Breaking the Ties That Bind

by Gwynne Forster

  “Kendra?”

  She turned around and looked back at Clifton Howell. He took a few steps toward her. “A woman came here about twenty minutes ago. I’m sure it was your mother. Rocky recognized her and had her removed from the building, but she may be around someplace. I’m sorry.”

  “Thanks. You did the right thing.”

  She walked back to the three men, looked at Jethro, and said, “My mother is a sociopath. She apparently caught our program and rushed down to make trouble. Mr. Howell took steps to prevent that.”

  Jethro frowned. “How did he know it was she?”

  “She’s been here before.”

  “I see.” He put an arm around her shoulders. “We all have our trials, Kendra. It isn’t of your making, so try not to let it burden you.”

  She didn’t look at Sam, for she feared she’d see in his demeanor a dispirited reaction to what appeared to be an inability to escape her mother. But he grasped her hand, dropped it, and eased his arm around her waist. “It’s all right, sweetheart. She won’t win unless we let her.”

  She nodded, almost as if she hadn’t heard him. “I wish I had your faith.”

  She wanted to believe him. Did he love her more than he detested Ginny? She didn’t want to witness the acid test. Every time Kendra had a modicum of success or if something happened to her that gave her a good feeling about herself, Ginny did something, intentionally or not, that weakened her spirit. And it hurt. But Ginny Hunter would never drag her down!

  Chapter Fourteen

  Kendra removed her shoes, tightened her seat belt, and put her head between her knees, as the captain of the Alitalia flight commanded. She was neither nervous nor scared. After the shock of hearing that her mother had refused food and water for the last two days and threatened suicide if she were forced to return to jail, Kendra doubted that anything could unnerve her. When authorities made it clear to Ginny that, as a repeat offender, she was not entitled to bail, Ginny had reconsidered her efforts at blackmail and accepted food.

  After circling around Leonardo da Vinci–Fiumicino Airport for about twenty minutes, the plane touched ground in a blinding rain, bumping with such force that Kendra thought it would come apart. She comforted herself with the thought that the plane was at least on the ground. When it rolled to a halt, she said a prayer of thanks, raised her head, and took a deep breath of stale air.

  “That was close,” her seatmate, a woman near her age, said. “I fly all the time, but this is the first good scare I’ve had.”

  “This is my first flight. I hope the trip back will be easier.”

  “Have a good time here. As far as I’m concerned, Italy is God’s country. And, honey, these Italian men can give you the shivers, so be careful.”

  An hour and a half later, Kendra stepped out of the shuttle bus that took her to the di Santi Alberghi, a small bed and board hotel, and looked around. The rain had ceased, the sun shined brightly, and the odor of tomatoes, peppers, and garlic comforted her olfactory senses. She was indeed in Italy. A glance at her watch reminded her that back in Washington it was four-thirty in the morning. She changed her watch to ten-thirty and told herself to make a similar adjustment.

  After checking in, she walked into a room that was more attractive than she’d hoped, considering the price. She stepped out on her balcony—and what a sight! Laundry, carpets, mops, buckets, and other things hung from balconies and from clotheslines strung from buildings to posts and balconies above the alley. She sniffed the scent of Italian cooking, which wafted from every window, and went back inside, satisfied that she was in a lower-middle-class section of the Eternal City.

  Too excited to sleep, she changed into a pair of pants and Reeboks, went to the kitchen, and asked to see the cook.

  “You mean the chef,” a waitress, who had been folding napkins, told her. “I’ll get him.”

  The chef appeared, wiping his hands on his white apron, and when he saw Kendra, he removed his chef’s hat. “You had a nice dinner last night, yes?” His eyes sparkled and his forty-year-old face brightened with the pleasure of one who had discovered a diamond mine. His gaze darted to her left hand.

  What had she gotten into? Even a child could recognize that look as a leer. “I have just arrived, sir.” She attempted to explain that she was studying Italian food patterns, but she soon realized that he barely understood what she was saying and pointed repeatedly to his watch.

