That Month in Tuscany (Take Me There)

by Inglath Cooper

  It is not what I expected him to say, not by a long shot. “I thought a person would never be able to get up in front of thousands of people the way you do without having some pretty extreme confidence.”

  “We started out playing in the smallest places a band could actually play in and still legitimately call it a gig. I cut my performance teeth on singing in front of people who really could have cared less whether I was up on stage or not. That worked to my advantage, I think. I got to the point where I could just sing without thinking about who was listening and how I might fall short in their eyes because mostly they were ignoring me.”

  He’s quiet for a stretch of moments, to the point where I wonder if I’ve asked a question that is too personal.

  When he answers, his voice is low and distant. “No. It was actually my brother and me. We started taking guitar lessons when I was nine, and he was eight. That was our dream—to put together a band.”

  “Does he also sing?” I ask.

  “He didn’t. No, he played lead guitar.”

  I notice the past tense and wonder what I’ve stumbled into.

  “He died a few years ago,” Ren says in a low voice.

  “Oh. I’m so sorry. I didn’t realize.”

  “It’s okay. My not talking about it isn’t going to bring him back.”

  And with the statement, I can feel that something is different. Closed off in him like a vault door that shuts up tight things ordinary people should not have access to.

  ~

  THE RESTAURANT IS BUSY, and the hum of conversation in the room disguises our silence throughout the meal. Even though I don’t understand why, I wish I could take back the question about his brother. Not that I could have known it would trigger this kind of response, but because I can see how it has caused him pain. His clear blue eyes cannot hide it, and it feels as if the roots go deep.

  To attempt small talk feels wrong. I want to say something that would help, but I have no idea what it might be.

  His food is mostly untouched, and when the waitress brings our checks, he starts to sign them both to his room. I ask the waitress to put mine on my room because it feels weird not to. Ren looks at me and says, “I’m happy to get it.”

  “I know, but I want to,” I say, suddenly aware that we are balancing in that strange place between friendship and attraction. I feel the awkwardness of it and have no idea what to do with it. I do not, however, want him to feel obligated to act as if it is anything other than what it is.

  He concedes with a nod to the waitress, and once we’ve signed our checks, he looks at me and says, “I’m going to head out for a bit. Would you like for me to walk you back to your room?”

  “No, I’m fine. You go.”

  “See you later,” he says, pushing back his chair and walking from the room. As I watch him leave, I can almost feel the pent-up energy he’s left behind. I wonder where he is going and if I should follow him. But that’s crazy. Little more than a few days ago, we didn’t even know each other. And it’s a stretch to say we know each other now. Because we really don’t. Nothing about the other that gets very far beneath the surface anyway.

  I know all of this, and even so, I feel a little ragged edge of pain for whatever it is he’s carrying around inside him.

  I walk back to my room, the questions I most surely have no right to ask buzzing in my mind. I change into a pair of shorts and a tank top, hang my dress in the closet and sit down at the small desk.

  I open my laptop with the intention of checking email. But my fingers go to the search engine icon instead. I type in: “Ren Sawyer brother death.”

  A flurry of articles pops up. I click on the first one. An article from the LA Times.

  Rocker Killed in Bus Accident

  Rock band Temporal lead guitarist Colby Sawyer was killed last night in a single-vehicle accident while on tour in Oklahoma.

  The Georgia-born band member sustained head injuries and died on arrival at Mercy Baptist Hospital. As lead guitarist for the band, Sawyer became a feature point in the group’s concerts, finishing most shows with guitar solos that brought fans to their feet and kept them there until he disappeared from the stage.

  Sawyer’s brother, Ren Sawyer, lead singer for the band, could not be reached for comment.

  I let the words sink in, feel the instant horror of them and at the same time, guilt for my online prying. If Ren had wanted me to know any of this, he would have told me earlier at the table.

  Curiosity has become an itch that can be instantly scratched with search-engine access, and I guess I am no exception to the lure. I do not, however, let myself look further. I sit back. Based on his description of how he and his brother had started out together, I can only imagine how his death must have affected Ren.

  I put on a pair of running shoes, shorts and shirt and leave the room without fully considering what I am doing. I take the stairs to the lobby and walk out into the courtyard. I wait there until I see him walking down the pea-gravel drive. Even from a distance, I can see that he is breathing heavily. When he gets closer, I also see that he is wet with sweat.

  “Got anything left?” I ask.

  He glances at my running shoes and says, “Yeah.”

  We head down the drive that leads around the back of the hotel, follow a lighted path until it ends where a field begins. The moon is three-quarters full and casts enough light that we can see where our steps are taking us. The field goes on for a half-mile or so until it blends into an olive grove. We take a lane between two rows of trees and run on until we reach the end.

  Our pace has been brisk, and I’m breathing hard. I bend over with my palms on my knees and reel in some air.

  Ren’s breathing has leveled out, and I wonder what his pace had been before he started running with me.

  Once my breathing steadies a bit, I stand and look at the grove below us. The rows of trees are somewhat stacked so that we can see the tops below. The leaves are a silvery green under the moonlight, and I am filled with a sudden, swift love for this place. “It’s so beautiful here,” I say.

