Bella Cigna

by Wendi Dass

  Maybe she should learn to stop lusting after married men. Sarah turned. Eduardo stood right beside her, close enough for her to catch a whiff of his cologne and to see a hint of tanned skin beneath a loosened tie. Definitely lusting. “Good afternoon.” She gave him a professional, polite smile.

  Eduardo spoke to Lucia in Italian.

  She scurried off in the direction of her backpack.

  “I see you’ve enlisted Lucia as your assistant?” Eduardo pointed to a long drip of paint on the panel. “Not so sure that’s a good idea.”

  “It’s fine. The next coat will cover any imperfections.”

  “You’re an artist then?”

  Sarah shrugged. “I can’t say I agree with that statement.”

  “Well, I’m sure your skills with a brush can’t be worse than your Italian.”

  Sarah narrowed her eyes, only to catch his cheeky grin. She laughed. “I guess not.”

  “About that. I’d be happy to help you with your Italian.” He drew a card from his pocket and extended it. “My mobile’s on the back.”

  “Oh, thank you. That’s awfully kind of you.” Kind of you to tempt me.

  “Great.” He smiled. “Addio.” With a nod, he started in Lucia’s direction.

  Sarah examined the card. Rossini and Associates, International Corporate Attorneys. On the back, a number was scribbled in black ink.

  Suddenly, the hairs on the back of her neck lifted. How had Philip and Amanda exchanged numbers? Had he given her a business card, too? She looked from the card, to Eduardo, and back again. Was Eduardo just being friendly—or something else? Friendly. Definitely just friendly…right?

  “Did he just give you his number?”

  “What?” Sarah jumped then shoved the card in her pocket. Anna stood by her side. “No. I mean, yes.” Heat rushed her cheeks.

  Anna’s gaze tracked Eduardo and Lucia. “He’s pretty hot.”

  “He wasn’t asking me out.” I think. “He offered to help with my Italian.”

  “Sure. Whatever you say.” She elbowed Sarah in the side.

  “Please. The gesture was friendly, I assure you.” Just friendly.

  “Riiight. Well, I’ve had one too many gestures from the dads around here.”

  “What?” Sarah’s voice came out in a squeal. “You can’t be serious.”

  Anna pulled a compact out of her pocket and applied bright red lipstick. “I’ll tell you later. I’ve got to meet Juan.” She spoke through puckered lips.

  “Juan?” Sarah stood upright. “Who’s Juan?”

  “A doctor I met.” She popped the makeup back in her pocket.

  “Doctor?” Sarah took a step closer. “Spill it.”

  “Well for starters, if I don’t leave now I might miss my ‘check-up.’”

  Sarah rolled her eyes.

  Anna winked then dashed toward the exit.

  Wait—Anna had a new boyfriend already? A father made unsolicited advances? And Eduardo…?

  Sarah reached a hand into her pocket. The card remained safe inside. Friendly. Definitely.

  The next morning, Eduardo’s advance made Sarah contemplate attending student drop-off. But what if Eduardo brought Lucia? Sarah’s stomach lurched. Or worse, what if Roberta did? She’d just stay in her classroom and get ready.

  In her classroom, she finished sorting the black pieces of construction paper from the colored assortment—who could draw on black paper anyway?—and went to file the papers with her craft supplies. But as she opened the file cabinet, she had a thought—maybe they could use the black paper for a Halloween project. Bats, ghosts, witches’ hats, and cauldrons—

  Did they even celebrate Halloween in Italy? The minute hand on the clock gave a subtle click. Eight o’clock. Stop thinking about future art projects, Sarah. The kids are here in ten minutes! She shoved closed the file cabinet drawer and strode to her desk. Her calendar showed September. That month ended two days ago. How had she forgotten?

  Right—head wrapped up with married men was how. She tore off the page then stopped. Red pen screamed at her. The circled date on the calendar meant the divorce papers.

  She stepped back. They would arrive in less than a week. Only a week? In a few short days, she would be officially free of Philip Flynn. Her breath caught. She stepped back again, her back bumping the whiteboard. Philip’s bright green eyes and husky voice flooded her mind. “I love you,” she heard him say.

