by Caroline Lee
“If you think that’s best…?”
Hell no, he was barely thinking straight as it was. But on the other side of that door was Mrs. Mayor and the next few chapters of Twain’s uproariously funny travelogue, and the last thing he wanted was to share her company with Gordy. “Unless you’d rather spend your evening listening to her read—we’ve reached the chapters on the Azores, you know—than with a few beers, you’ll manage to get your head out of your rear, and do as I say.”
He could hear Gordy’s smile when the other man quipped, “Well, when ye put it like that, I’ll leave ye to it.”
Listening to his friend’s footsteps as they stamped down the main avenue, Vincenzo sighed. And then, squaring his shoulders, he pushed the door open.
There was a cheery little tinkling from the bell overhead, and his senses were assaulted with the twin scents of baking bread and honeysuckle. He hadn’t imagined it yesterday. Even though he’d been thinking of other things, the closer he’d stood to her; she smelled of honeysuckle, just as Jane had. He wondered if Mrs. Mayor distilled her own scent, the way his wife had long ago, or if her botanist husband had done it for her.
“I’ll be right out!” Her voice came from far away, as if she was in the back room. He just stood, unsure, until he heard her bustle out. The fresh-bread and honeysuckle scent followed her, and Vincenzo inhaled deeply.
And then she was standing right beside him, her fingers lightly resting on the fine broadcloth of his suit sleeve. “Thank you for being willing to come all this way, Signore.” Was it his imagination, or did she sound shyer today?
“It wasn’t so far.” He hadn’t meant to be so gruff, but there was something about this evening that was affecting him. Dredging up old memories.
With gentle pressure, she led him across the room and placed his hand on the arm of a wingback chair. “Please sit down. I had Eddie help me move these down today, after I knew you’d be coming.” Her skirts swished as she settled beside him, presumably on another chair.
She’d managed to surprise him. “You carried chairs down just for me?”
“Well, I’ve been meaning to create a cozier atmosphere in the shop, and this was a good excuse. The chairs are upholstered in a lovely robin’s-egg blue, and belonged to Milton’s—to my late husband’s—mother. I’ve set them up in this corner, along with two small tables and a lamp. The bookshelves are above and behind you, but this section isn’t as well-frequented as the others. Only a few of us care about botany treatises.” As she described her shop, and his location in it, he saw it come to life behind his empty eyes. She effortlessly spun a description—so unlike yesterday, when he’d asked her to describe herself—without prompting, making him comfortable here, in her domain. He wanted to thank her, but didn’t want to embarrass her. Instead, he addressed the original topic.
“Well, I appreciate that you created this cozy nook in time for my appointment. I can have Gordy order some replacement chairs, so that you won’t be deprived of your mother-in-law’s finery in your own apartment.”
“Oh, that’s all right.” Her assurance was a bit too fast. “We’re…” She cleared her throat. “Eddie and I are moving out of our apartment and down into the backroom of the shop. There’s less space there, so I’ll be moving more furniture in here, I’m sure. We’re renting our home upstairs to a lovely couple who are ready for their own space.”
“That must be hard on the boy.” It must be hard on her too, but he knew that she wouldn’t admit that.
He was right. “I’m afraid you’re correct.” She lowered her voice, and Vincenzo remembered her son was in the back room. “I’m hoping that taking lessons with you will focus him more, give him an outlet.”
So he smiled the smile that had charmed dozens of women before her. “I have confidence that he and I will work together well. I’m looking forward to meeting him.”
Another swish of her skirts, and then she said quietly, “I’ll arrange for it, this evening. But in the meantime…” He heard the rustle of paper, and then she began. “I think the Azores must be very little known in America. Out of our whole ship's company there was not a solitary individual who knew anything whatever about them.”
Vincenzo rested his head on the back of the chair, and rested one foot on the opposite knee, and let her words sweep him away. Gordy had read him the same book a few years ago, but between his manservant’s brogue and unfamiliarity with the written word, it was nowhere near as pleasant as this. He found himself completely swept up in Twain’s adventure, chuckling at the appropriate times. Mrs. Mayor did her best not to laugh at the funny parts—he could tell by the way her tone of voice changed, that she was trying to hold in her giggles—but it didn’t always work.
