Paris Is Always a Good Idea

by Jenn McKinlay

  Several other guests were enjoying the warm spring day, quietly conversing over their coffee or in some cases wine. It made me feel a sudden pang of loneliness I couldn’t shake. I’d spent only a couple of days with Jason as my constant companion, but now it felt weird without him.

  For the umpteenth time that day, I checked my phone. I didn’t know what I was expecting. The man had flown out of Paris without so much as a “See ya later, Mahtin.”

  Zoe had been the one to break it to me. When I’d popped into the café for coffee and a pastry, she’d informed me that he’d left. I tried not to be hurt that he hadn’t said goodbye, sent me a text, or even written a note on a Post-it. I wondered if it meant anything or if he was merely respecting my boundaries. I knew it was hypocritical to demand space and then complain when you got it. Still.

  I tried not to dwell on why it disappointed me. I blamed my lack of sleep. Sitting at the table, I checked my text messages. Again. Nothing. I checked my voice mail. Nothing there either. Then I got angry at myself for checking and then checked again. Argh. I was losing my mind. I shook my head. No, I was just overtired. I never processed anything well when I was tired. I needed a voice of reason.

  I opened my contacts and pressed the first name that came up.

  Annabelle answered on the second ring. “Chels, where are you? Are you in Italy? Have you seen Marcellino yet? What happened in Paris? How was Jean Claude? Did you meet with Severin? What’s happening?”

  I smiled. Maybe it was the miles between us, but suddenly I missed my sister and her overabundance of exuberance more than I had in years. And just like that, I was in tears.

  “Hey, Sis,” I said.

  “Oh no! Are you crying? Oh my god, why are you crying? Ack! Wait! Are you having boy drama? Hallelujah! You never have boy drama,” Annabelle said.

  My sniffs turned into snorts. “I am not having boy drama.”

  “Yeah, right, why else would you be crying?” she asked. “So, catch me up. What’s going on?”

  Surprising myself, I did. To Annabelle’s credit, she laughed only a little at the Colin-Aoife humiliation, fumed and swore at the Jean Claude disaster, and then grew very quiet as I described my time with Jason—yes, I even told her about the kiss, but just the one on the Eiffel Tower.

  “Oh, wow,” she said. “I have to say, I didn’t see that coming.”

  “That makes two of us,” I said.

  “How did you end up kissing him?” she asked. “I mean, you hate that guy.” She’d had to listen to many of my work rants before.

  “Hate isn’t the exact word I would use,” I said. “And in all fairness, I might have been too hard on him in the past.”

  “Uh-huh.” That was all she said. I had no idea how to interpret it. Was she uh-huhing me because she thought I was full of it, or was it a more nuanced response that meant she understood what I was saying? I had no idea.

  “You’re the one with the man experience, Annabelle. What do I do?” I asked.

  My sister was quiet for a bit. I appreciated that she was giving the question due consideration. Usually, Annabelle went with her first, and worst, impulse. Then she said, “Well, I think the fact that you’re in Italy means you’ve answered your own question. You must press on and go see Marcellino, regardless of how you feel about Jason.”

  “Whoa, whoa, whoa, I never said I felt anything for Jason,” I said.

  “Really?” she asked.

  “Friendship,” I said. “That’s it.”

  “Friends don’t kiss friends on the Eiffel Tower,” she said.

  “It was an accident,” I said.

  “Oh, yeah, my lips get stuck on my guy friends’ lips all the time,” she said. “It’s such a silly mistake, like slamming my jacket in the car door or running the dishwasher twice.”

  “Are you finished?” I asked. “Because you’re not helping. Forget Jason—what if seeing Marcellino, what if being in Italy, doesn’t snap me back into my old self? What if this whole trip is a bust?”

  “How can it be a bust when you’ve managed to score ten million dollars for the ACC?” Annabelle asked.

  “That’s just work,” I said.

  “I’m sorry, but who are you and what have you done with my sister?”

