Beautiful Secret

by Dana Faletti

  In the hazy moment before his lips crushed hers, Tate slid into all of his empty spaces, each fleshy curve of her body marrying itself to a home inside his arms, giving him all the permission he needed to give her what she needed most.

  When their bodies breached the threshold of Villa Daniela, moving together into the dimly lit foyer of the guest house, Tate’s lips were already chapped by the forceful bite of Michel’s kisses. Her skin burned with the need to give away all of her secrets. Michel backed her gently up against an inside wall, driving his body against hers, sucking tenderly on her earlobe until soft sighs of pleasure escaped her lips. She felt his hand slide down her spine and up the back of her shorts, his fingers tickling the sensitive flesh at the base of her ass. As she raised her right leg and wrapped it around his waist, needing like crazy for his hands to continue their wandering, Tate’s jacket pocket began to buzz. The sound disrupted the sensual music of their dance, demanding attention, breaking the spell of the moment.

  “Your phone,” Michel said, his words tumbling on sweet breath into Tate’s mouth, his teeth grazing her own.

  Tate nodded, untangling shaky fingers from his head of silky hair and reaching into her pocket.

  The second she glanced at the incoming number, Tate’s blood went cold. An allover chill sliced through her, invading the gauzy cloak of romance in which she’d been wrapped up. She slid out from under Michel’s arms and turned away from him.

  “Hello.”

  “Tate? Hello?” Nathan’s voice landed in her ears over a hum of static. “Tate? Goddammit, are you there?”

  “Nathan?”

  “Tate,” Nathan said. “Jesus, I’ve been trying to call you for the past ten minutes.”

  “Are you okay?” Fingers of guilt closed around her throat as she waited in the silence for his response.

  “Yeah,” he said after a pause. “What the hell is the alarm code in this house?”

  Alarm code? Just then, Tate heard the beep of the alarm in the background. He was calling her for the code that would turn off the security system at the house. He must have tripped it somehow.

  “Tate, did you hear me? I need the goddamn code.”

  “It’s zero nine zero five, Nathan,” Tate said without emotion. She heard him fumbling around with something on the other end.

  “Zero…nine…zero…five,” he said. Tate pictured him speaking the numbers aloud as he punched them into the panel on the wall. The wailing siren quieted, and Nathan let out an audible sigh of relief. “Christ,” he said. Again, she imagined him running a hand through his black waves of hair, rubbing stressed-out eyes beneath his black-rimmed glasses.

  “The security company is going to call, Nate,” she told him. “They’ll want a passcode.”

  “What is it?” he asked.

  “It’s tomorrow,” she said.

  He laughed. “Of course it is.” Sarcasm dripped from his words.

  Tate was quiet then. She thought to ask him how he’d set off the alarm, how things were going at work, if he’d been to visit his ailing aunt at the nursing home. But she didn’t ask him anything. Instead, she was still, Michel’s presence behind her a tangible force, Nathan’s breathing on the line a weak but present tether.

  “I have some work to do,” Nathan said, breaking the silence. “I need some other numbers, though. Can you text me the contact info for those Mexican cleaners?”

  “They’re Brazilian,” she said dryly.

  “Whatever,” he said. “The place is a mess. And I need the number for whoever takes care of the yard.”

  “That would be me,” Tate said.

  “Well, what the hell am I supposed to do for the next week?”

  “Two weeks, Nathan,” she said, not shocked that they were speaking of dust and landscaping rather than her international excursion. “I’m gone for two more weeks.” She paused, sighing, the density of her real life hitting her over the head like a sledgehammer. “You can ask Trey to cut the grass,” she said, her fingers coursing over the stubble burn on her cheeks.

  “Who?” Nathan asked.

  “Kelly Gingrich’s son, two doors down.” Her body went cold as the spoken words reminded her of the house she’d left behind.

  “Okay. Text me that number too, then.”

  “Okay,” she said, tired of talking, wanting to disappear.

  “Where are you?” Nathan asked, after a moment of silence.

  “I’m in Italy,” Tate told him, shocked that he’d asked. “In a little place called the Santerno Valley.”