And when her voice got rough from reading, he interrupted to talk about his travels in Europe. He’d never been to the Azores, for instance, but he’d spent a month in Lisbon, and told her all about the people he’d met and the foods that he’d eaten. Her questions were insightful, and told him that while she was well-read, she hadn’t traveled much, so he happily answered them. It felt good to repay her, in some small way, for reading to him.
And for an hour, at least, he wasn’t a deformed recluse, but a man. A man spending time with a woman that he wanted to charm… but not in the way he’d charmed all of Europe. For some reason, somehow, he wanted her to know him; not the him that he’d shown his audiences, not the him that had morbidly fascinated women across the world, but the real him.
It was an odd feeling.
Arabella was pleased that she’d taken the time to arrange this cozy nook in the corner of her store. It was something she’d been thinking about for a while; making the store more attractive as a reading location, and conveniently using some of the furniture that wouldn’t fit in the back room once they moved. But having a set appointment with Signore Bellini had been the impetus she’d needed.
As she’d read, she’d let her mind wander to the pretty things she’d already packed for the move. Her mother’s lace tablecloth would fit well over that little end table, and that chintz lap blanket Milton had purchased in New York would look lovely thrown over that chair. And Grandmama’s tea service could be placed just so for special occasions. Milton had believed in keeping a beautiful—if impractical—home, and since his death, they’d packed away many of the items that were too lovely for everyday use. But they’d look fine out here, and help create a more welcoming, inviting atmosphere.
Vincenzo—Signore Bellini, rather, told fascinating stories to supplement Twain’s observations, and before she’d realized it, more than an hour of entertaining company had passed. Who would’ve thought that a man who looked like him could be so charming?
“Mother! Look, I’ve finished! I wanted to—oh.” Eddie’s rush towards her halted when he saw that her guest was still seated in their store. Her son turned hesitant, not sure if he should continue, or leave them be. She put out her arm, gesturing for him to join them.
When she’d told Eddie about the arrangement she’d made with Signore Bellini, he’d been cautious, asking questions about what he’d learn and what his teacher would be like. She didn’t hold anything back; told him what she knew of Vincenzo and how he looked. But she also spoke about his father’s talent with the violin, and how she knew that talent flowed through Eddie’s blood.
Ever since he was a youngster, she’d told him stories about his father. She wanted him to respect Milton, who’d done so much for them over the years, but she didn’t want him to forget Edward Hawthorne, the man who’d sired him. And now, seeing how bravely her son stepped up beside her and faced the surprisingly kind-hearted beast in the opposite chair, she knew that her first husband—her love—would’ve been proud of the son he’d helped create.
“I’m sorry for interrupting.” He was speaking to his shoes; his hands—and his latest prize—were clasped behind his back.
“Don’t be, sweetheart,” she murmured reassuringly. When he stepped close to her, she ran her h
and down his arm and felt her heart soar when he pressed against her. He might be grown, but he was still her baby and needed her. “Signore Bellini and I were just finishing. I’m afraid my voice is about to give out.” She heard a little noise from the other chair, but Vincenzo’s face was in shadows, and he’d made no move to draw Eddie’s attention. “What did you want to show me?”
Still watching her guest, Eddie drew his hands from behind his back. There was a perfect little stagecoach, carved and glued and dried. She’d seen it in its various stages, but now that it was complete, she said what he needed to hear. “Oh, Eddie, it’s perfect!” She held out her hands, and he reverently placed the model in them. Holding it up to the light, she twisted it this way and that. “Look at the tiny little brakes! They don’t work, do they?”
“No.” Her son grinned at her praise. “But the wheels turn!”
“I can see that.” She remembered their guest, who couldn’t see what they were seeing. “What a lovely little stagecoach, flawlessly put together. It hasn’t been painted yet, but you’re going to, right?”
“Yeah. I thought I’d start after school tomorrow, during lunch.”
