“I will give you the bad news first, then the good news, okay? It is good Isa brought you to me because the bad news is that your ankle is indeed broken, Miss Tomlin. This is a perfect example of a stable lateral malleolus fracture.” With a long finger, he traced the slender bone that bracketed my shin bone. “Look right here. This bone is your fibula. It does not bear much of your weight, but it is easy to break when you twist your foot. Do you see the crack here?” Sure enough, a jagged line was scratched diagonally across the chalky image about half an inch above the end of the bone where it attached to the blocky bones of my ankle. “Now for the good news, yes? This fracture, because your ankle is still working properly, and your tibia—your shin bone—is intact, it is considered stable. If you take care of it, it will not require surgery, and not even a plaster.”
He reached over and picked up one of my boots from the chair where his assistant had put them after helping me undress. My jeans were folded neatly beside them. “These boots are probably the reason you are not injured worse. I applaud your choice in footwear.” Then he winked. “I like them very much. They are both strong and sexy, no?”
Just like me, I almost said out loud, clamping my lips together just in time. I nodded instead.
“Okay. So.” He studied me with narrowed eyes, then swiveled to peer at the X-ray again, his lips pursing slightly.
Like a kiss.
I couldn’t help it. I thought about being kissed by those lips. The longer he stared at my leg bones, the longer I stared at his lips. And the longer I thought about— he suddenly turned back, and I flinched, mortified. I could feel the heat rise in my face. He opened his mouth to speak, paused, and then one corner hitched up in what I could only assume was a knowing grin.
“So,” he said again, drawing the word out. Steepling his hands together, he watched me, his eyes lit up by laughter. “What shall I do with you now, Miss Tomlin?”
It was my turn to stare at the X-ray. I shrugged, wondering if he actually expected an answer from me. “I—I don’t know.” Feeling incredibly vulnerable in my shirt and sheet, I refused to look at him.
“Give me one moment, okay? I will return shortly.” He stood and left the room.
I breathed in through my nose, out through my mouth. Three times for good measure. Then I double-checked the sheet around my waist, reassured that my modesty was still intact.
Dr. Chiseled returned several minutes later, carrying what appeared to be a brace of some kind. “To begin, you should not put any weight on your foot at all for at least one week, possibly two. We will determine that by taking more X-rays every four or five days, if need be. That means,” he rotated on his stool to eye a calendar on the wall. “Today is Wednesday. I want you to come to me on Monday for another film shoot for Miss Hollywood, okay?” He dipped his head toward my foot.
“What if I forget and accidentally put weight on her? It. My leg.” I couldn’t quite bring myself to refer to my leg as Miss Hollywood.
“You must take this very seriously, Miss Tomlin. The soft tissue around your ankle is badly torn and weakened, so you do not have good support, and you could do more damage if you try to use it before it is time, perhaps even causing the fractured bone to slip out of alignment.” He held up the contraption he’d brought back with him, two pieces of blue plastic held together with several white Velcro straps. “That is why I am giving you this to wear, even while you sleep. It will also help you to remember, I think.”
I tried not to think of spending my whole vacation sitting forlornly at the window of my room above l’Aurora.
“I have ordered you a walking boot, but it will be a few days before it arrives. For now, you must wear this temporary brace at all times to keep your ankle in a neutral position, do you understand?” His cool hands were gentle as he slipped a soft knit toeless tube sock over my foot, then strapped the contraption in place. “This is adjustable and needs to be made tighter when your swelling goes down in a few days.” He demonstrated how to tighten the straps.
Not that I’d planned on anyone fondling my calves today, but I was glad I’d had the foresight to shave my legs last night in the shower.
“You will need crutches, too, but because of the injuries on your hands, we will wait until Monday to give you those.” He indicated the fresh gauze with which he’d replaced Madalina’s cheesecloth. “Then I will show you how to use them if your hands are healed enough. For now, you must put this foot up as much as possible, above your heart. And you must use ice or a cold pack like this one for the swelling.” He patted the gel pack he’d removed so he could wrap my foot. “This is yours to take.” His voice sounded like a caramel macchiato, rich and cultured, decadent. Listening to him made my mouth water, and I swallowed hard, trying to focus on what he was saying.