  “With your family?”

  Tate imagined Michel’s breath on her neck. She stiffened. “Yes,” she said, nearly choking on the warped version of truth she’d just fed her husband.

  Again, Nathan said nothing.

  “Is there…anything else?” she asked.

  When the click click of a keyboard met her ears, she realized he’d checked out.

  “Uh, yeah, one more thing.”

  Tate’s heart stopped beating for a moment in anticipation of his next words.

  “When’s the dry cleaning get delivered?”

  Oh, that, she thought, deflating.

  “Wednesdays, Nathan.”

  “Okay. I’ll see you.”

  “Bye,” she said, sliding her thumb over the red bar on the screen.

  When she turned back around, she found Michel leaning against the wall where she’d left him. Beyond them, tile floors led into a great room with terra-cotta walls and a wood-burning firepit in its center. From where they stood, she could see piles of corks strewn in the corners of the room and smell remnants of smoke, wine, and something else. Flowers, maybe?

  “Someone left the lights on,” she said to Michel.

  “Daniela knew we would arrive at a late hour,” he told her.

  She nodded, unable to meet his eyes. She was so stuck in this mire of muddied emotions, her feet seemed glued in place.

  “Tatiana,” Michel said, taking two steps toward her and reaching out to touch her cheek. She looked up at his chiseled face, begging him silently to see her, to hear her. “That was your husband on the phone,” he said calmly, bringing both hands to cup Tate’s chin.

  “Yes,” she said, a tear escaping one of her eyes.

  Jesus. She’d shed more tears on this damn trip than she’d allowed herself to cry in the past three years.

  Tate started to wipe the wetness from her face, but Michel folded her into himself, a gesture of comfort this time, rather than passion. She leaned into him and let him absorb her pain. When she stopped crying, he clutched both of her shoulders and pulled her an inch away from him, kissing her forehead.

  “You know,” he said, smiling at her in soft jest, “if I were your Nathan, I would never allow you to take care of the yard, Tatiana. Every boy in the street is having a fantasy over Madame Tatiana, riding bareback on the… What do you call the machine that cuts the grasses?”

  Tate’s tears morphed into choked laughter. “A lawnmower,” she told him, wiping her eyes on the sleeve of her jacket. “You listened in on our conversation?”

  “Yes,” he said. “I have strong ears. Sorry.”

  “It’s fine,” Tate replied, embarrassed that Michel had witnessed the surface-level interaction that was all she ever experienced with her husband.

  Michel’s hands moved up and down Tate’s jacketed arms, and he backed away. “I’ll go and get your bag, yes?”

  She sighed and stared at a crack in the tile at her feet. “Yes,” she said. “Thanks.”

  Tate watched him walk back through the still-open door of the villa and then turned to explore the rustic but vast interior. She followed a short corridor that curved to the left into a charming kitchen. There, on a butcher-block island in the center of the room, stood a large porcelain pitcher, its paint chipped in several places. Inside the pitcher were three bright sunflowers tied together with twine at the base of their blooms. A note sat on the worn wood in front of them.

  Happy stay, my fr
iend. I wish you and your family a night of comfortable rest as you stay here in Villa Daniela and joy for the rest of your adventure. May the path of your fate grace you with many open doors!

  Much love, Michel.

  Daniela

  Tate dipped her face into the flowers and inhaled, discovering that sunflowers didn’t have much of a scent. A minute later, she heard the front door slam. Voices filled the hallway.

  Zio’s sharp tone rang out. “Michel,” he called. “If I wake up tomorrow morning to no Mercedes in the drive, I’m going to beat your ass.”

  “No one is going to steal the car, Nonno,” Michel told his grandfather in impatient Italian. “Go upstairs and find a bed to sleep in. Come on.”

  Tate snickered to herself as she listened to their heavy footsteps clomping along the hallway above.

  When Michel returned to the kitchen, Tate was sitting quietly at the round wooden table next to a row of windows at the back of the house. She smiled at him with sleepy eyes.