  The amused waitress took pity on her. “He thinks you like him, and he’s letting you know what time he gets off.”

  Kendra tried to explain to the waitress. “You’re out of your head, lady,” the waitress said. “No chef in Italy will tell you how he boils the eggs. So what you’re thinking is crazy. Go to one of the cooking schools. Maybe they help you.”

  So much for innovation. She hadn’t planned to rely on the references that Professor Hormel had given her; she suspected that home economics students from different schools went to those places. She wanted to bring back something that was original and fresh, so she’d use the references only as a last resort.

  “Do you know the name of one or two?” she asked the waitress.

  “La Buona Cucina is the best, and they have foreign students. My uncle works there.” She gave Kendra the address. “Good luck.” Kendra thanked her. “And you’d better stay away from this guy. He has the wife and children, but he thinks you want to have fun, and he is willing.”

  “How can I avoid him? I’m taking my meals here, and he’ll—”

  The waitress flexed her right shoulder and spread her hands. “You take one step, these men take ten. For a few more lire, you can eat dinner in your room.”

  It was a lesson she wouldn’t have to learn again. But the egotistic chef could take as many steps as he pleased. She didn’t intend to pay one extra lira in order to stay at di Santi in peace, and he had better leave her alone.

  The next morning after breakfast, she went to La Buona Cucina. When the manager learned that she was an American journalist, he received her with enthusiasm. She explained her project to him and, to add to her chance of success, she asked his advice as to how she should proceed.

  Assuming the armor of authority, he said, “You write, but can you cook?”

  “I don’t want to write about your methods of preparing foods. I want to know what the people eat.”

  He looked first at his fingernails and then at her. “You spend one week here, or I don’t talk to you.”

  “After a week, will I know about truffles and other delicacies and who’s eating them?”

  With his mouth ajar, he laid back his head as if greatly put upon. “Signorina, if you write for the rich, you need to know truffles. Otherwise, learn what we do with pomodoro, frutti di mare, cipolla, and formaggio, (tomato, seafood, onion, and cheese).”

  Chastened, she knew she couldn’t insist on her original idea, and that the information she got would have to guide what she wrote. She admitted that she’d been arrogant in thinking she could go to a strange country—whose language she didn’t even speak—and, in one month, understand its people and their food habits well enough to write intelligently about it.

  “Thank you, sir. I’ll be here tomorrow morning ready for class.”

  With the help of a woman she met at breakfast the next morning, Kendra changed her plans and obtained appointments at cooking schools in Florence and Milan. However, she wasn’t to escape the loving attention of the di Santi chef.

  “Eh bella!” the chef said when she walked off the elevator the next morning en route to the cooking school. “Where you goin’, tesorina?” He took her arm and prepared to walk out of the hotel with her. At the exit, knowing that she was in no physical danger, Kendra stopped, opened her electronic translator, and found the Italian words that she wanted. “Togliti dai piedi” she read aloud to him. Get lost. She loved the sound of it and repeated it several times with increasing authority.

  However, the chef’s immediate expression of distress quickly disso
lved into a leer. Disgusted, she stamped her foot, raised her voice, and commanded, “Togliti dai piedi.”

  Indicating that he might be mentally dense, he spread his palms outward, flexed a shoulder, and said, “She did not like the spaghetti e vongole?” He shook his head from side to side and walked on.

  “Thank God,” she said aloud, and let herself breathe.

  But at dinner that night, he brought two cannoli to her table, while other diners had sherbet and a cookie for dessert. She loved cannoli, but in sudden awareness that he would chase her until she left Rome, she picked up the dessert and placed it in front of an older woman at a nearby table and left the dining room. She told the hotel manager later, “So you tell him to leave me alone, or I’ll tell my university that this hotel is not a safe place for its female students.”

  The manager rubbed his hands together and then clasped them in a prayerful attitude. “You will have no more problems with him. I promise you. My hotel is the perfect place for university girls.”

