That Month in Tuscany (Take Me There)

by Inglath Cooper

  Lizzy isn’t judging me. I feel that, and I’m grateful for it. Undeserving of it, but grateful.

  We agree to meet downstairs for dinner around seven. After I go upstairs and change, I head out for a run. I’m not sure how long I’m out there or how far I go. But I run full out as if something in the effort can leech from me the guilt that’s become part of my every breath, every heartbeat.

  I run until I have to stop and bend over at the knees, pulling in air, my lungs frantic for the next gulp of oxygen. I’m almost back to the villa when my phone rings. I glance at the screen, see that it’s Stuart and consider not answering. But I know I owe him for finding this place so quickly, so I do.

  “Have you seen the news?” he snaps.

  And I know this is not going to be pleasant. “No,” I say. “I haven’t.”

  “Well, you’ve made entertainment headlines.”

  I want to tell him I couldn’t care less, but I can hear in his voice he’s going to tell me, anyway.

  “Who is she?”

  “She?” I keep the question neutral.

  “The woman whose picture is splattered all over Entertainment Nightly. I’m assuming she’s the reason you needed a place to hide out.”

  “It’s not like that, Stuart.”

  “What is it like, Ren? They’re saying you beat the crap out of her husband.”

  “It wasn’t like that, either.”

  “Then exactly what was it like?” he asks, his voice starting to rise. “Apparently, he’s filing charges against you.”

  “Apparently,” I agree.

  “Is that what you were running from?”

  “I’m not running.”

  “It looks like running. Just so you know, the headlines are pretty ugly.”

  “You should know by now that I don’t give a damn about the headlines.”

  “Headlines are one thing. Assault charges another. This is serious. They’ve been calling me here in New York. Pictures of you two are surfacing in some town called San Gimignano. Look, I don’t care who you have an affair with, Ren, but the legal stuff you don’t need.”

  “We’re not having an affair,” I say.

  “It sure looks like it from here.”

  “Good-bye, Stuart.”

  “Ren!”

  I click off before another word floats up from my phone. I walk back to the villa, go upstairs and stand under a cool shower for ten minutes. With the pounding of the spray comes clarity.

  I have to let her go. Home to either fix her life or change it.

  39

  Ty

  YOU OPEN YOUR eyes to bright sunlight trying to break through the heavy curtain of the hotel room. You squint against the light that is successful at penetrating.

  You rise up on one elbow, try to make out the numbers on the clock beside the bed, only to discover it’s already the middle of the afternoon. You start to sit up, then groan when your face remembers the pain in your jaw. You cup a hand to the swollen spot, trying not to wince at the throbbing.

  Damn it all to hell.

  You throw your legs over the side of the bed and walk to the bathroom, rummaging through your overnight case in search of some Advil. You find the bottle, dump out two and then swallow them with a glass of water.

  You stand with your palms planted on the edge of the sink, forcing yourself to assess the damage to your face in the mirror. Your left eyelid is swollen and starting to turn purple. Your fists clench automatically. You wish you could have another shot at that asshole and his way-too-perfect face.

  You wonder what his agenda is. He has to have one. What other reason could he possibly have for being with Lizzy?

  You’ve seen pictures of him in magazines with models, actresses, other singers. Lizzy? A housewife from Virginia?

  You spend your days trying to arrange events into patterns of logic. But there is no pattern to be found here.

  Lizzy is pretty. You’re not blind to that fact. Or, at least, at one time you thought so. But is she in a league with the kind of women Sawyer is usually seen with? No.

  What then is his motivation?

  You walk back to the bedroom, sit down on the side of the bed and lean forward with your head in your hands.

  Does it even matter? Do you even care?

  Some part of you does. You can’t deny it. You’re just not sure which part. The you who married her. Or the you who imagines being the laughingstock among your friends.

  Lizzy leaving you for a rock star?

  You’re pretty sure that as a teenager Kylie had a poster of Sawyer hanging on her bedroom wall after going to one of his concerts. That’s some irony.

  You’re beginning to wonder if you ever should have involved the police. What if it gets in the papers? Shows up back home?

  Your face heats up with embarrassment, even at the thought of it.

  Should you drop the charges? The idea of letting him off the hook burns like acid in your gut.

  But then you wouldn’t be doing it for him. You’d be doing it for yourself.

  Just as you’re about to dial the number left with you by the Italian police, your phone rings. The screen reads Unknown Number. You answer with a cautious, “Hello.”

  “Mr. Harper?”

  “Yes?”

  “It’s Peyton Kinley. Kylie’s roommate.”

  You can hear now that her voice is shaking. Your heart starts to pound. “Yes, Peyton. What is it?”

  “I found your contact info on Kylie’s computer. Mr. Harper, I don’t know how to tell you this, but Kylie . . . we can’t find her. No one knows where she is.”

  For a moment, the words refuse to penetrate, and you can’t bring yourself to respond.

  “Mr. Harper?”

  “What do you mean no one can find her, Peyton?”

  “We went to a bar to see a band. She never came home. I went home for the day, and when I got back, I could tell she hadn’t been in the room.”