  “I’m serious. I want more out of my life.”

  “Sunshine, you’re in Italy,” Annabelle said with a hint of exasperation. “So what if things don’t go as you hope with Marcellino? Maybe he’s like Jean Claude and not the man you remember. It doesn’t matter. They have gelato there, which can cure anything.”

  I laughed, which was undoubtedly her aim.

  “Chels, you have to remember, you’re not on this quest to find a man or a relationship. You’re on it to remember—”

  “What it feels like to be carefree and happy and open to love. Yeah, yeah, I know.” I sipped my coffee. “But it’s been seven years. What if the new workaholic me has spackled on such a thick shell that I can’t scrape her off?”

  “You wouldn’t be there if she had,” Annabelle said. “You’ve got this.”

  “I hope so. If I could just not have my past bite me on the ass again, that would be helpful.” I paused for Annabelle’s chuckle and then asked, “How’s Dad?”

  “Worried about you,” she said. “But not so much that he hasn’t found time to go to cake tastings, florists, and the big wedding expo.”

  “Really?”

  “Yup. Never in my wildest dreams did I think that mathematician Dad and I would have an in-depth discussion about tulle,” Annabelle said. “It’s weird.”

  “I can see how it would be, but it’s also good,” I said.

  “Is it?” she asked. “Because he is full steam ahead on these wedding plans. We’re at T minus two months now.”

  I felt ripples of panic begin to swell inside of me. My entire purpose for being here was to find the Chelsea that believed in love at first sight and happily-ever-afters. I’d found flickers of her in Ireland and France, but I wanted to be her again in time to attend my father’s wedding with full enthusiasm and joy, no matter what outfit I was asked to wear.

  “Yeah, I mean, it’s good that Dad has you,” I said. I tried not to sound forlorn. “You’re the daughter he needs right now.”

  “We both are,” she said. “And you’ll get there. The Chelsea you’re looking for is out there. I know she is.”

  “Right.” I pushed the image of my dad marrying Sheri from my mind and finished my espresso, telling myself I could do this. Really, I could.

  * * *

  • • • •

  IT WAS LATE morning when the bus stopped at the entrance to the Castello di Luce vineyard. I climbed down the steps, hauling my bag behind me, trying not to notice how nervous I felt, but truthfully, my pulse was pounding so hard in my throat that I feared I’d choke on it. It had been seven years since I’d been here, after all.

  Since I’d made my decision to revisit my year abroad, Marcellino and I had emailed and texted and shared one phone call, which had been hard to manage because of the time change. While I felt confident that seeing him again would be a pleasant experience, there was always the possibility that I’d be wrong. It had happened before—witness Jean Claude.

  The vineyard was built on the grounds of a castle, thus the name, and as I stood looking up at the huge beige stone building dating back to 1173, I was filled with the same awe and wonder I’d felt the first time I’d set foot on the vineyard grounds. The squared-off ramparts and high watchtower loomed over the surrounding countryside just as they had when they’d been built almost a thousand years ago for a family who’d reigned over the area for over four hundred years before being stripped of their wealth and property by the Medici family.

  I tipped my head back to take in the stone ramparts, which looked as if a battery of arrows or hot oil could come down on the u
nsuspecting people below at any moment. As always, the bloody history of Castello di Luce made me shiver. Meticulously preserved, the castle had been owned by a family, the DeNicolas, when I’d come to work here during my year abroad.

  They’d lived in the upper levels of the castle, letting the vineyard and olive oil business take over the first floor. When I had checked their website, I’d seen Marcellino DeCapio listed as the owner of the vineyard. This didn’t surprise me at all. He’d had a rare gift for working with the grapevines that covered the hills behind the castle. Mr. DeNicola had often said that Marcellino could sweet-talk the vines into producing more grapes than ever before. It hadn’t been hollow praise. I had marveled at Marcellino’s natural affinity for the winery business.