“But… I’m leaving Lucca in ten days. And Italy only a few days after that.” My thoughts were racing across my trip agenda in my head, thinking of all the tourist attraction tickets I’d prepaid for, the rooms booked, the sites I’d wanted to visit while in Italy.
“I see. Well, you may need to be a little flexible for now. Let us see how things look on Monday.” He switched off the lighted panel and pulled the X-ray from the wall.
“What about now? How will I get around until I get my crutches?”
“I have spoken with Isa and she is making all the arrangements. You will stay with my sister and brother-in-law, Isa’s parents, in our family home in the country, where you will have help.” He said it so casually it took me a minute to comprehend what he was saying. “And to be certain you are obeying doctor’s orders, I will be checking up on you.”
“Wait. I’m sorry? Checking up on me?” What did that mean?
He laughed, the sound making the toes on my right foot curl. My left one hurt too much to comply. “Do not worry, Miss Tomlin. Isa is a fine nurse. I trust her completely. But you,” he winked at me over his shoulder. “You, I do not trust yet. So I will come out to the house on Saturday to see how you are doing.”
“Wait. Wait, wait, wait.” The word kept tumbling out of my mouth like I’d swallowed a broken record. Placing my palms flat on either side of me, I pushed up to a sitting position, grimacing at the painful reminder of why I wouldn’t be using crutches any time soon. He stepped closer, but didn’t touch me when he realized I was okay. “I can’t do that. You—she can’t do that.” I shook my head and stared at my bare toes. They looked like fat little sausages poking out of the end of the sock. “No. It’s too much. Look. I’ll be fine. Five days? No problem. I’ll be really good and stay off my feet, then I’ll come back on Monday, you’ll give me the thumbs up, and I’ll be on my way. That’s what you said, right?”
“No, Miss Tomlin. That is not quite what I said. I said on Monday we will make sure your bones are healing correctly. That does not mean you can put weight on your foot. And if your hands are not healed….”
“My hands? They’ll be great by then. I heal really fast, you’ll see. I’ll be fine here in town, okay? Besides, I don’t want to impose on anyone any more than I already have today.” I was rambling. Shut up, Ani. “You guys don’t even know me,” I persisted anyway. “I’m a stranger. What if I rob you blind?”
“Well, you would be easy to catch, wouldn’t you?” He stood so close I could see a dark ring encircling each of his amber irises, rays of tiny laugh lines splayed from the corners of his eyes, and the fine black peppering of an encroaching five o’clock shadow on his jaw and around his wide mouth. He had a dimple—of course—on his left cheek when he smiled, and his teeth lined up in a neat row behind his full, upper lip, straight and porcelain white. Everything about him was polished.
I had made assumptions about his clinic as well, not just the man himself. I’d expected a busy family waiting room, not a boutique off Rodeo Drive. The reception area was richly furnished in brown leather chairs and dark mahogany accents. A soft honey tinted the walls, the muted tones an earthy foundation for artwork so bold it was more than a little distu
rbing to me. Beautiful humanesque nudes were depicted in meditative repose, but each one mutilated in some way. A limb missing, only one wing where there should have been two, bodies pierced by organic elements like tree branches and thorns growing into or out of their flesh. The painter emulated the Baroque quality of Caravaggio, but in a much more sensual way.
“The art is incredible, do you agree?” Isa had said when she noticed me studying them. “He is a young new artist from Firenze. From Florence. Cosimo is one of his patrons. He paints the human form and our insecurities with such insight, yes?” I was beginning to notice how so many people I’d spoken with here in Italy ended their statements with a ‘yes’ or a ‘no,’ turning them into questions. It was, I thought, a lovely way to allow other conversationalists the opportunity to agree or disagree, or to contribute their own opinions. In this case, I agreed with her that it was stunning work, but it seemed so… uninhibited for a clinic where silly tourists were treated for bicycle crash injuries.
The exam rooms were more subdued, but they were still furnished elegantly. Even the exam tables were fancier than any I’d ever seen. Dr. Chiseled clearly had a little financial cushion to invest in the facility.