  In her room, Kendra tried to review her notes, but couldn’t focus on them. Her thoughts were on the changes in herself after less than one week. She had taken a firm hand against the chef’s unwanted attention, and she had not worried about the effect that reporting his behavior to the manager would have on the man.

  For once, I didn’t equivocate. I didn’t like his game, and I’ve given him no choice but to leave me alone. And she had changed her project’s plan as soon as she knew it wasn’t going to work and had instituted a better one—learning at the school what a single chef couldn’t teach her.

  The next morning, with renewed energy and faith in herself, Kendra strode down the corso, and turned into Porta Pia where the cooking school stood one building from the corner.

  “What are you so happy about?” Anthony, one of three American men studying at the school, asked Kendra.

  “Nothing special.” Even if she told him, she doubted that he would understand.

  “Want to see some of Rome with me this evening?”

  Her immediate reaction was a negative one, but she reconsidered after remembering that Anthony was an American and that they understood the same rules for male–female relations.

  “I’d love to, Anthony, because I’d hate to leave Rome without having seen the Piazza del Campidoglio, the Spanish Steps, Trevi Fountain, the Pantheon, and other monuments to the Roman past. I’ve only seen the Colosseum and the Vatican. I didn’t allot enough time for my stay in Rome. But, I have to be honest, if you’ve got a good-night kiss on your mind, count me out.”

  “Come now, Kendra, we cross that bridge when we get to it. You can’t negotiate that in advance. Who knows? By the time I bring you back to your hotel, you may be crawling all over me. If you’ve got a guy back in the States, leave him there; you’re here.”

  She probably should have told him to take a hike, but sightseeing alone in Rome in the month of January hadn’t proved the most rewarding experience. “It’s a good thing you laughed when you said that. I’d like to see the Trevi Fountain, at least. Can we go right after school?”

  “Sure, and I can take you to a few other interesting places.”

  “Like what?”

  “The Pantheon and the Campidoglio and, if it’s still open, maybe the Church of Saint Peter in Chains where they keep Michelangelo’s Moses. That’s an awesome figure. Okay?”

  “That would be wonderful.”

  Kendra had thought they would use public transportation, but Anthony shuttled them around Rome in his little Fiat.

  When they arrived back at the di Santi after eleven o’clock that night, she’d had more fun than she imagined possible with a man she barely knew. Getting out of the Fiat, she slipped, and when he tried to prevent her fall, they both fell. A passerby came to help them, but their laughter apparently discouraged him. Anthony walked into the hotel with her, and although she didn’t escape his kiss, she refused to part her lips.

  “So that guy’s got a hold on you,” Anthony said. “I hope he deserves you.”

  She didn’t respond to that. “Thanks for the sightseeing and the fun, Anthony. Good night.”

  Almost as soon as she walked into her room, the telephone rang. Fearing that the caller was the amorous chef, she allowed it to ring over half a dozen times before answering it.

  “Hello,” she said in a voice devoid of warmth.

  “I thought I’d have to hang up without speaking with you.”

  “Sam! Sam! Oh, this is wonderful! I’m so glad to hear you.”

  “How are you, sweetheart? I wanted to reach you before you leave for Florence. I hope it’s going well.”

  “So far, so good, but it certainly is not as easy as I had imagined. Thank goodness they crossed off Egypt! That would probably have been impossible.”

  “Do you think you can get the story you want?”

  “If I can skip Milan and get what I want in Florence and a smaller city, such as Verona, I can write something that justifies this trip. We’ll see.”

  “It’s been one long week,” he said.

  “It sped by for me. I’ve had to concentrate on my every thought, every move, and every piece of information given me. I’ve been so busy readjusting, getting my bearings and coping with this language and things I didn’t expect, that time has seemed to move too fast. I’ve felt that the month would be over before I get my story.”

  “I can imagine. Does that mean you haven’t missed me?”