  Tears stung her eyes. When had Philip’s affection begun to wane? When they took a break—as he called it—from conceiving? Or before that? Perhaps, when she’d stopped taking the pill?

  She rubbed her hands over her arms, her arm hair thick under her palms—just one consequence of elevated PCOS hormones. Philip always said he didn’t mind. Had he been telling the truth? She slid her hands down her sides, where her once sultry curves now resembled the outline of a roll of toilet paper. She drooped her shoulders—maybe more than her infertility sent him to another woman.

  The door to the classroom opened.

  “Good morning,” students said in English as they entered.

  Sarah turned her back, brushed away the tears, and regained her composure. Shoot! She’d been so wrapped up in her thoughts she’d forgotten to formalize her lesson plan for the class. She faced the primo cinque girls, who chatted quietly, and clapped her hands.

  The conversation stopped, and they fixed their attention on her.

  “Today, we will practice adjectives with a project.” She held up a piece of paper. “I’d like each of you to draw…” She searched for something they could describe. “Draw a picture of me and write a description below, underlining the adjectives.” She blurted the thought.

  An hour later, as she paged through gross images of herself—towering, boxy figures with scrawled blonde hair, long necks, wide shoulders, and big feet—Sarah regretted her hasty choice of subject. By the final period of the day, she was all but ready to set a match to the students’ drawings.

  She strode through the aisles of desks fighting back a cringe at the images. She stopped at Cira’s desk and examined her crude drawing. Ms. Miller is big, read the caption.

  Big? Big as in wide, or big as in tall? Judging by the stick-figure depiction, she guessed tall. Sarah tapped Cira’s paper. “See if you can add another sentence.”

  From her seat, Cira mumbled something under her breath in Italian.

  Sarah shot her a knowing eye. Best to keep Cira in line. The last thing Sarah needed was a parent conference with Mr. Moretti. She continued down the row. Drawings of matronly women in plain skirts and drab shirts decorated student desks. Sarah glanced down at her outfit and sighed. At least the girls omitted arm hair in their sketches.

  She turned to the next row and approached Lucia’s desk.

  At her desk, Lucia hunkered down over her paper, working with a colored pencil.

  “What’s that you’re drawing?” Sarah asked.

  Lucia shifted her hands to reveal the writing beneath, My papa says Ms. Miller is a beautiful swan.

  Sarah crept her hands to her neck. While not out of proportion to her long arms and legs, her neck was longer than most women’s. “Lucia, your father said these words?”

  Beaming, Lucia nodded. “He talks about you a lot. Says you’re the prettiest teacher in school.”

  Sarah almost dropped her jaw, and she snapped it closed, her teeth clashing with the movement. “Lucia,” she started but paused. What the hell could she say? Does he say these things in front of your mother? Does he have infatuations with other women? Sarah shook away the thoughts and glanced toward the paper. “Don’t forget to underline your adjectives.”

  Beside her, Lucia responded, but Sarah didn’t catch it. She was already walking toward the front of the class, her mind stuck on the idea of Eduardo cheating on Roberta. Heat tinted her chest and face. Anna was right. Eduardo’s gesture wasn’t innocent after all. Eduardo’s actions matched Philip’s. He sought only to satisfy his own needs, regardless of the con
sequences to his wife and—Sarah looked back at Lucia—and daughter.

  Her throat tightened. No, Eduardo’s choices made Philip’s seem tame. Not only was Eduardo turning his back on his wife—but his entire family.

  “Ms. Miller?”

  Blinking, Sarah focused on the class.

  Cira stood at her desk.

  The rest of the students stared with questioning gazes.

  “Ms. Miller,” Cira repeated. “Can we go now?”

  Sarah checked the clock—two minutes past dismissal. How had she not heard the bell? She cleared her tightened throat. “Class dismissed. And don’t forget to turn in your papers.”

  The girls left promptly.

  But this afternoon, Sarah didn’t accompany them to the pick-up line. Clutching Lucia’s paper, she headed straight for her dorm room, straight for her desk, and straight for Eduardo’s business card. She balled it and tossed it in the trash. Friendly, my ass! Could she have been more naive? If her judgment of men were any worse, she’d have married an ex-con with a foot fetish and two mistresses on the side.