  “It is,” he agrees.

  I drop to the ground, tuck my knees against my chest and push a hand through my damp hair. “Do you run a lot?” I ask.

  “Not as much as I used to.”

  “I don’t think you’ve lost your pace,” I say.

  “Just this little matter of not being able to breathe.”

  He gives me a half-smile but it feels more obligatory than amused. I pull a blade of grass from the ground and rub it between my forefinger and thumb.

  “I’m sorry about all the questions at dinner,” I say. “I didn’t mean to be rude.”

  “You weren’t,” he says.

  I prop an elbow on my knee, anchor my hand in my hair and allow myself to fully look at him. He keeps his eyes averted from mine, and I take the opportunity to study his profile. It is an exceptionally beautiful one. His dark hair is longish and wavy, wet with sweat at the moment and raked back from his forehead.

  His face is lean and chisel-cut. He obviously hasn’t shaved in a couple of days. The stubble only adds to his appeal.

  As if he feels me watching, he turns his head and our gazes clash head-on. The electric blue of his eyes sends a jolt of something so vibrant, so intense through me that I almost shiver with it.

  We don’t say anything; just study each other openly, with none of our previous censorship. “He’s made you think you’re not pretty, hasn’t he?”

  The question is so unexpected and so dead accurate that I blink beneath its insight. But I shrug, not acknowledging it either way.

  “You are, you know,” he says.

  I wish I could say his words leave me neutral. But they don’t. My cheeks warm under the compliment, and I glance away, unable to meet his eyes now. Even though it has not occurred to me until this exact moment, I realize exactly how much I want him to kiss me.

  The thought is a completely new one because before now, it has not registere
d as a possibility. As strange and unlikely as it is that Ren and I would meet here and end up traveling around together, like college students on a spring break, it has been clear to me from the very beginning that even if I weren’t married, I’m not a woman who would ever fit into the life he leads or the women he dates. Before now, before this very moment when he is looking at me with raw desire on his face, I would have laughed at myself for even considering the possibility.

  The inside of my chest seems to have suddenly caved in on itself, and I’m finding it hard to breathe normally. I feel myself tilt toward him as if I am being pulled forward by an invisible magnet, the force of which I have absolutely no power to resist. I should. I know it. I feel the rat-a-tat-tat of caution in my brain, and yet, it is a knock I have no inclination to answer.

  Instead, something else swoops down on me, something wild and unlike anything I’ve ever felt in my life. I am not a rebel. I have never been one. I operate best within the rules. And here, the rules are clear. Married women don’t kiss rock stars. But with that acknowledgment comes another. I don’t feel married, haven’t felt married for a very long time. And if I haven’t felt married, I have felt even less desirable.

  At some point in my marriage, I began to feel neutral. It didn’t matter how long I searched for exactly the right dress, changed my makeup, switched my perfume, or added a few more highlights to my hair, it never really mattered because as soon as Ty looked at me, I felt sexless.

  What else, after all, could you end up feeling? When no matter how hard you tried to be attractive to someone, if the end result was that they had no desire to touch you, to make love to you, clearly whatever you once had that attracted him was gone. Dried up like grapes left in the sun for days on end and in no way resembling what they had once been.

  But here under this man’s lust-filled surmisal–and yes, I did say lust–I am transformed. Dried up is not a phrase that in any way applies to how I currently feel. It is as if my entire being has been turned to liquid. Warm ocean waves lapping up from a yearning place that has not yearned in what seems like forever.

  When he leans in and kisses me, I am completely submerged beneath those waves. I want to drown in them. The kiss is anything but tentative. No questioning. A simple and declarative taking. I want nothing more than to give. I meet his intensity with a response I would never have imagined as coming from me.

  I am a well, capped off as no longer needed. But the springs that feed it have a continuous need for release. I did not know my own need. Am only now recognizing the force behind it.

  We kiss for what feels like both a minute and forever all at the same time. I don’t want him to stop. I never imagined that kissing could be like this, an all-out mockery of anything I have experienced. Like believing fire never burned beyond lukewarm, only to touch the flame and realize the extent to which it can blaze red-hot.

  Our ragged breathing stands out from the night sounds in the grove. On some level, I know we should stop. But stronger than that is the fact that I don’t want to.

  For my entire adult life, I have done as I should, whether by guilt or obligation, when choice was in question. But this time, I will not be the one to cave.

  Ren pulls me to him, physically lifting me so that I am now straddling his lap, a knee on either side of his hips. His hands slip under my T-shirt and splay my waist. All the while, he never stops kissing me, deep, artful kissing that makes me wonder how it is possible that I have reached the age of thirty-eight and never once felt this way.

  I loop my arms around his neck and press into him, wanting to touch every accessible part of him. His hands are now anchored in my hair, and I can feel the certainty of how quickly we are going to another place. He again lifts me and puts me on my back, stretches out on top of me, his long, hard legs pressing into mine.

  I feel the damp earth beneath my back and yield to it as he yields to me.

  But when he rolls off me a moment later to lie staring up at the night sky, his chest rising and falling with the effort of breathing, I feel as if something now vital has been torn from me.

