“Taking on a wife and having a baby at my age is going to help? I’ve got enough responsibility as it is. You and your sister worry too much. You should both go and enjoy college, okay?”
“We will. I’ll tell Sabrina you’re sad ‘cause you’ll miss us.”
“Go on,” he said, shoving his son playfully.
He would, though. With Shawn at UCLA and Sabrina at SDSU, he’d wondered why he bought a house in Fairvale. He should have moved down south, made a fresh start. But he had his job, his dad relied on him. And, much as he wanted to forget Chiara, the thought of being four hundred miles away from her sent a chill through him. He rubbed his arm and pulled open the door. It slammed against the house before swinging shut behind him.
Chapter Five
“You’ve gotten too much like Phil,” Isabella said after a silent ten minute drive home.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Talking again? Good.”
“Do you enjoy embarrassing me?” Chiara tightened her vise grip on her purse.
“Don’t be so sensitive.”
“If you were trying to make a good impression, teasing me wasn’t helping.”
Isabella parked in the driveway and turned off the car. “I was trying to lighten the mood. I’m sorry I said that about Phil.”
“It wasn’t that, I…” Chiara slumped forward and put her face in her hands, hoping to stop anymore tears. Isabella placed a hand on her back. Chiara took a deep breath.
“Are things that bad? I know you went to couples counseling, was it last year? I thought things were better.”
“Yes.” Chiara didn’t want to tell anyone she and Phil were separated—not yet. She could handle it all herself. “A few months ago, I sat in church, praying, and all that went through my head was you should leave your husband. But I thought that was crazy, God wouldn’t tell me to divorce my husband, right? It was just me, but the feeling was so strong, I had to go into the ladies room and lock myself in a stall and cry. Thank goodness the boys were in Sunday school and my eyes don’t stay red long.”
“Is that how you want to live your life? Numb?”
“The boys are more important than my feelings.”
“No, them having a happy mother is more important than martyring yourself to your idea of motherhood.”
“Screw you. What do you know? You don’t have children.” Chiara stopped squeezing her purse and swung open the door.
“I work with them and I know. They’ll know you and Phil aren’t happy, if they don’t already.”
“We’ve managed to fool everyone else, haven’t we,” Chiara said before she slammed the car door.
“We don’t live with you and you hardly ever see the family anymore.” Isabella hauled her torso out the window.
“Because I don’t need you all dumping on me. Don’t ask me for any more favors.”
Chiara ran up the front steps, dropped her keys, swore, and picked them up, fumbling to unlock the door. Isabella’s car started and drove away. Chiara went inside and hung her purse on the hook. Phil and the boys would be home in a few hours. She had to get herself together.
They were late. Chiara ate a salad for dinner at the kitchen table alone while she read a magazine. At eight, Phil carried a sleeping Max to the boys’ room while Chiara helped Danny put on his pajamas and brush his teeth. He rattled on in his little voice about the rocks he’d found, the lizards they’d seen, the hot dogs and marshmallows roasted over the campfire. She tucked him in and kissed his forehead, he kissed her cheek. She knew soon enough he wouldn’t want to even do that.
“Enjoy your weekend?” Phil asked as they sat in the living room. The boys were asleep and she and Phil were both on their computers.
“Yes, thanks. Sounds like you all had fun.”
“Max missed you.”
“I could have gone, if you’d asked.” Chiara’s hands hovered over the keyboard.
“I know you don’t like camping.”
“I’d go for the boys.”
“But not for me.”
She turned to face him. “That’s not true. We did go that time to Yosemite.”
“And we had to leave a day early because you felt sick.”
“I was pregnant with Danny.” She rolled her eyes and faced the blank page on the screen.
“But you were well enough to go to that spa with your mother and sister.”
“For my mother’s fiftieth birthday and I’d stopped having morning sickness by then. Why am I defending myself? Do you have something to say that’s relevant?”
“I’m never sure who you are, what your priorities are.” His tone was low, dismissive.
“I think that’s clear--our children.” Chiara bit her lip to keep from screaming at him.
“Huh,” he said, also facing his computer when she glanced at him. She shut hers down and went to make the boys’ lunches for school the next day. Phil’s computer snapped shut an hour later and his footsteps shuffled into the bathroom, she could tell by the click of the door. He had to leave for work at seven and he regimented his eight hours of sleep on a strict schedule which Chiara refused silently to follow.
She checked to make sure she had Max’s and Danny’s clothes laid out and their backpacks ready before shutting off the lights. A sob choked in her throat. She hurried into the laundry room, shut the door, and slid down the wall. She squeezed her eyes closed to stop from crying. If she had her cell, she’d call Rocco right now. She leaned her head back. She was losing it, believing even for a second his kind words of understanding and sympathy. She’d met enough men like him to know better.
Still, she looked for him as she passed his job site the next two days, but she couldn’t spot him. Since she didn’t have the guts to linger or ask for him, she sighed each time she walked away without so much as a glimpse, though she could view him well enough in her imagination.