Which meant I probably wasn’t really going to be an imposition on him, at least not financially. But I still wasn’t the kind of girl to stand in line for a handout.
Nor was I the kind of girl who came all the way to Italy to be swept off my feet by some Italian playboy bachelor, no matter what I’d said to Tish. I refused to succumb to the wiles of another unattainable man, even one as lovely as Dr. Chiseled, and I’d definitely sensed a small, but unmistakable vibe about his invitation, substantiated by his promise to come check on me.
“You are not an imposition, Miss Tomlin. You are our invited guest.” He stepped back and I breathed a little easier.
Not as a patient. As a guest. Things were getting dicier. “But—”
“You wish to insult my family?”
“Insult you? No!” Good grief. I couldn’t win.
“So you accept our invitation?” He gathered up my jeans and boots and handed them to me. “I will see you Saturday, okay?”
“Nothing like a doctor who still makes house calls,” I quipped, then covered my mouth, embarrassed that the thought had slipped out.
CHAPTER TWELVE
While I was finishing up with the good doctor, Isa was making arrangements to move me to the Lazzaro family home up in the hills outside Lucca, at least until my hands healed enough for me to use the crutches to get around. She also contacted Fabio on my behalf, explaining what had happened, then made a quick phone call to her husband, Gerardo, to work out transportation. They usually drove one car into town due to limited residential parking, stayed during the work week in their apartment across from Alla Dolce Vita, then headed back to the estate on the weekends.
I insisted again, once out of Dr. Chiseled’s earshot—I had to stop thinking of him that way, lest I slip and call him that in front of someone. Dr. Lazzaro. Dr. Lazzaro. Dr. Lazzaro.—that I’d be fine staying at Alla Dolce Vita on my own. Isa, standing in front of me, one hand on her hip, the other waving her phone around in the air between us, said, “Tell me this, Ani. How are you going to pay for that room with no money, no credit cards, hm?”
“Hey. At least I have my license!” I held up my one pitiful piece of evidence that I, Anica Rachelle Tomlin, existed. Not that it would get me much here in Italy. As far as this country was concerned, my license meant about as much to them as my library card did. Isa ignored me.
“And what about food? Do you think Madalina has time to run up and down the stairs to serve you? For free?” She made a dismissive noise and thumbed in a text to someone on her phone. “You cannot stay here with no one to help you and Mama already prepares your room so it is already too late. Stop fighting me now. Say ‘yes,’ Ani. We are happy to share our home with you.”
“I’m sorry. I’m sorry. You’re right. I’m completely at your mercy.” We were waiting for her husband to arrive in their car, and I had taken advantage of the quiet reception room to make a few calls from my emergency list using Isa’s phone. I’d contacted my bank and requested they send a new VISA card via certified mail to me here at Dr. Lazzaro’s office, as there would always be someone here to sign for it. As soon as it arrived, I could pay for a replacement passport, since it would cost me more than the few euros Paulo had garnered for me from the bike shop. I could, of course, call my parents and have them wire me money today in order to expedite things, but with my broken leg and inability to get around anyway, I didn’t feel like I needed to worry them needlessly. Truth be told, because of these people gathering forces around me, my emergency was turning out to be more of a change of plans than anything terribly tragic.
I didn’t quite understand why Isa had apparently just dropped everything for me, why any of them had, so I asked.
Isa laughed her silvery laugh and dropped into a chair beside me. “I cannot speak for anyone else, but for me? I like you, Ani. I liked you as soon as I saw you last night, standing all alone in your window like a picolito kitten. And this morning, when I saw that you were awake, I was going to suggest you visit Madalina for breakfast, but you found her yourself, no? Madalina, she is exquisite in baking, yes?” She brought her fingers to her lips and made a kissing sound.
“Exquisite, yes,” I agreed, my mouth watering at the memory of the breakfast that seemed so long ago. Was it possibly just this morning I’d sat across from Madalina, trying not to offend her… or be offended by her?