  The vineyard had a gift shop and offered tours, which I’d led during my time there. The castle was a popular stopping place for tourists, and as I walked past the tour buses parked in the small lot, I almost felt as if I should be donning my Castello di Luce staff shirt and gearing up to give a tour of the grounds, the castle, and the vineyard.

  Instead of following the other tourists into the castle courtyard, I went around the side of the building, where there used to be a rose garden belonging to Mrs. DeNicola. As soon as I stepped through the archway, the scent of the roses lured me in. The garden was still there, and while most of the rosebushes had yet to bloom, the overachieving Don Juan rose, a climber, was bursting with fragrant burgundy blossoms.

  I left my bag by a stone bench and strolled through the garden, past the fountain in the center and out the opposite arch, which supported a heavily loaded lavender wisteria vine. I paused to look out across the rolling green hills, thrilled to see the red poppies just starting to bloom amid the lines and lines of grapevines, which had just begun to leaf. It was, as the Italians would say, una bella giornata, a beautiful day.

  I soaked in the beauty of the landscape as the scent of the sweet air filled my lungs. I closed my eyes and tilted my face, letting the warm sun shine down upon me while a gentle breeze teased my hair. The memories of this place during that magical April and May, when the mornings were busy with tourists and the afternoons were spent sitting on the handlebars of Marcellino’s bicycle while we rode into the village for gelato, were so thick and rich again, it felt as if I were stepping back in time.

  “Chelsea?” A man called my name. “Chelsea Martin?”

  chapter twenty-two

  I OPENED MY eyes. The sun was bright, and I blinked past the red haze, trying to bring into focus the man striding toward me. He was walking the narrow dirt path, coming up from the small grove of silvery-green olive trees, where I could see several workers scattered amid the orchard, pruning the branches.

  The man was wearing a wide-brimmed brown canvas hat, which put his features in shadow, but I would have known that stride anywhere. Marcellino!

  I wanted to shout. I wanted to say something, anything, but all I could do was nod—vigorously. That was all it took. Marcellino broke into a run. His hat flew off his head, and the sun lit up the copper strands in his dark hair. His smile was as big as the sky, and his eyes—oh, how had I forgotten those beautiful eyes—were shining as he sprinted toward me.

  I couldn’t wait for him to reach me. I started running, too, dashing across the uneven ground to get to him. It was like something out of a movie, a love story. My heart swelled. Everything around him faded into the background: the cypress trees standing in a tall line shielding the precious vines, the swallows and house martins twittering as they fluttered past with twigs in their beaks, off to build their nests, and the people touring the vineyard, completely unaware of the epic moment that was unfolding before them.

  I felt a lighthearted laugh build up in my chest. Was this what I’d been looking for? This place and these feelings? I wanted to believe it. I wanted to believe it so much that I didn’t stop or slow down; instead, as soon as I was close enough, I launched myself at him.

  Marcellino was tall and muscled from his long days of working in the vineyard, and he scooped me out of the air as if I were no heavier than a bouquet of wildflowers. He took my momentum into his body and spun me around, holding me up high. Then he slowed and hugged me close.

  After he set me on my feet, he cupped my face, studying my features as if trying to convince himself that I was real. “I got your message and I knew you were arriving today, but still, I can’t believe you’re here.”

  “Hi,” I said, feeling unaccountably shy.

  He shook his head as if still registering that I was actually standing right in front of him. I understood. I was certain I was staring at him the same way. He kissed my cheeks and then hugged me again.

  “So many times, I have imagined you standing right there waiting for me, just like you used to so long ago, and now here you are,” he said. His deep accented voice curled around me like a hug. “I was so happy to hear from you, dolcezza.”

  I sighed when he called me sweetheart in Italian just like he used to when we were dating. “Oh, Marcellino, it’s so good to see you.”