She and Phil barely spoke those two days. He knew he could rattle her eventually if he kept up the silent treatment long enough, which he could indefinitely, though of course they spoke to each other around the boys. Some part of her yearned to talk to Rocco--he was one of the few people she knew who’d been divorced. No one in her family was, though her brother Santo and his wife, Bobbie, had come close. She couldn’t talk to them though. Why she felt she would be comfortable talking to Rocco was a mystery since he unsettled her in ways she’d never experienced.
She left early on Wednesday to pick up Max, whose dismissal time was over an hour earlier than Danny’s. She told herself she wanted time outside to read quietly while she waited, but she knew she could do that at home. Really she hoped to catch Rocco on lunch. Dressed in her most flattering dark rinse boot cut jeans and a cap sleeve blue top, she tried to walk slowly, in a casual manner, but she was too much so as she passed the men grouped on the small patch of lawn.
Her flip flop caught on a crack in the sidewalk and she tripped, unable to stop herself from tumbling to the pavement. She cursed under her breath and picked up the hand which had saved her from a faceplant. The buckled concrete scratched her hands and as she tried to right herself. She plopped onto her rear when a sharp pain jabbed through her left ankle.
“Are you okay?” His voice was low but had a clear edge of true concern. Dammit, he’d seen.
“Yeah, fine.” She closed her eyes and focused on the sound of the leaves whishing in the whisper of wind.
“Did you hurt your ankle?” Rocco asked.
“I think it’ll be okay, thanks.”
He lifted her into his arms as if she was no heavier than a child. Lord, he was strong. She draped an arm around his neck and tried to ignore the deep warmth that settled in her. He was tense, hard as the apple tree branch she’d used to recline on when she was a little girl. As quickly as he’d picked her up, he set her down on the grass. She smiled weakly at the other guys while he gently felt her ankle with his fingers, so warm and rough. She shut her eyes and breathed, earth and man mingled in her nostrils, the
cool lawn soothed her scraped palms. For a moment she imagined herself Maryanne in “Sense and Sensibility” when she first met Willoughby. Except Chiara liked Colonel Brandon, not Willoughby. When she opened her eyes, Rocco studied her.
“Are you sure you’re all right?”
“Bruised pride more than anything else.”
He grinned. Damn, he was hot. “You were so distracted by my presence, you fell over, huh?”
“Actually, I hadn’t noticed you,” she lied.
“Your ankle feels fine,” he said as he eased himself next to her.
“Thanks, sorry I interrupted your lunch.”
“I was just relaxing. Maybe you should join me, give your ankle a rest.”
“I guess. I don’t have to pick up Max for a while yet.” She plucked at the dying grass.
“School over soon?”
“Tomorrow.” She blew out a low breath.
“Big summer plans?”
“Different camps into July, swim lessons, then a trip to San Diego for Danny’s seventh birthday. What about you?”
“I bought a house. Moving in this Saturday.”
“Congratulations. Where?” When she glanced at him, her throat constricted. Even sitting next to him threatened to open something in her she didn’t want to know was there.
“Near here, 1750 Esmond.”
“That’s a great house. We looked at it before we bought ours six years ago. Phil’s not much of a handy man, though. He wanted something we could move right into but he really hated the yard. Not enough sun for his garden.” She was more nervous than she thought, rambling on that way, and about Phil. She plucked at the grass again.
“Yeah, it needs a bit of work, but I’ll get it the way I want it eventually.”
“Do you usually get what you want?”
“Not exactly, no.” He rubbed his knee. “I better get back to it.” He stood, turned, and held out his hand. She slid hers into his wide palm, moist from the mid day heat. He pulled her up effortlessly, but so fast and strong, she nearly collided with him. She placed her hands on his chest to stop the momentum. Their eyes met briefly but it was long enough for her to see the suggestive look on his face and for her insides to burn and throb with the idea of him. She looked away and fluttered her hand in a wave. She stepped onto the sidewalk, ignoring the dull ache in her ankle.
“Thanks,” she said.
“Glad you’re okay.” She sure as hell wasn’t okay. “Enjoy your summer,” he said. Her back slumped a bit.
“You too,” she said without turning around. She wouldn’t see him again. He didn’t want to see her again.
“Hey,” he said. An invisible cord drew her upright while a smile played on her lips. She turned. He waved her purse at her. She blushed but traipsed the few steps to grab it. “If you’re ever in my neighborhood, my door is always open.” Somehow she kept herself upright, or she would have puddled at his feet. She nodded and waved again, feeling as she did when she used to skip up her childhood street, bouncy and giggly.
He wanted to see her. She was sure of it. Otherwise he wouldn’t have said that, or told her his address, either. He must know she lived in his neighborhood, so she was always around. But as she walked home with her boys, she knew she couldn’t see him. It would be a rebound—hell, she hadn’t even filed the divorce papers.