  She dropped her gaze on the scrunched card, and her stomach twisted. Had she brought this attention on? If she hadn’t fallen over him like a starry-eyed schoolgirl, she might not be in this mess. She sat at her desk and picked up Lucia’s sketch—beautiful, sweet Lucia. If ever a reason existed to worry about Eduardo’s behavior, Lucia was it. Sarah needed to fix this—for Roberta and, of course, for Lucia.

  Heart pounding, she fished the balled-up card from the trashcan, flattened it on the desk, and rehearsed what to say. “Mr. Rossini, I must express my concern over our—” She bit her lip. “Mr. Rossini, I think it best we communicate only on a professional level, and…and did I tell you how much I admire your family? You really are blessed.”

  Maybe “blessed” was too much. “You must be proud,” she said aloud. Yes! That excuse would work. The business card in one hand, Sarah picked up her phone and punched the digits. But as her thumb hovered over the call button, the phone buzzed with an incoming call. A US number, with no caller-ID. Sarah answered.

  “Ms. Miller? This is Judy French, your attorney.”

  “Ms. French. Good after—” Sarah recalled the six-hour time difference. “I mean, good morning.”

  “I was just reviewing the documents from your husband’s attorney.”

  “Oh.” She shifted the papers on her desk, searching for her planner. “So soon?”

  “Ms. Miller, I’m calling because I have in my notes that you were to split the assets equally.”

  Sarah perked up. “Yes, that’s correct.”

  “Well, I’m afraid he’s changed the allocation.”

  “What?” The business card fell from Sarah’s hand. She stepped back from the desk, her legs hitting the bedframe. “But we agreed on an even split.”

  “Did you have a mediator?”

  Sarah’s knees wobbled. “No.”

  “Did you sign any agreements?”

  A shakiness struck her hands. “No.”

  “Then he has every right.”

  “But…I…” Ms. French was mistaken—had to be mistaken. Dropping to the bed, she pulled the phone from her ear and stared. Ms. French’s muffled voice sounded in the room. Philip wouldn’t have changed the terms? Would he have?

  Chapter 11

  How could Philip do this? He suggested the amicable split, he recommended dividing their assets fifty-fifty, and he advised not to waste money on mediators or litigation.

  Sarah buried her head in her hands. And I believed him. “Stupid, stupid, stupid!” She slapped a hand on the desk.

  Her phone dinged, and Sarah raised her heavy head. New e-mail received. Sender: Judy French. An angry pulse throbbed in her temple. She peeled her hand from the grainy hardwood and winced at the sting in her palm. She opened her laptop, pulled up the attachment, and scrolled. Near the bottom, bright yellow highlighted one sentence.

  Proceeds of the sale of 850 Mt. Vernon St. shall be split as follows: 65% to Mr. Philip Flynn, 35% to Mrs. Sarah Flynn.

  Sarah’s stomach plummeted. “Sixty-five, thirty-five?” The words tore out of her mouth. “Damn it.” She smacked the desk. “Damn it!” She whacked the desk again…and again. She hit the wood so hard her laptop shook—so hard her palm swelled.

  With shaky hands, Sarah slammed shut the laptop. Ripe breaths came rapidly, and her pulse soared. Effing Philip Flynn. How had she been so naive to trust their verbal agreement? He’d probably always planned on this bait and switch. Or maybe Amanda suggested to squeeze her for another—

  She punched several numbers into her phone’s calculator—$8,540. $8,500! An angry growl ripped from her throat. Damn Philip Flynn and damn husband-stealing Amanda, too! Her phone still in her grasp, she pulled up Meredith’s contact. But then she hesitated. Meredith had the brilliant idea for her to take this job. What had she said? “Everything will be fine.” Meredith and her cheery attitude. She should have listened to—

  As Sarah tightened her grip on the phone, she shifted her gaze to another contact—her mother’s. The cross on the wall would have to burst into flames before Sarah called her. If she had to listen one more time to Mom’s exasperated, “I told you not to leave D.C.,” she might smash her phone into a thousand pieces—her laptop, too.

  Her chest burning, Sarah exhaled and put down the phone. How had everything gone so horribly wrong? She toggled her phone between Meredith’s and Mom’s contacts, but she didn’t call either. A new thought percolated, redirecting her anger from outward to inward; Meredith and Mom hadn’t gotten her into this mess. She had. And she would have to get herself out.