  “Are you sure?” you ask, hearing the sharp edges in your voice.

  Peyton starts to cry. “Yes, Mr. Harper. I’m sure. I’ve been asking around, and she wasn’t in her classes today. No one has seen her.”

  “Have you called the police yet?”

  “No. I haven’t told anyone. I wanted to check with you first.”

  You force calm into your voice when you say, “Peyton. Listen to me carefully. I want you to call the campus police and report her as missing. I’ll call the Charlottesville police and do the same. I’ll give them your phone number so they can get in touch with you. I’m in Italy right now, but I’ll catch the first available flight back. I imagine D.C. will be the best I can do, and then I’ll drive to Charlottesville from there.”

  “I’m so sorry, Mr. Harper,” Peyton says, her sobs now nearly eclipsing her words. “I really don’t know where she could be.”

  “Did she leave the bar with anyone?”

  Silence hangs on the line, and then, “The singer from the band, I think. But they’ve already left town.”

  “Tell the police everything you know, Peyton. Everything. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I’ll check in with you as often as I can. If there’s any news, please call me and leave a message if I don’t answer.”

  “I will.”

  You hang up, feeling as if you’ve taken a right hook to the center of your chest. You sit for a moment and try to organize your thoughts, figure out what is best to do first. And then you just start moving, one action in front of the other. Open your laptop. Find the number for the Charlottesville police department. Call. Wait impatiently until you’re put through to a woman who takes your information—what little you have to give her. You tell her you’re out of the country and that you’ll get back as fast as you can.

  It’s clear that she’s assessing your words, drawing a conclusion perhaps that you’re an overprotective father who might be a little too quick to judge a situation that will probably end up being nothing more than a gir
l taking advantage of freedom.

  And so you say, “This is not like my daughter. She doesn’t do things like this.”

  “I’m sure, Mr. Harper. But college kids have a way of proving us wrong.”

  You end the call, unconvinced that she has taken you seriously. You start to dial the airline and then think about Lizzy.

  Should you leave her here and not bother to tell her? But then if this doesn’t bring her to her senses, what will? You have no way to get in touch with Lizzy. No idea where she is now. You consider your options. Few come to mind.

  But why can’t you direct your message to Sawyer? If she’s still with him.

  You pick up your phone and tap the Twitter icon. In the search bar at the top, you type in his name. Ren Sawyer. Wait to see if he has an account.

  Of course he does. You click the Tweet screen and type:

  @RenSawyer. May I please have my wife back? Our daughter is missing.

  And you Tweet it.

  40

  Ren

  WE ARE OUTSIDE on the terrace, having a glass of wine after dinner. We said very little during the meal, and I think it’s because we both know we’re at an impasse.

  I’ve been trying to work up my courage for the past two hours, trying to find the words to say what I want to say to her. I line them up in my mind, wanting them to come out as I feel them. But all of a sudden I have the confidence of a teenage boy, and I stumble into the words, awkward and unsure.

  “There’s something I’d like to say to you, Lizzy.”

  She sets her wine glass on the wall in front of us, glancing up at me with a look in her eyes that makes me wonder if she wants to hear it.

  “Okay,” she says.

  “I never expected any of this. Meeting you. Spending time together the way we have.”

  “Neither did I,” she agrees quietly.

  “But I’m so glad that I did meet you.”

  “And I’m glad I met you.”

  “I don’t want it to end here.”

  “I don’t want it to end here,” she says, reaching out to put her hand over mine. I can feel that she’s shaking.

  “I’m not asking you to say anything now, Lizzy. We both have loose ends to tie up in our lives if we go anywhere beyond this. Just don’t say no to us.”

  She then lets her gaze meet mine, and I know she’s feeling what I’m feeling. It’s there in her eyes, undeniable. I brush the back of my hand across her cheek, and lean in and kiss her as I have been wanting to do all day. Her response tells me she’s been thinking about it too. And so I slide my arms around her waist, lifting her up onto the wall and stepping in between her legs, pulling her as close as it is possible to do with both of us wearing clothes.

  “Ren—” she begins, common sense in her voice, but as soon as I start to pull back, she wraps her arms around my waist and stops me from going anywhere.

  We hold onto each other as if we’re poised on the edge of a cliff, and we can only save each other by never letting go. And then she’s the one kissing me, her hands sliding beneath my T-shirt, up my back, her thumbs tracing my spine. I shiver beneath her touch, dropping my mouth to the side of her neck, my hands sliding her dress off one shoulder so I can kiss the ridge of her collarbone.

  She slides my shirt up and over my head, leaning back to study me with a gaze of pure want. She kisses the center of my chest and begins making her way lower, her lips leaving a fire in their wake.

  “Lizzy—” I lift her up, cupping her face in my hands. “If you don’t stop that, in about sixty seconds, I’ll be begging you to come upstairs with me.”

  “You don’t have to beg,” she says, rubbing her thumb across my lower lip. “Will you?”

  “What?” I ask, the question barely audible.

  “Take me upstairs.”

  “You don’t mean it,” I say, anchoring my hand in the back of her hair.

  “I do mean it,” she says, and pulls my mouth back to hers.

