by Wendi Dass
Maybe she should think of dating Eduardo as something like a free trip to England. Who wouldn’t pass up that?
“Splendido!” Lucia said.
Sarah turned. Lucia was dressed in a burlap dress tied at the waist with rope. A brown shawl covered her thick brunette waves. A cheap, but accurate, costume. “Thank you.” She placed a hand on Lucia’s shoulder. “Are you ready?”
“I guess.”
“You guess? You’ll do great! You’ve been so animated these last few days on stage. I can’t believe how far you’ve come.”
A small smile lit up Lucia’s face. “Maybe next year I’ll try for a wise man.”
“Absolutely! Your mother will be so proud.” She squeezed Lucia’s shoulders. “I’m so proud of you.”
“And my dad. He knows how much I hate to talk in front of people.”
“So, he’s coming to the performance?” Sarah said as casually as she could.
“Of course. He says he wants to talk to you.”
“He does?” A blush heated Sarah’s cheeks.
“He says he wants to thank you for helping me.”
Sarah smiled. Perhaps she wouldn’t need to call him after all. Perhaps the play would offer the perfect opportunity to gauge his interest.
She examined the scene she’d painted. Would he guess her inspiration? Did that night together mean as much to him as it did to her? Her heart thudded in her chest. The only way to know was to ask him.
****
Students, parents, and teachers packed into the auditorium, many seated in folding chairs that covered every spare inch of floor from stage to exit. Sarah stood in the back and scanned the room. Roberta and Mr. De Luca sat in the front row, on the far left. Eduardo was on the right, a few rows from the stage.
As the lights went down, Sarah thought about taking a seat. But she couldn’t—she could barely keep herself from pacing the aisles.
Sister Maria took the stage first, and then Anna.
But Sarah didn’t hear what they said. She was too focused on sending positive thoughts to Lucia. The curtain opened, and she glued her gaze to the stage. She memorized Lucia’s entrance, and the closer the performers got to it, the more she scrunched her toes in her shoes.
Lucia bounded out.
She was so cute in her frumpy costume and overly rouged cheeks. The arch in Sarah’s foot ached then she was still. Holding her breath, she crossed her fingers.
Lucia looked straight out over the auditorium.
Was Sarah imagining things, or was Lucia staring at the front row? At Mr. De Luca?
“There’s no room for you here,” Lucia said.
She recited her line as loud and as clear as the upper-school girl who played Mary, and her face was as fierce as Sarah had ever seen. Unable to help herself, she bounced on her sore feet and broke into applause.
A mother shushed her.
No doubt the woman was eager to hear her own child’s line. Sarah quieted, her body relaxing, and took an empty seat. At the end of the performance, she joined the parents in hollering Brava as the students took their bows. Sarah gave them a standing ovation, warmth bubbling in her chest. She wondered, did Roberta feel the same way watching her daughter? Had Eduardo been one of the voices shouting Brava? She hoped so.
The auditorium lights flickered on, and Sarah steadied herself for the encounter she hadn’t stopped thinking about for a week. The quiver in her knees had nothing to do with Lucia’s success.
“Miss Miller,” a squealy voice said from beside her.
Sarah turned. “Mr. Moretti,” she replied in surprise. Had he just addressed her in English?
“Your art. It’s beautiful.” He continued in thickly-accented English.
Sarah stared, her mouth hanging open. He really is speaking English. Holy hell.
“Buonasera.” Mr. Moretti gave a curt nod then the crowd swallowed him up.
“Grazie!” Sarah found her voice.
Mr. Moretti almost disappeared into the mass of people; he didn’t turn.
The volume of the crowd steadily increased, yet the noise didn’t mask the thudding of Sarah’s heart in her chest. She searched the room and spotted Eduardo near the stage, Lucia at his side.
His gaze settled on her.
Those warm, chocolate eyes could melt her even from fifty feet away. Sarah clutched her chest.
“Miss Miller! Miss Miller!” Lucia shouted, breaking from her father’s side. She weaved through the crowd, running straight past Sister Maria, straight past her mom, and straight into Sarah’s side. “I did it, Miss Miller! I did it!”