“Oh, look! Even the little axle turns! How’d you manage that? Vincenzo, you should see what he’s—“ With a gasp, she swallowed the rest of her sentence, mortified by the faux pas. But when she lifted her eyes to his face, he was smiling slightly. Perhaps because she’d accidently called him by his given name?
“I’d like to hold it, if the young man doesn’t mind?” He shifted forward in his seat, and the lamp-light hit his face. She heard Eddie inhale sharply, and thanked the years of Milton’s lectures that had taught him to be polite. She watched his expression change from horror to thoughtfulness as the boy’s eyes skimmed their guest’s face. She wanted to squeeze his hand, to let him know that everything would be okay. Instead, when he glanced at her for reassurance, she had to make do with an encouraging little nod.
He looked nervous, but he just swallowed and whispered “Yes, sir.”
Had she been proud of him before? Now, watching the hesitation on his face as he took the model from her hands and crossed to Vincenzo’s chair, her heart almost burst with pride. When he glanced back at her, she tried to show him that in her smile, and hoped that the small straightening of his shoulders was a sign that it had worked.
When he stopped in front of the man’s knees, Vincenzo sat up, and lifted his hands in front of him. Carefully, reverently, Eddie laid the small stagecoach in them.
Vincenzo hummed as he turned the model over, feeling each nook and brushing his fingers across every cranny. “What’s this bit here?” One callused fingertip rested on the tiny driver’s bench, and Eddie leaned over his model to peer closer.
“That’s the brake that Mother pointed out. See?” Unthinkingly, the boy picked up the larger finger and moved it a miniscule amount to one side, and Vincenzo made a little noise of discovery. “It doesn’t move, because there’s no reason for it. But I guess it could.”
Arabella’s breath caught, to see her son accepting this man, limitations and all. Eddie’s pride in his work was evident, and she could’ve hugged Vincenzo for the interest and delight he showed as he traced his fingers over her son’s creation.
“You show fine talent, son. Did you do all of this carving yourself?”
“Mr. King, the cabinet-maker, has been teaching me to do the fiddly-bits. I know it’s not as smooth as his, but I like it.”
“Do you paint as well as you carve?”
Eddie shrugged. “Probably not.” Arabella grinned at her son’s casual self-confidence. “I don’t paint all of my models.”
“You’ve made others? How long have you been doing this?”
The boy shifted until he was standing beside Vincenzo, but his hand still rested on the chair back beside the man’s shoulder. “I dunno. Maybe a year? I used to carve just plain models, but I wasn’t very good at living things, like horses.”
She wanted to defend his talent. “You’re still young, sweetheart.”
Vincenzo smiled up at her son. “All mothers consider their sons talented, you know.”
Eddie was blushing. “Well, I’m much better at things like this. I like making all the bits fit together.”
“I’ll bet you like mathematics, too, don’t you?”
“Yes, sir.” Eddie flashed her a glance, but quickly looked away. “I know Mother loves to read, but I like things that are real.”
She was compelled to speak up. “Books are real, young man. But all of us are different. Your father preferred math, as well.”
As he always did, Eddie smiled when she compared him to his father. Maybe she’d done Milton a disservice, over the years, by not building him up higher in the boy’s mind and heart. But her second husband had no interest in children, and had left Eddie’s upbringing to her. He’d rarely spoken to the boy, believing that children shouldn’t speak at meals or at church, the only times they spent together outside of his lectures. Oh, Milton had been a descent husband, but a poor father, and she’d made sure she’d spoken of Edward often to their son.
“Your mother is right.” Solemnly, Vincenzo lifted the stagecoach model, and Eddie took it back. “This world would be a sad place if we were all the same.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Have you made a steamship, yet?”
“No sir. Maybe I’ll make one next!”
The man smiled, the lamplight catching his even white teeth deep in his beard. Arabella thought it miraculous that whatever had damaged the rest of his face so thoroughly had spared his smile. “I’ll have Gordy dig out the photographs of our last crossing, then. I can tell you all about my travels on them, if you’d like.”