  I feel the truth in her kiss, and for a little while, I make myself forget everything except what we have right here together.

  My phone beeps from its spot on the wall next to us. Lizzy leans away to glance at it, but my phone is the last thing I want to look at right now.

  “You have a text,” she says, putting her hands against my chest.

  “Later,” I say, kissing the side of her neck.

  “It has exclamation points,” she says, picking it up and handing it to me.

  I glance at it with reluctance. It’s from Stuart.

  Check your Twitter account! Now! Please!!

  “Is he serious?” I say out loud.

  “Looks that way,” Lizzy says.

  I swipe the screen until I find the Twitter icon that I rarely use. I tap it open and click on Notifications. I scroll through, not seeing anything worthy of Stuart’s exclamation points, and then I spot the name Ty Harper and the tweet he’d posted a little over thirty minutes ago.

  @RenSawyer May I please have my wife back? Our daughter is missing.

  My stomach drops, but I force myself to read it again with skepticism. Based on the Ty Harper I met, I wouldn’t put it past him to be making the whole thing up. But then what if he isn’t?

  “Is everything all right?” Lizzy asks.

  “I don’t know,” I say, wishing I didn’t have to show her the message. But I can’t keep it from her. I hand her the phone and wait while she reads the tweet from her husband.

  “Oh, no,” she says softly. “This can’t be. I have to call him.”

  “Of course,” I answer. “I’ll give you some privacy.” I step away and pick Sophia up from her spot on the chair next to Lizzy. I carry her with me into the house, closing the glass-pane door behind us with a quiet click.

  41

  Lizzy

  MY HEART IS BEATING so fast and my hand is shaking so hard that I can barely dial Ty’s number. The phone rings five times before he answers with a suspicious, “Hello.”

  “It’s me. What’s happened, Ty?”

  “Kylie’s roommate called. She said Kylie hasn’t been back to the room since they went to some club to see a band.”

  “When was that?”

  “About thirty-six hours ago,” he says.

  “And no one has seen her since then?”

  “No.”

  Panic rises up in a wave. I force myself to try to think. “Have the police been called?”

  “I just spoke to someone in Charlottesville. They’re looking into it.”

  “We have to go back,” I say.

  “I’m booking the next available flight out of Rome. It leaves at seven a.m. Can you make it?”

  I have no idea, but somehow I will find a way. I have to. “Yes. Can you text the information to this phone?”

  “I’ll see you at the airport,” he says, and ends the call.

  The door opens, and Ren walks out onto the terrace, his dark hair and his tan face drawing my gaze. “Is it true?” he asks.

  I nod, unable to hold back the waterfall of tears rushing up and out of me.

  He walks over and sits on the wall next to me, putting his arm around my shoulders and pulling me close.

  “I have to go,” I say.

  “I know,” he says, kissing my hair.

  “My flight is at seven out of Rome.”

  “I’ll get you there.”

  For a few seconds, and I force myself to count them, I lean into him, draw in his quiet strength, breathe in the scent of him. I never want to forget it or the way it feels when he holds me like this. I try to let each of these things imprint themselves on my memory. I somehow know that once I leave here, that is all I will have to remember him by for the rest of my life.

  42

  Kylie

  SHE’S DEEP, DEEP underwater. Holding her breath, she pushes toward the surface, kicking her legs and propelling her way, up, up, up. She’s not sure if she’ll be able to hold it long enough to make it all the way to the top.

  There’
s light there. She can see it. She tells herself she can do it. That she has the reserve to make it, keep swimming, keep going. Almost there.

  Finally, she breaks through the surface of the light. But it’s not water she’s broken through. It’s consciousness. Her eyes fly open, and panic hits her in a wave.

  “Hey,” a voice says, and Kylie recognizes it as the girl who is also in the room with her.

  “What day is it?” Kylie asks, head throbbing, her mouth so dry she can barely get the words out.

  “I’m not sure,” the girl says.

  “Don’t scream,” she adds. “Or they’ll just come back and knock you out again. It’s lonely in here when you’re not awake.”

  Kylie forces herself not to do exactly that, every instinct telling her to scream at the top of her lungs. But she doesn’t want to be drugged again. So she keeps her voice low when she says, “What’s your name?”

  “Erin.”

  “I’m Kylie,” she says.

  “Where are you from, Kylie?”

  “I go to UVa,” Kylie says. “Where are you from?”

  “I live about an hour away from Charlottesville. I was walking to the store down the road from my house when this car pulled up behind me, and a guy got out so fast I didn’t even realize what was happening until he pushed me inside.”

  “That’s what they did to me too,” Kylie says. “Have you heard them say anything else?”

  “I think they’re planning to sell us,” Erin says.

  “What?”

  “I heard them talking outside the door about how much money they’ll get.”

  And then Kylie remembers what she’d heard them say as well. That they couldn’t be damaged.

  “This can’t be,” Kylie says.

  “I know. Only on TV. Right?”

  “There’s got to be some way for us to get out of here.” Erin jerks at the cuff on her wrist and shakes her head.

  “I’ve tried.”

  “I mean later. When they start to take us wherever they’re taking us.”