  ****

  Two hours and three cups of tea later, Sarah still sat in front of her laptop. Figures covered a sheet of paper. Each counter suit to Philip would cost eight hundred dollars. But how many counters would she need? One? Five? A dozen? And what if they couldn’t reach an agreement? Litigation—costing at least ten grand—would be needed and flights to and from Rome. Another twelve hundred. And that scenario assumed Sister Maria would even grant the time off.

  Sarah snorted. Yeah, right. Sister Maria would more likely hand her a pink slip and march her straight to the confession booth. Sighing, she reopened her laptop and logged into her bank account—just over five thousand dollars left. Moving trucks, airfare, and the mind-boggling bill from the fertility center ate up the rest.

  Hollowness grew inside her—a dark cloud replacing all rational thoughts. She scanned the desk—numerical figures, her silenced phone, a clutter of windows open on her laptop—and everything spun.

  Cost aside, could she stand to prolong the divorce for one minute longer?

  She finished the last drop of warm chamomile tea, pulled on her fuzzy, teddy-bear slippers, and buried herself under the covers. But a chill still rattled inside. Sarah hugged her knees to her chest. Can I really make a counter suit?

  ****

  By Monday afternoon, Sarah still hadn’t come to a decision. She only knew that the longer she waited, the more likely she’d need shock therapy—or at the very least, a prescription for strong anti-depressants.

  “Are you listening?”

  “Huh?” Sarah blinked. From her vantage point at the school’s entrance, the daily pick-up line came into focus through the hazy eyes of a sleepless weekend.

  “I was telling you Juan bought me these earrings.” Anna cocked her head and pointed toward diamond stud earrings.

  “Oh, right.” Sarah studied the earrings, but like everything else in her view, they had no luster. “They’re very nice.”

  Anna squinted her eyes. “Are you sick or something? You don’t look well.”

  “Me? No, no. I’m fine.” Sarah yawned. If she took the deal, she could go back to the way things were. She could sleep and not worry about Philip Flynn ever again.

  A horn beeped, and Anna’s elbow jabbed her side. “He’s waving at you.”

  “Huh?” Sarah scanned the staircase filled with departing stud
ents.

  “Lucia’s father.” Anna pointed toward the line of cars.

  At the front of a line, a blue Mercedes idled, and Eduardo stood next to the driver’s side. He smiled and waved.

  Sarah didn’t raise her hand and didn’t return his smile. She glanced from him to the back seat, where Lucia sat in a booster seat, and back to him. Where had her gumption to confront him gone? Where were the anger, the conviction, and the lust? None of the feelings remained. Her emotions shriveled like dry tea leaves.

  Sarah dropped his gaze. How many more days could she go on like this? And to what end? Only one way remained to reconstitute herself—to live again. So what if Philip got the last victory? Her marriage had only been one long battle that slowly wore her down, anyway. She needed to be done with Philip Flynn. Turning on her heel, Sarah marched straight to her room, where she immediately sat at her computer, opened her email, and typed.

  “Sarah?” Anna called through the closed door. “Can I come in?”

  “Yeah.” Sarah closed her laptop.

  Across the room, Anna opened the door and entered. “What’s going on? You haven’t been yourself all day.”

  Sarah didn’t look at her—she couldn’t, for fear she might break down. “Nothing.”

  “What do you mean, nothing? You just ignored the hottest dad in school and left me standing there like an idiot.”

  Tears filled Sarah’s eyes, but she blinked them away. Anna’s tiny hand touched her shoulder.

  “You can tell me.”

  “It’s…it’s…” Sarah’s voice faltered as the tears fell. “It’s my divorce settlement.”

  Anna rubbed her back. “Yes?”

  “My husband… He…” Sarah wiped the tears with the back of her hand. “He’s a complete a-hole.” The story spilled out through a mixture of sniffles, sobs, and occasional profanity. She told Anna about everything: the affair, the failed fertility treatments, and the debacle of a divorce agreement. When the words finally stopped spewing from her mouth, she felt like she finished running a marathon. “Come on,” she said to Anna, who made herself comfortable on her bed. “I’ll buy you dinner.” Sarah grabbed her purse.