Her son was beaming. “Oh, yes, I’d like that! Mother is always telling me stories about traveling around the world, but I think it would be far more interesting to see the ships and trains than the pyramids and palaces!”
Vincenzo laughed. Not a chuckle, but a deep, booming laugh that startled Arabella with its familiarity and caused Eddie to giggle in response. He laughed? Looking at him, knowing that this man did his best of avoid his neighbors, did his best to appear like a beast…who would’ve thought he’d have such a pleasant laugh? It made him seem…friendlier. Less beastly.
“I’m afraid I’d have to agree with you. I’ve been inside any number of grand palaces, but…” He waved an empty hand in front of his blindfold. “They didn’t look that impressive to me.”
Arabella swallowed her laugh, but Eddie wasn’t so practiced at propriety. He burst into laughter, and Vincenzo smiled. She knew that she should scold her son for poking fun at a person’s disabilities, but when Vincenzo himself had told the joke, and with them being tucked into this imitate, cozy corner away from the outside world and Milton’s rules, it didn’t seem to matter so much.
“Well, young man, I’m glad that we get along so well.”
“Yes, sir. I’m glad that you’re not as—“ At her warning glare, Eddie snapped his lips together and managed to look contrite.
“As scary as I look?” Luckily, Vincenzo’s lips were still curled up on one side, hopefully meaning he wasn’t taking the boy’s insult personally.
“…sorry, sir.”
“That’s all right. While I don’t own any mirrors anymore, I know that I’m not handsome. I can be hard to look at, I’m sure.”
Arabella opened her mouth to deny it, but her son beat her to it. “You’re not that bad, sir. Mother’s rule about being beautiful all the time is a hard one to follow, I think. It’s more fun to just be yourself.”
Vincenzo turned, to face her then, and Arabella felt his missing gaze. She watched his lips thin in disapproval, and wanted to take back her son’s words. Yes, Rule Number One required that she—and her home, her surroundings, her reputation—be beautiful. But to hear a ten-year-old insult one of the basic tenants of her life, and to see this man—this man who wasn’t beautiful—agree, was galling.
“Edd
ie, I think it’s time for bed.”
He knew he was in trouble; she heard it in his voice, saw it in his down-cast expression. “Yes, Mother.”
But as he stepped towards her, Vincenzo placed a hand on his arm to stop him. “Just a moment, son. Your mother has gone through considerable effort to arrange for me to give you some lessons in the use of your father’s violin. Are you interested in pursuing the instrument?”
Oh poot, why’d he have to go and ask the boy that? Didn’t he understand that Eddie wasn’t in charge? She was, and if she wanted him to learn, he would. He might be interested, but he might also say he wasn’t just to spite her, because he was ten and that’s what ten-year-olds did.
But Eddie looked down at the hand on his arm—the fingers that were callused from years of practice—and cocked his head to one side. After a long moment, he finally nodded. “Yes, sir, I think I am. I mean, yes, I want to learn my father’s instrument, but also yes, I think I want to learn from you. If you’ll teach me.”
For the first time, she saw Vincenzo’s mouth, his cheeks, go slack, like he didn’t know what to say. Like he was as surprised as she was at Eddie’s maturity. Nearly a minute went by before he cleared his throat and spoke. “Good. Good.” He swallowed, and she tried not to watch the muscles of his strong throat move behind his beard. “And now, if your mother will excuse you for a few minutes, I have need of a messenger to fetch Gordy from the saloon. Can you do that?”
“The Gingerbread House? Yeah, I know where it is.” Eddie glanced at her, and his eyes widened at her frown. As well they should—why was her ten-year-old so eager to visit that den of iniquity? “That is, if Mother doesn’t mind.”
Well, she should hardly condemn the man to sitting in her store until sunrise, could she? So she gave a stiff nod, and watched her son place his model on one of the tables and scamper for the front door, the bell tinkling merrily as he left.
“Perhaps, Signore, you would be more comfortable coming and going through the back garden? The path to your home is shorter through that entrance, and you might enjoy the flowers.”