As Lucia plowed into her, Sarah stumbled backward. She sensed Roberta’s gaze—a glare, most likely—on her, but didn’t care. She crouched and flung her arms around Lucia. “I knew you would.”
Lucia’s small hands pressed into Sarah’s back.
For a moment, Sarah was lost in the warmth that passed between them, in the feeling that they were somehow connected, and in the knowledge that she’d made a change in Lucia’s life. She closed her eyes. Was this the feeling of motherhood?
She clung to Lucia and gently stroked the soft waves of her hair. She imagined wiping the rouge from her round cheeks and brushing her hair before tucking her into bed at night.
Lucia pulled back. “Papa, Papa!”
Sarah slowly rose to meet him, her body reluctant, and her breath caught in her throat.
“Did you see Miss Miller’s painting?” Lucia asked.
Eduardo smiled, first at Lucia, and then at Sarah. “After you, the backdrop was the star of the show. Pun intended.”
Sarah opened her mouth to laugh, but the stiffness in her muscles refused to allow it. She smiled back instead.
Lifting an eyebrow, Eduardo gestured in Roberta’s direction. “Your mother is waiting for you, Lucia.”
Still beaming, Lucia bounced on her toes then raced across the room to Roberta.
Across the room, Roberta stared at Sarah and Eduardo with a narrowed gaze.
Eduardo stepped toward Sarah. “I’m sure you know how grateful Lucia is.”
Sarah nodded. And you?
“And me,” he said.
Sarah’s heart skipped a beat. He could read her mind, too.
He reached for her hand but stopped. He shifted his gaze from hers, folded his hand, and placed it in his pocket. “And Roberta.”
Her heart still fluttering, Sarah shuffled her feet and inched forward. “Working with Lucia was just as rewarding for me. Lucia is so full of life. And”—she arched her brow playfully—“she’s a much better Italian tutor than you ever were.”
Eduardo pushed up his glasses and smiled. “Oh really?”
“Yes.” Sarah paused to listen to the conversations around them. “For instance…” She zeroed in on a voice. “The woman behind you is nagging someone about being late for dinner reservations.”
Eduardo dropped his smile.
His frown was so pronounced Sarah thought his glasses might slide right off his nose.
A woman, with a petite build and tanned skin, slid next to Eduardo. “Siamo in ritardo per la cena.” She typed on her phone as she spoke.
A bead of sweat appeared on Eduardo’s brow, and he tugged at his collar.
No. Sarah froze, a lump bigger than this woman’s thick hoop earrings forming in her throat. Please don’t let her be with him.
“Sarah, let me introduce Antoinette.”
Antoinette peeked over her phone just long enough to flash a full-lipped smile and bat thick lashes. “Ciao. Sono la ragazza di Eduardo.”
Ragazza. Girlfriend. Sarah did her best to maintain a pleasantly neutral expression to cover the blow that knocked the wind out of her. She shifted her gaze from Antoinette, to Eduardo, and then to the crowd. Her chest burned, and the room spun.
“Sarah?” Eduardo gripped her arm.
At his touch, Sarah jerked back and inhaled sharply.
Eduardo furrowed his eyebrows.
Squaring her shoulders, she addresse
d Antoinette. “Mi chiamo Sarah. Io sono un’insegnante di inglese di Lucia.”
Eduardo widened his eyes.
Beside him, Antoinette snapped her gaze from her phone.
Sarah struggled to breathe. Had either of them noted the shakiness in her voice? Or that all the blood drained from her face? If they hadn’t yet, they would soon. She shifted her attention back to Eduardo. “Buona sera.” She turned to go.
Eduardo caught her shoulder. “Sarah, wait. Can we talk?” He lowered his voice. “In private?”
“I can’t. I…” Sarah searched for an excuse while trying not to focus on his hand resting on her shoulder—the same hands that had caressed her arms and had pulled her close while watching the sunset. Those hands now held another woman. “I have to go.” She wriggled from his grasp and started for the door.
“Sarah, please?”
The words were more than a question—they were a plea. Sarah stopped but kept her back to him.
“Your painting,” he said. “Was the scene…?” His voice faltered, and he cleared his throat. “Was the scene from that night?”