Besides, it would hurt the boys. And Phil--he’d tried to be a good husband and he was a good father. And everyone would judge her—her family would think she was a cheater. All because she was a horny middle aged woman tired of trying to fix her marriage and unsatisfied in bed. So she hadn’t had sex in over six months. Was sex worth destroying her family, even sex as great as she suspected it would be with Rocco? No. Her sex life would have to wait until she divorced Phil…if she ever did.
That night, she showered before bed. Phil and the boys were already asleep. As she washed her hair, she closed her eyes and Rocco’s image shimmered before her, like a desert mirage. She could almost feel his hands on her and soon she had to satisfy herself somehow. Yet there was no sweet release, only her tears mingling with the shower spray as she slid to the bathtub bottom, where she sat, her knees pulled up, sobbing silently into her hands.
Chapter Six
“Sorry to leave you with all this to unpack, but…”
“I know. Thanks for your help.” Rocco patted his son’s back. They’d put in a long morning, loading and unloading the U-haul truck. His apartment had been small, so at least he didn’t have much, though his couch and the few other pieces scattered throughout the new house made it seem empty.
“I guess you’ll be returning the favor in a few months.”
“Sure thing,” Rocco said. He would take Shawn to UCLA in September while their mother would travel with Sabrina to SDSU in August. “Have a good night.”
“I will,” Shawn said with a wink as he left. Rocco sank into the couch. Every minute of his forty years settled with him. His son would be enjoying some cute young thing’s company while he’d be here sweating and working alone, and not on anything as fun as a sexy woman.
He blew out a breath. No point thinking about it and it wasn’t as if he hadn’t enjoyed his share of female company over the years, even when he shouldn’t have been. He stood and stretched before he went into the kitchen.
He unpacked all four boxes, dishes and glasses, a few pots and pans, spatulas and the like, and a few pantry items--rice, pasta, jarred sauce, cans of chili, vegetables, and pears. He glanced in the empty cabinets, wondering what possessed him to buy a three-bedroom, two-bath house when he was a single man. A condo would have been more appropriate, but he liked the place and he’d gotten a great deal on it. It would be something to leave his kids.
He ambled into his bedroom, the only other fully furnished room in the house. He put away his clothes in the closet and old walnut dresser before he found the box with his few sheets, blankets, and towels. The silence pulsated in his ears as he pulled out a set of blue sheets and made the bed.
Now to the serious work. He found his tools and went into the second bathroom, where he began the long process of prepping it for a remodel. He’d already painted half of the rooms in the last few weeks, but he needed to rework the bathrooms and kitchen before he started on the exterior.
After he’d worked several hours, he reentered the living room with a critical eye. But, with a nod, he grinned, satisfied that this room, at least, was ready. He set up the 32 inch flat screen TV. It looked a lot smaller in this room than it had in the ten by twelve living room at his apartment. After he hooked up the DVD player, he trotted out to his truck for his CD case and loaded his favorite Pavarotti CD into the player. He left the door open, the sun beginning to dim in the early evening, but still plenty bright enough not to need lights on. He vacuumed with the shop vac and folded boxes. As he was about to take the vacuum to the garage, he turned at a knock on the door. He gripped the handle as hard as it looked like Chiara held the basket she carried, her knuckles pale with the pressure.
“Hi,” he said. He set down his vac so he could take the basket from her. She stood outside the door, as if she wouldn’t come in.
“I thought you might be tired after moving in so I brought you some dinner. I hope you like it.” She stepped back and put up her hand in goodbye.
“Thanks. Why don’t you join me?” He eased closer to her, not caring that his voice and his movement had too eager an edge.
“I can’t…”
“Your kids waiting?”
“No, they’re out with their dad.” She fingered her throat.
His body revved. “No reason we both should eat alone, right?” She hesitated, standing on the pathway. He smiled and attempted to turn on the charm. “You went to all this trouble—might as well enjoy it too.”
“Okay,” she said, though she maintained a neutral expression.
“Thanks,” he said as he led her into the kitchen, where he set the basket on the counter. It was pretty heavy. He turned to her
and stared a moment. She looked around, running her hand through her hair, her other hand in the left pocket of her snug but not tight jeans. Her top was tighter, accentuating her figure a little too well, considering the circumstances. He cleared his throat. “You look good in that color.” Her shirt was the same bright pink as the dress she’d worn last weekend.
“Thanks,” she said. “Your house is great. Even nicer than I remember. I could really cook in this kitchen.” Her face now matched her tee. She moved past him to unpack the basket. Her spicy orange scent teased his senses briefly. He swallowed, unable to move for a moment with the image of her in his kitchen. Actually cooking in his kitchen, coming home to her… “I’ll have dinner ready soon, unless you want me to wait?” She pulled out rolls and a salad, her small muscles visible in each movement.
Ready for You (A San Francisco Brides Book) Page 4