, and rosemary that ferments for a year. Most visitors enjoy the complex flavor.”
Isabel made an effort to keep her face neutral.
“You can’t visit Carrara without tasting it. It is as white as the marble from this area and quite rich.”
Before they had a chance to discuss it further, Bruno arrived with the wine and a tray holding olives, pickled red onion and paper-thin slices of lardo atop seasoned flatbread.
Bruno poured the wine, and excused himself to serve others.
“Salute.” Marc raised his glass to her and held her gaze.
Isabel said, “Salute” and touched her glass to his.
Letting the rose-colored wine slide across her tongue and down her throat, she realized she was enjoying his company. He could be charming but she reminded herself not to let her guard down.
“Try some antipasto.”
Isabel took a small bite of a piece of bread with lardo and was surprised by the complex rich flavor.
“It’s delicious.”
Isabel watched Marc enjoy his food and acknowledged to herself that he captivated her. There was something about the combination of his intensity and focus that drew her to him.
“How are the interviews working out?” Marc asked.
After a brief hesitation, Isabel said, “The men who worked in the quarry have been very open and inviting. They have shared many, many stories and one of them even offered to sing on camera.” Isabel smiled at Marc’s surprised expression. “It’s been good. I thought I would need to encourage them to talk, but instead the challenge will be which stories to spotlight.”
“In this region, the quarries are part of the everyday culture so it would surprising if the locals were reluctant to talk about the old way of life.”
“I haven’t been able to talk the younger generation.”
“There isn’t a lot of work in the area so most of the younger generation has moved to the cities.” Marc then asked, “Are you missing home?”
“No, not at all. It’s exciting to be off immersed in a new project and doing something completely different. And truthfully, I’m not off alone. Your aunt and Maria make me feel welcome and at home.”
“Alda has been singing your praises each time I see her. She seems to have made a full recovery. I’m grateful that you were able to help her through her ordeal. I know she is a difficult patient.”
“I’m a little worried that she believes that we will become an item. You may need to tell her that a relationship is not in the cards.”
“I have no problem setting boundaries. I admit when she was lying on a hospital gurney about to be wheeled into the procedure, I didn’t want to disillusion her. But in the end, I told her the truth. I do find you captivating.”
Isabel met his gaze and felt an awareness sweep over her as her mind contemplated his words.
Then he added, “Now that she is recovered, she will have to face the fact that marriage is not something that she can dictate.”
Bruno appeared with grilled eggplant. Slowly, Isabel let down her guard and began to take pleasure in the meal.
Isabel knew Marc spent a considerable amount of time in his office at the villa and only went to the quarry for an hour here or there. She decided to ask him, “Do you enjoy spending time at the quarry?”
“Many people depend on me for their livelihood. Some families have worked in the quarry for generations, but as the world economy changes it’s becoming more difficult to stay profitable. At times, I see it as a responsibility but then at other times I enjoy the challenges it brings.”
The roast chicken was served and Bruno refilled their wine glasses.
As Marc spoke, it occurred to Isabel that he greatly enjoyed his life. He not only had extensive knowledge of the production process, but as he described the marble, it was apparent he loved marble from beginning to end. Isabel remembered seeing him at the design studio in Boston when he was unhappy with a shipment of marble he received.
While sipping her wine, she studied Marc. Until now, she had thought of him as a demanding boss and perfection-seeking designer, but tonight she saw a different side of him. He greatly cared about the people who worked in the quarry and about keeping his family’s legacy alive.
Marc flagged down Bruno and asked for espresso and dessert.
“There is only one dessert each night, so we will have to see what Bruno’s wife prepared today.”
After a moment of silence, Isabel asked, “Is it difficult to keep the quarry open?”
“Basically my philosophy has been to keep up with the technology but keep a tight rein on production so the quarry workers have steady work but are also safe. The difficulty for me is not to get too involved in the work. My company now holds large shares in many other mining interests and while marble is important, I need to stay focused on the bigger picture.”
“Enjoy the Zuppa Inglese,” Bruno said, as he placed one plate of delicate sponge cake with custard layers in the center of the table. Next he set down small cups of espresso and then handed them each a fork.
Marc took a small piece of the rich cake on his fork and offered it to Isabel. She wasn’t sure how to respond but allowed him to place it in her mouth.
“It’s delicious.” She allowed the rich taste to slowly dissolve in her mouth.
After they finished the espresso, Marc paid the bill, gave a warm farewell to Bruno, and they headed out into the night air.
“Would you like to see the quarry at night?”
Isabel nodded yes as her mind tried to make sense of his actions.
It took only a few minutes to drive to the quarry, and Isabel was immediately taken aback by all of the activity.
“Work continues throughout the night. Not in the sculpture room, but in the quarry. Sunday is the only day the quarry closes.”
Isabel could hear the machines at work before she could see the actual work site. Marc took her hand as they walked down a stone-covered path.
“We’re not dressed for exploration so I won’t take you down to the underground galleria, but this will give you an idea.”
Isabel looked around and was amazed by the sheer size of the marble cliffs below and the large cranes moving massive blocks of marble. Large lights illuminated work areas and men worked in pairs. The noise was deafening. Isabel noticed the men hardly talked at all.
“Come this way and I’ll show you where some of the artists work.”
He led her to a large stone building that had statues, sinks, and pieces under construction. She felt as if she were stepping back in time.
She reached out to touch a block of marble. It felt cool and smooth under a layer of dust.
“Be careful; you shouldn’t breathe the dust.”
Isabel said, “Can I see just a little more?” and moved further into the work area.
“These are models the artists use when creating replicas of famous statues,” he said, pointing to an area with many marble hands displayed on the wall.
“Do they use actual models?” Isabel asked.
“No, typically more production work is done here so another sculpture is used. When custom work is done in Boston, sometimes a picture or d
rawing is used, but models are used as well.”
A memory surfaced of modeling for him during the kick-off party and she could easily remember his intensity and focus and how it made her feel. Walking through the shop, she stopped to examine a work in progress. Isabel ran her hands over the statue of a woman. It was life-size with intricate folds of a dress the artist was still working on.
Marc began to brush some of the marble dust off of her arms in a brisk manner. “Isabel, you should wait until it is complete and cleaned off. You’re a mess.”
“I don’t mind a little dust.” She smiled at him, amused at his useless efforts to remove the white dust from her black dress. As he continued to wipe away the dust, his hand grazed her breast and she drew in a sharp breath.
Marc stilled as Isabel looked up into his eyes. Without realizing it, she held her breath. Marc ran his hands along her shoulders and down her arms.
An ache of yearning so strong filled her, causing her to unconsciously move closer to him. The dim light of the room reflected off the marble statues surrounding them, and for a fleeting moment Isabel felt free to openly explore his shape.
Stepping slightly forward she reached up and lightly ran her hands over him feeling the tight muscles in his shoulders and torso. The warmth emanating from him seemed to enter her hands and circulate wildly throughout her body. It was delicious, this heat, delicious and intoxicating. She bit her lip.
Why was he so intensely aware of her? She was his aunt’s choice, he reminded himself, purposefully reining in the fierce reaction of his body. She was too traditional for him. She would want happily ever after and a pack of children.
Angry about his own response, Marc cursed his decision to bring her to the studio. It was a place where he normally let his guard down and enjoyed the process of working with the marble. Now he regretted bringing her to a place that was so personal to him.
Why was he so drawn to her? What was it about her that made him want to abandon all of his carefully constructed rules about women? What did she have, this curious filmmaker who hid so much of herself away?