“Mama and Papa will be happy to see us arrive, Ani. For two reasons. One, they do not let me come home without a box of pasticcini from Madalina. And two, I am not the only Lazzaro who likes you.” She leaned in close, glancing at the receptionist who was obviously listening to our conversation, but doing a fine job pretending not to. “Cosi likes you, too.”
“Who?” I furrowed my brow, unable to keep up. “Wait. Who is Cosi?”
“Cosi. Cosimo. My uncle!” She tipped her head toward the door that led to the exam rooms. “Mama asks Cosi to come visit every week and he tells her no. But now? He makes plans to come because you will be there. You see?”
“Right,” I retorted. “Because I’m such a catch. Penniless, homeless, helpless.”
“Ah, but you are damigella in pericolo. How do you say? Damsel in trouble?”
“A damsel in distress.” I sighed dreamily, my lowered filters actually giving me room to contemplate such a notion. “I suppose I am. And I suppose if anyone really wanted to be my knight in shining armor, now would be the perfect opportunity. It’s not like I can run very fast.” The corner of my mouth twitched as I remembered Dr. Lazzaro’s words. “I would be easy to catch.”
“Yes! You are easy. Yes!”
I snickered, the sound ending in a slight note of hysteria. “Yep. That’s me. Easy.” I covered my eyes with my hand, imagining Tish’s reaction to this whole conversation. She’d be rolling on the floor right now.
“Ani. Have you seen Tuscany in the autumn?” Isa had no idea she’d just slammed me, and rather loudly at that. “Ai vello! La vista. It is glorious in October!” She sighed and leaned back in her chair dramatically, her head resting against the wall behind her. “More beautiful than what you can imagine.” She swiveled her head to look at me. “It is a molto busy time for my family, also, but many hands make work easy, yes?” She laughed when I held mine up, my eyebrows raised. “Even your hands will be put to use. My family, they operate the frantoio… em, how do you say? To crush the olives for oil?” She made a pumping motion with one hand.
“Press?” I knew absolutely nothing about processing olives.
“No. It is another word.” She turned to the receptionist and rattled off her question in Italian. The young woman smiled and explained to me in English, her voice light and conversational.
“The Lazzaro family owns and operates the olive mill for their region, il Lazzaro frantoio. Many olive growers bring
their olives to their mill to become olio. To make the olive oil.”
“Oh.” I still wasn’t sure what that entailed, but I nodded politely.
“The olives will be ready for harvest soon,” Isa picked up again. “Maybe in two weeks at the most, maybe one, before the rains come. Papa will know, and when it is time, everyone must help. Even you.”
“I’d love to. If I’m still there.”
“You will be there. I insist.” She spoke with her hands, the way so many Italians did in the movies and sitcoms I’d seen, but nothing about her mannerism seemed staged or unnatural. The bangles on her arm jingled together for emphasis, as though cheering her on, and her sleek dark hair swished saucily around her face.
“Also now the grape harvest is coming to an end and the vines turn the color of gold. My family mostly grows the olives, but around us are many vineyards, you will see.” She sighed again, even more dramatically, crossing her legs and swinging her foot in rhythm with her lyrical voice. “The sun, it warms your skin and makes you want to be lazy all day, and in the night, it is cold enough for burning a fire, but not too cold for dancing in the moonlight with the one you love. Oh Ani, I believe after you stay with my family during this time, you will never want to leave Italy again.”
“Well, when you put it that way….” I laughed, kind of liking the idea of never going home to face what I’d left behind.
Dr. Lazzaro stepped into the little reception area, presenting one more good reason to consider sticking around Italy for a while. He held out a package of extra bandages for my hands and a bottle of medication for my pain, to be taken only as needed. “For five days, you must let your foot and your hands heal, then we will examine you again on Monday. No weight, okay? Promise me, Miss Tomlin?”
I nodded sagely, biting my tongue to rein in the words pushing at the back of my teeth. Um, I’d pretty much promise you anything when you smile like that at me.
Fabio met us at Alla Dolce Vita when we stopped by to pick up my stuff, and even though I was mortified at the thought of him and Isa packing up my personal things for me—I’d left my dirty clothes on the floor in a heap after my shower—they both waved off my protests.
All the Way to Heaven Page 7