  “I thought you were going to let him sleep in the car,” Tate said, raking a hand through her sloppy, tangled curls.

  “He was awake already. Sitting on the hood, smoking a cigar.”

  Tate snorted, imagining her uncle in his wrinkled jeans and old brown leather sandals, perched atop the shiny black car like a door mouse on the awning of the Ritz.

  “Your bag is in the last bedroom on the left, Tatiana,” Michel told her as he approached. “Go now and sleep.” Once again, he brushed the side of her face with his knuckles. “Tomorrow we find Reggio Calabria and your family. A new adventure for us.” He grinned and then stumbled backward on his words. “For you.”

  “Thank you, Michel,” she said and stood to face him. “Not just for carrying my bag upstairs—”

  “I know,” he interrupted, a serene smile sliding onto his lips. “It is no problem for me, cousine.” He took her hand and led her into the foyer.

  Tate stopped before ascending the stairs. She squeezed Michel’s fingers until he paused and turned to her.

  God, when he looked at her…she felt beautiful and wanted and completely in the moment. Fumbling around in his eyes, she searched for the courage to say the words she needed to say.

  “Michel,” she began, swallowing her fear and daring to open herself. “I…tonight, before my phone rang… I wanted—”

  “I know,” he said, cutting her off for the second time and placing a finger to her lips. Tate could feel a layer of haze coating her eyes. “Shh,” he told her, wrapping his arms around her frame, pulling her head into his chest. “Me too. I wanted,” he said. “But now, you sleep, Tatiana. Come.” He loosened himself from her, and she followed him upstairs.

  When Tate’s feet took their first step onto the creaky wooden floorboards upstairs, Michel pointed in the direction of her bedroom. She nodded and left his side.

  “Good night, Michel,” she said, standing in the open doorway.

  He looked up at her, his blue eyes barely visible in the dim light of the hallway sconces. “Good night, beautiful cousine,” he said, stepping inside his own room and closing the door.

  Chapter 22

  Tate

  The next day, they were up at dawn, saying good-bye to Villa Daniela in a mist of golden pink morning. The picturesque Santerno Valley at sunrise left little to be desired. Its greenery fully lived up to Tate’s expectations, boasting vineyards, gently swaying grasses in a variety of colors, and rows upon rows of fruit trees. Although she’d had a restless night after her conversation with Nathan and her almost something with Michel, Tate breathed peace at the sight of the road ahead and the adventure it promised.

  “Hai dormito Tatiana?” Zio placed a weathered arm around her shoulder and asked if she’d slept okay.

  “Si, Zio,” she lied, watching Michel set their luggage in the trunk and then close it gently. As he rounded the car and opened her door, she caught a whiff of bergamot and orange.

  “You smell good,” she told him.

  He smiled. “Thanks. I washed,” he said and released a laughing sigh.

  Once they’d established their positions in the car, Michel as the driver and Zio the co-pilot, Tate made herself comfortable in the backseat. She held down the power button of her phone to turn it on, a wistful taste on her tongue.

  No missed calls.

  She opened up her Facebook app for some mind-numbing creeping and started to scroll.

  Hey there, girlie.

  Suri was online and messaging her. That was a pleasant surprise.

  Hey Suri. How are things?

  Same old, same old here. Where are you?

  We’re driving to Southern Italy.

  Ah… Long drive.

  Something like that, Tate typed back, unsure if she wanted to tell Suri anything of yesterday’s drama.

  I tried checking your casa a couple of times, but your husband is apparently holding down the fort 24-7.

  He called me yesterday.

  Are you shitting me?

  No. He must have set off the house alarm and didn’t remember the code to get it to stop blaring.

  Dumbass.

  “Tatiana,” Michel said, “Look there.”

  Tate’s eyes eased away from the phone screen and followed Michel’s pointing finger.

  “An owl,” she said. The large bird was perched on a crag of unkempt rectangular rocks that were stacked upon each other as if they’d planned to become something but had later tired.

  “I like these creatures,” Michel told her, slowing the car to get a better look at it.