  “Of course I’ve missed you. But I’ve had to work things out myself, and knowing that I’ve done that gives me so much satisfaction.”

  “I like what I’m hearing. Just be certain you’re not concentrating on one of those guys.”

  “Oh, Sam. I haven’t even been here a week.”

  “What does that say? I’ve spent a lot of time in Italy. If you don’t know it already, let me tell you that the average Italian man doesn’t need five minutes. Give him a week, and there’s no telling what he’ll do.”

  For some reason, that amused her. “Really? I’ll keep that in mind.”

  “I hope you don’t think I’m joking. I miss you, and I’d be much happier if you hadn’t left here while you were concerned about your mother. There’s an acceptable solution to every problem. We only have to find it.”

  “I guess so. What I can’t understand is why a person would be so hell-bent on self-destruction and seem to want to destroy every person in her path.”

  “Apparently, one thing she has needed is a firm hand. She knows now that she has to remain in jail until her trial and that she can’t manipulate the judge, so she’s cooperating with the authorities. But that’s the answer only for now.”

  “We’ll have to talk about this when I get back, Sam. There isn’t much love or sentiment between us, but there are times when I need to talk with a mother, when I want to discuss things, to understand things that a woman would raise in conversation only with her mother. Ginny has cheated me out of that, and I no longer expect it of her. She can’t influence me, and her antics no longer hurt me. But I don’t know if I’ll be able to watch her drown. Have you spoken with my papa?”

  “I played chess with him night before last, and I see where you got your powers of concentration. He didn’t say ten words during the game. Quite a guy.”

  “Who won?”

  “Need you ask? He was downright vicious. But, he’d just served me a terrific porterhouse steak dinner, so I forgave him. Do you have your phone number in Florence?” She gave it to him.

  “Get there safely. If anything should go wrong, remember that Florence is only a eight-hour flight away and call me. I love you.”

  “I love you, too, Sam. Bye.”

  At times, Kendra amazed him. Sam propped his feet up on the desk in his den at home, locked his hands behind his head, and let a grin slide over his face. He’d been worried silly about her—whether she’d be able to communicate with the help of her tourist-book Italian and, especially, whether she would convince anyone in th
e food industry to talk with her about Italian food habits. He’d bet anything that she had a few stories to tell, and not all of them would be amusing. And no matter what she told him, he’d never believe that she hadn’t had to fend off the advances of a couple of Italian males.

  The Romans were a handsome people, and the men knew it and prided themselves in their looks. And they loved beautiful women of any color. But if he had to worry about a woman’s fidelity, he didn’t have much going for him. In any case, Kendra was not and never would be a pushover for any man, and that included him.

  But something had to be done about Ginny Hunter, because Kendra would never be happy as long as her mother was in trouble. It didn’t help that he disliked the woman intensely.

  During his first free period at school the next day, Sam phoned a close colleague. “Hi, Dita, this is Sam. Are you free for lunch?”

  “Sure. What time?” He told her and they agreed to lunch at La Belle Époque, his favorite restaurant.

  Dita’s peers considered her an expert in behavioral psychology, and he hoped she could shed some light on Ginny Hunter’s prospects for improvement. He hoped she wouldn’t divulge their conversation.

  “I’m too close to this to be objective, Dita, and I’d appreciate your confidence in this matter.” Without naming names or disclosing his relationship to the characters involved, he described what he knew of Ginny’s behavior. “Those close to her think she’s a sociopath. I have my own views. Do you think she can be helped, that she can be guided to change her behavior and outlook?”

  “Whew! You aren’t asking for much! I think a really good therapist can do her some good, but she doesn’t seem the type to cooperate with a therapist. If she remains in jail, she’ll convince herself that the world owes her plenty and she’ll never accept that she wouldn’t have been in jail if she hadn’t broken the law. If she gets a humanitarian for a judge, she may get forced treatment, which she’ll accept in order to get out of prison.”