  I have only been aware of its existence for mere minutes, but it is now critical to my own existence, like my heart that pumps the blood throughout my body, my lungs that pull in necessary oxygen.

  Neither of us speaks for a minute or more. His voice is thick with something I’m hesitant to identify when he says, “I’m not a good guy, Lizzy.”

  It’s pretty much the last thing I would have expected him to say. I’m not at all sure how to take it. I turn my head to look at him and wonder if he is simply trying to find an out. “Ren. You don’t have to feel guilty about this. Or make excuses. You’re not taking advantage of me, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

  He makes a sound that is half laugh, half “hah.” “I wish I were guilty of something as simple as that, Lizzy.”

  I have a sudden, overwhelming urge to cry. I don’t know how it is possible to go through the gamut of emotions I’ve experienced since we left the hotel in Florence. It feels as if I’ve just learned how to fly. High above the treetops like the bald eagle I once saw as a little girl. And just when I have begun to appreciate how incredible the view is from way up there, my wings become weighted with something I don’t understand, and I am hurled back to the ground.

  “I haven’t seen anything,” I say, “that would make me believe that could be true.”

  “It is,” he says. “Believe me.”

  I hear the adamant conviction beneath the words and wonder what he is hanging his self-condemnation on. “Ren,” I start.

  But he stands, holds out a hand and pulls me up in front of him. I tip forward, and my palm automatically goes to his chest to right myself. I hear his sharp intake of breath, and I can’t deny that I feel some satisfaction in knowing that maybe it isn’t any easier for him to pull away from me than it is for me to let him.

  We stand very still, studying each other, trapped beneath the moonlight. I want him to change his mind, go back to where we were, finish what we started.

  I should be ashamed to admit it. I should be. But I’m not.

  He laces his fingers through mine, and we walk back to the hotel that way, hand in hand. And I have the distinct feeling that he is forcing himself to turn away from me. That maybe he doesn’t really want to. That if we were different people with different lives, this might go somewhere beyond fulfillment of the immediate. And as we cross the field, back into the lights flowing out from the hotel, I think that maybe just knowing that should be enough to fill the emptiness inside of me.

  22

  Ren

  SLEEP IS PRETTY MUCH a wasted effort. I lie awake, staring at the ceiling and trying to talk myself into agreeing with what I already know. I should pack my stuff and leave first thing in the morning. Before Lizzy is even awake.

  That would be the kindest thing, for both of us.

  It takes me a couple of hours, but by five a.m., this is what I’ve talked myself into.

  I get out of bed, stand under the shower for a good fifteen minutes, letting the cool spray wash away enough fatigue that I can think about facing the day without sleep.

  Once I’m dressed, I pull a piece of hotel stationery from a desk drawer, find a pen and sit down to write her a note.

  It’s a chicken-shit thing to do in light of what almost happened between us last night. Even I can admit that. She deserves far better, and I’m not it.

  I fold the paper and put it in an envelope, seal it shut and write her name on the front. I throw what few things I have into my bag and leave the room.

  I take the stairs to the lobby and before I get to the front desk, I hear a man speaking in a very loud voice to the clerk. I stop just short, pull my wallet from my jacket so that I can clear out the bill. He’s obviously upset about something, and then I hear him say her name.

  “Elizabeth Harper.”

  He says it slowly and concisely, as if the woman standing in front of him is deaf.

&nb
sp; “Signore Harper. It is not our policy to reveal the guests staying at our hotel. Do you have a number you could use to call her? A cell phone perhaps?”

  I realize then who must be standing in front of me.

  Her husband.

  Ty, I believe she said his name was.

  He’s built like a football player, broad-shouldered, five-tenish. His hair is sandy blonde and military short. He has an air about him that suggests he’s used to getting his requests met, and quickly. Means business. No nonsense.

  “If you do not give me her room number immediately, I will go door to door and knock until I find the correct one. I know she’s here. Her credit card was used last night at this restaurant.”

  The woman studies him for a moment, her expression one of clear disapproval, but I can see her yielding as if she believes he will do what he has just threatened.

  “Let me see what I can do, Signore Harper. I will call to the manager.”

  “You do that,” he says, his tone clipped.

  As if sensing that I’m here, he turns and looks at me. I stare back at him, and I can see instantly that it makes him uncomfortable, as if he isn’t used to being called down for bad behavior.

  He glances away, shifts from one foot to the other and then clears his throat. “I have ID to prove who I am, and they still won’t tell me which room my wife is in.”

  “Hm,” I say, nodding. “Bummer.”

  The clerk has disappeared through a door behind the front desk. I drop my bag to the floor, fold my arms across my chest. He looks back at me again, studies me for a moment, as if he thinks he should know who I am. I see the recognition dawn on his face.

  “Hey. Aren’t you Ren . . . Sawyer?”

  “Yeah. I am.”

  He brightens and becomes instantly amicable. “My daughter likes your music, man. I like your music.”

  “Thanks,” I say.

  “Sorry to look like such an ass, but I’ve been trying to track my wife down for a few days now.”

  “Is she lost?” I ask, straight-faced.