  “They’re sort of mysterious,” she said. “They’re supposed to be wise.”

  “Il gufo.” Zio spoke up, picking at the skin on his right hand. “Un cattivo presagio.” A bad omen.

  Michel snorted and accelerated the car. “Superstitious vecchio.” Superstitious old man.

  Zio shrugged and grunted before grinning at his grandson and folding into a shake of laughter, dismissing his opinion with little care.

  Tate loved her great-uncle’s easy way. If only everyone could interact with the world the way Zio did, holding onto his own truths but, without offense or a second thought, allowing others to form their own. Wars would cease. Strife would be…somehow less strifey, Tate thought, smiling.

  She glanced back down at her phone and noticed a run of messages from her impatient friend.

  How’s it going with the hot cousin?

  What? You’re not gonna spill?

  Come on, Tate, you can tell me.

  Tate? You there?

  Tate hurriedly typed an apology, letting Suri know that she was back now, but her friend didn’t respond.

  “Why do you like owls?” Tate asked Michel, sliding her phone back into her purse.

  “Ah, you are finished with your phone now, cousine?” Michel replied.

  “I was chatting with a friend from home.”

  “Your Suri?”

  “Yes,” she said. She’d told Michel about Suri the day they’d had their mountain biking excursion.

  “I like owls because I like owls,” he said and snickered. “We have not always reasons for the way we feel, do we?”

  Tate rolled her eyes and sighed. Sometimes, these loaded conversations annoyed her.

  “What else do you like, Michel? What do you do in your free time?” Tate asked. “Other than woodworking.”

  “Who told you this, Tatiana?”

  “Colette,” she said. “The pieces in Zia’s house are amazing. You’re very talented.”

  He glanced at her in the rearview mirror, taking his eyes off the road for a second. “Thanks,” he said. “I have many hidden talents, cousine.”

  She shook her head at his laughter, relieved that after all of their charged moments, he still felt comfortable enough to joke with her this way. Tate eased out of her seat belt and leaned forward so that she was nearly between the two men.

  “But seriously, do you have hobbies? Interests?” She wanted him to bare himself, even a li
ttle, to her. She’d told him so much about her life.

  “I like la chasse,” he said. Hunting.

  “Deer?”

  “Not only this,” he explained. “Grouse, pheasant. Other birds.”

  “But not owls,” she chided.

  “No,” he laughed. “Never owls.” He paused a moment and then continued. “We also hunt for…sanglier,” he said. “I cannot find the English word for this animal.”

  Tate shook her head. She had no clue what a sanglier was.

  “This is like a big pig but with tusks, like an elephant. It’s hairy all over the body. Very ugly,” Michel said.

  Tate’s eyebrows furrowed until suddenly a picture formed in her mind, a vision of the animal statue in Colette’s loft bedroom. “A wild boar?” she asked him.

  “Yes, that’s it,” Michel said, tapping the steering wheel with success at having found the term. “We go out as a group into the woods of the Ardennes. There are many wild boar in these woods. We go in a circle and surround a herd.” He glanced sideways at her. Tate angled herself toward him over the console, interested in the description of his hunt. “We take many wild boar at one day, with bow and arrow, Tatiana,” he said, taking his hands off the wheel to mimic an archer and making a clicking sound with his mouth as he released the imaginary string. “And then we have a feast. Sanglier is delicious meat, very good to prepare in my grandfather’s brick oven.”

  “Hmm,” Tate said, thinking that wild boar probably tasted like pork. “I’d love to try it someday.”

  “Next time you come to France, I take you on a hunt with me, okay?”

  “No, no, no,” Tate protested, shaking her head. “I don’t hunt.” Michel turned his head and nodded at her.

  “Yes, cousine,” he said between laughter. “If you want to eat, you must hunt, too.”

  She laughed with him and then sighed, shifting so that her right elbow landed on Zio’s shoulder. He looked up at her with devilish old eyes and winked.

  Chapter 23

  Tate

  Reggio Calabria. A bustle of traffic, blaring horns and reckless drivers screaming obscenities at each other behind windshields or out of their open windows.