A mixture of joy and misery rushed through Sarah. She wanted to pull him close but also push him away, to kiss him but also slap him, and to cherish him but also despise him. Tears stung her eyes then burned her cheeks. How could she answer him, knowing he’d already moved on? She brushed the tears from her face, kept her head high, and rushed toward the exit.
By the time she reached her room, Sarah dabbed at her puffy eyes. She wiped her brow with a wet cloth and stared at her reflection: blotchy red cheeks, messy blonde bangs, and smudged eyeliner. She gripped the edge of the sink and the cool porcelain unyielded. How could he have found someone else and brought her to the play, when he knew Sarah would be present? He was the one who made their few dates feel like they’d been together for months. He was the one who’d told her he felt close to her—who called her his beautiful swan. Maybe all his heartfelt comments were lines after all. Except, he remembered the night together—the sunset.
Sarah loosened her grip on the sink and peered into the mirror—into her glassy blue eyes. How could she be angry? She was the one who called it off. She was the one who wasn’t ready for a relationship. How could she blame Eduardo for this when she had no one to blame but herself?
Well, maybe Antoinette was partly to blame, or Antoinette’s type, anyway. Eduardo would have left her for a smaller-bodied, prettier-faced woman eventually. How could a man resist the tight curves and tanned skin Antoinette offered?
Sighing, she picked up the washcloth again. She removed the mascara streaks from her cheeks and what was left of the shimmery gloss from her lips. Things were probably better this way. She should be concentrating on plans for next year, not opening herself for inevitable heartbreak.
When she’d finished cleaning up, Sarah slumped to her desk, opened the listing Meredith sent her, and clicked on the specs. The quaint, blue-shingled rancher contained three bedrooms and two baths. The house had just enough room for a small art studio, and maybe, one day—too long, if her ovaries said anything about it—a child. Except, the likelihood of the house being on the market when she was ready was about as unlikely as Anna joining the convent.
A knock rattled the door.
“Yes?” Sarah called.
“Signorina Miller. Sua Suor Maria.”
Sarah smoothed her hair as she walked to the door then opened it. “Buonasera.”
“Buonasera.” Sister Maria gave a curt nod and rested her gaze on Sarah. “Are you all right?”
“Of course.” Struggling to avert the stare of Sister Maria’s murky gray eyes, Sarah forced a smile. “Why wouldn’t I be?”
Sister Maria narrowed her eyes. “You seemed upset when you left the performance. In a hurry, at least.”
Sarah kept a straight face. “Well, I…I have a lot to get done before my mother arrives.”
“That’s right. She arrives soon?”
Whew. She bought it. “In another week.”
As the lines around her eyes softened, Sister Maria stepped back from the door. “Well, I look forward to meeting her. I’m sure we’ll have a lot to talk about.”
Sarah tried not to let her smile turn into a wince. “I’m sure she’d like that.” Closing the door, she pressed her back into it. Great. Her mom and her boss cavorting—as if tonight’s debacle with Eduardo wasn’t bad enough.
Chapter 21
Anna left for Boston three days later. Sarah didn’t bother to tell her about Eduardo. What would be the point? Anna would either tell her the whole situation was her own damn fault—how could she argue with that reasoning?—or worse, would suggest she call Marco. So, Sarah traded her fuzzy slippers for wool socks, barricaded herself in her room, and spent the first few days of break sifting through her sketchbooks and polishing off a brand-new jar of Choctella.
If not for Mom’s impending visit, she might have spent her entire break that way. But only one thing could make things worse—Mom’s condemning glare. She pulled herself together and did what any woman in her situation would do; she scrubbed the hell out of her bathroom.
“This is where you live?” Mom said when she arrived.
Apparently, the sparkling tiles did nothing to ease Mom’s disapproval. “I told you my accommodations were nothing fancy.”
“Fancy? I’d be better off sharing a shower in the hostel!” Mom poked her head in the bathroom and wrinkled her nose.
“The room is fine, Mom,” Sarah said. “It’s only temporary.”
Mom raised an eyebrow and turned her attention to Sarah’s bed. “What exactly are your plans for next year?”