  I stepped back to study his face and was pleased to note he looked exactly as I remembered. Oh, sure, there were faint lines in the corners of his eyes, and the boyish softness had left his jawline, making it firmer and more chiseled, which only made him even more handsome. I liked that he had become a substantial part of the vineyard that he loved so much. I wondered how the rest of his life had worked out, but I wasn’t sure how to ask.

  “Come, let’s get you settled,” he said. He took my hand and laced his fingers with mine. He stared at me as if he was afraid I might vanish. “How long will you be here? Where are your friends? You mentioned being here with guests for the wine festival.”

  “They won’t be here for a few days,” I said. I leaned against him in a flirty way that was so not me—well, not me lately, but maybe the me who had been here seven years ago? Was that me then? Or was it me now? Because it occurred to me that I could totally see myself leaning against Knightley. I felt my smile waver as I realized I missed him. I shook my head, trying to be present. This was the moment I’d been working toward.

  If Marcellino noticed that I was going banana balls right in front of him, he didn’t remark on it. Instead, he said, “We must . . . how do you say . . . catch up, sì?”

  “Sì,” I said with a laugh. “I’d like that.”

  “Bene,” he said. “Now come have lunch with me.”

  He grinned at me and put his hand on my lower back. Together we walked through the courtyard, retrieving my bag, which Marcellino carried as easily as if it were full of air, and into the castle through a doorway that was reserved for staff. Instead of taking me to the staff lounge on the first floor, where we used to spend time together, Marcellino opened a door to the right and took the spiral staircase that led up to the residential second floor.

  I looked at him in surprise. “We’re going up there? Isn’t that where the owner—oh, wait. Are you . . . ?”

  “Yes, when I bought the vineyard, it came with the castle,” he said. He grinned at me as I put an embarrassed hand over my face. I knew he’d bought the vineyard, but somehow I hadn’t really thought about the fact that it included the castle.

  “This is so crazy. I always wondered what the second floor looked like.” The previous owners had been very private.

  “I hope you like it, dolcezza,” he said. He sounded very invested in my response, which made me nervous even though I was certain I was overthinking it. Well, even if I hated it, I would pretend to love it, because that was just polite. Right?

  We went through a doorway at the top of the stairs and entered the kitchen. It was completely modern with quartz counters, copper pots, and the latest appliances. Clearly, I was not going to have to fake a thing.

  “Wow, this is beautiful,” I said.

  The interior of the medieval castle was the same blush-colored stone as the exterior
, but instead of being cold and dark, it boasted floor-to-ceiling arched windows that looked out over the vineyard, plus enormous fireplaces that took up whole walls and were painted bright white, while track lighting illuminated the overbearing dark wooden beams that ran across the ceiling.

  “How about a glass of Chianti?” he asked. He opened a small wine chiller, which kept the Chianti at an optimum sixty degrees, and pulled out a bottle. “I’ll give you a tour after we eat. Do you like that idea?”

  I did. I desperately did, but first I needed to gather some intel, things that needed to be asked in person.

  “That would be lovely,” I said. “But won’t your wife or girlfriend mind that you’re touring a former girlfriend around your home?” Yes, I asked just like that because I was the epitome of smooth.

  He grinned. Then he shook his head. “I have no wife or girlfriend. Sono single.”

  “How is that possible?” I asked. “I mean, look at you. You’re gorgeous, and you’re like the grape whisperer of the vineyard, plus you live in a friggin’ castle. Are the women around here blind?” The words flew out of my mouth before I could stop them.

  Marcellino laughed, and the deep dimples that had so fascinated me when I first met him framed the curve of his lips, making me want to press my thumbs into them.

  “There is my Chelsea,” he said. “So full of life . . . and questions.” He tucked a strand of hair behind my ear, and his gaze moved over my face, taking in the changes the years had wrought. “Honestly, the vineyard is my wife, my mistress, my one true love. I am not the carefree boy you once knew.”

  “I’m not who I used to be either. I’ve changed a lot,” I confessed.