Sarah harrumphed before answering. “I don’t know yet.”
“You don’t know yet?” Mom opened her eyes wide. “But it’s nearly January.”
“Can we have this conversation later? I want to hit the Vatican before it gets too crowded.” Sarah grabbed her purse and started for the door.
Mom didn’t move. “How much longer will you put this off, Sarah? You can’t hide forever.”
“I’m not hiding.” Am I? And what did it matter if she was? Sarah dug in her purse for her keys. Finding them, she squeezed them so hard she was sure the metal would leave a mark. “Let’s just go.”
“Sarah, please. I know this divorce isn’t easy for you.” Mom placed a hand on Sarah’s shoulder and squeezed. “I don’t want you to throw away your life.”
Why can’t she leave this issue alone? Sarah pulled back, flailing her hands in the air. The keys flew out and clanked against the desk chair before coming to rest on the floor. “I’m not throwing away my life. I’m just figuring out what the hell to do with it.”
With a frown, Mom dropped her gaze.
Sarah struggled to control her breathing, which suddenly became ragged. She didn’t move to pick up the keys.
Mom didn’t either.
A knock sounded on the door, breaking the silence. Sarah rushed to open it.
“I’m sorry to interrupt,” Sister Maria announced. She took a step inside and extended a hand to Sarah’s mother. “You must be Sarah’s mother. So nice to finally meet you in person, Mrs. Miller.”
Great. If Sarah thought her mother’s prying was intrusive, just wait until the two of them combined forces.
“So, will you come?” Sister Maria asked Sarah.
“I’m sorry?”
Sister Maria gave an amused smile. “I asked whether you and your mother would attend Christmas Eve mass.”
Christmas Eve mass? As if she’d thought past the next two days. They had to visit the Trevi Fountain and the Colosseum.
“Of course!” Mom said.
Sarah shot Mom a glance. “Mom, you’re Methodist. You won’t even underst—”
“Well, you know what they say, Sarah?” Mom clasped her hands. “When in Rome…”
Sarah rolled her eyes.
“Magnifico,” Sister Maria said with a smile. “Friday. Eleven o’clock.”
***
*
Four days later, Sarah and Mom headed to the chapel. Stars shone in the dark sky, and a gentle winter’s wind brushed her cheeks.
Mom bounced through the courtyard, bubbling with excitement. “I can’t wait! I hope the service is by candlelight.”
Sarah stifled a yawn. The last few days with Mom exhausted her. If she had to pose for one more picture or browse one more souvenir shop, she might just go mental. And don’t even bring up the stairs: the Spanish steps, the stadium seating in the Colosseum, and the trek up the winding staircase of the basilica. Of course, Sarah climbed them all before, but she’d done so over months, not in the span of four days. Sarah’s feet ached, and she slumped her shoulders. Would anyone notice if she nodded off?
Inside the chapel, Sister Maria, dressed in her traditional robes and habit, stood out in the tiny but crowded sanctuary. Sarah guided Mom through the dimly lit nave toward her.
“I saved you seats.” Sister Maria gestured toward the second pew from the front.
The pew was empty, save for a lone man on the far side. His head was buried in a hymnal.
“The chapel’s beautiful.” Mom gazed around the room.
Sarah paused to take in the chapel’s transformation. On the altar, a pair of candles adorned a table dressed in red velvet. Feathery evergreen branches draped down the sides. The organist played cheery Christmas tunes instead of the usual somber dirges. Beautiful, indeed.
“After you.” Sister Maria motioned to Sarah to go in first. “I’ll sit by your mother and explain the service.”
“Thanks.” At least she could enjoy the service—or sleep through it. But could she trust their conversation wouldn’t veer from Catholic rituals? Sarah shrugged. Tame conversation was about as likely as the priest singing a gospel. Sarah led the way and shuffled into the narrow pew.
The man at the end glanced up from his book. He did a double take then stood.
Sarah stopped, and her heart quickened. Not him. Anyone but him.
“Sarah,” Eduardo said. The hymnal slipped from his grasp and clattered to the floor. “I didn’t expect to see you here.”