One Hot Italian Summer

by Karina Halle

  “You are too big for that,” Claudio says.

  “But would you put her on your shoulders?” he asks, eyeing me. “She’s not much taller than me.”

  “I’m not going anywhere,” I tell Vanni. “I would break your dad’s back.”

  “We’ll see about that,” Claudio says.

  I give him a look, like don’t you even try.

  He merely sips his wine and slips his shades down over his eyes, smirking away.

  A fluttery feeling passes through me, and I busy myself with my wine, looking at the crowd. The more I drink, the more I relax, and the more I’m hit with … happiness.

  We’re sitting here on the grass, the blades tickling my thighs below my shorts. I’m extra hot because I’m wearing two tops, one of them with the smell that new concert tees seem to have, sweat pooling at the small of my back. My pinot grigio is growing warmer by the minute and the sun is just disappearing, the sunset reflected in Claudio’s sunglasses.

  Aye. That’s what it is. I’m happy. It’s not just because I’m buzzed. With the smiling crowd, the warm air, the fading blue sky overhead, I feel at peace. Like, for once, I know I’m going to be okay. And maybe that’s not true, but for this moment, for tonight, I’m going to pretend it is.

  We finish our drinks and then Claudio gets up to get another round for us. It’s darker now and the band should start soon.

  “Grace?” Vanni asks when Claudio has disappeared into the crowd.

  “Sì?”

  “Do you like my dad?”

  Oh. No.

  I glance at him, pasting a big phony smile on my face. “Like your dad? Sure I do. He’s a nice guy. Just like you.”

  He purses his lips in thought, raising a brow. He’s not buying it.

  “I mean, do you like him. The way he used to like my mother.”

  I should be relieved that he didn’t use the word love, but even so this isn’t the best question to be caught up with, especially when I have such a hard time lying.

  “I think he’s nice,” I say. “He’s a friend. That’s all.”

  He watches me closely, and I turn my attention back to the crowd, which is getting thicker as it grows around us.

  “Hey, maybe we should get up,” I tell him, getting to my feet and dusting the grass off the backs of my thighs. I hold my hands out for him and hoist him up.

  “So you’re just friends?” he asks.

  “Yes, Vanni. We are just friends. Like you and I are friends.”

  Okay, so maybe not quite like that.

  “Good,” he says.

  Oh boy.

  Don’t ask him what he means by that, don’t ask him what he means by that.

  I clear my throat. “Do you … think that one day your dad will remarry?”

  Vanni shudders at that, visibly upset. “No. He knows he can’t.”

  “He … can’t?”

  “I don’t care if he has girlfriends,” he says carefully. Then his brows snap together. “But I will not have another mother.”

  Ah, so Claudio wasn’t kidding when he told me that the reason he broke up with the gorgeous Marika, was because Vanni didn’t like her. I’m starting to think Vanni won’t like anyone that Claudio ends up with.

  Which is none of your concern, anyway, I remind myself. Because it sure as hell won’t be you.

  “There you are,” Claudio says, brushing past the crowd, managing three drinks in his hands. Even with his concert tee, which doesn’t fit him nearly as well as his normal tees do, he looks every bit the Italian stallion.

  He hands me my wine and gives Vanni another Coke. The kid is going to be sugar high all night.

  “I think they are just about to start,” he says to me, then looks over my shoulder. “The crowd is closing in. We need to stay close so we don’t lose each other.”

  I thank him for the wine, ever so conscious of Vanni’s questions.

  Why did he even ask?

  Does he suspect I like his father as more than a friend?

  Does he suspect that his father likes me?

  Is he worried that we are going to get together?

  Or is this his way of a preemptive strike?

  I’m going to assume that he’s just afraid of what could happen, and since I’m probably the first female who has consistently lived in the house, it’s easy to assume that we’re together or might be.

  Suddenly, the stage lights go on, pulling me out of my head.

  The crowd roars.

  “It’s starting,” Claudio says. “Let’s get closer.”

  He reaches over and grabs Vanni’s hand.

  Then he grabs mine with the other.

  He pulls us into the crowd, squeezing us past the sweaty throngs of people, the swagger-heavy opening notes I recognize as “Suicide Blonde.”

  Of course Claudio is practically beaming. I can’t really see the stage that well since we’re all in a level field and, like, everyone is taller than me (I don’t know why the tall people always stand in front of me at shows—I must have some strange gravitational pull.) I don’t recognize the singer, but he’s good and sounds close enough to Michael Hutchence for it to totally work.

  But while part of me is bowled over by the sound and the lights and the crowd, I’m also acutely aware that Claudio is still holding my hand.

  Not just holding it, holding it tight. I can feel his rapid pulse, and I’m going to assume it’s because of the excitement of the show.

  I sneak a glance at him.

  He’s grooving to the music, smiling, the stage lights reflecting in his dark eyes, making them dance too. There’s something about him that feels otherworldly to me, like before I met him my life seemed lost and hopeless. And dull. It still does in a way. I’m still grieving. I’m still worried about my book. But at the same time, so much belongs to another life. The life I had before I met him.

  Now that I’m here, I’m swept up in his charm, his essence, his view on life. It’s not just that I find him ridiculously attractive, it’s not that I don’t dream about letting go of all my inhibitions and screwing him (because, believe me, I think that’s exactly what I need).

  It’s that he makes me feel good. He makes me feel better about myself, like I’m somehow more interesting. When I’m around him, whatever zest and passion he has for life rubs off on me, until I see things the way he does, like the world is one big canvas waiting for me to paint it. Like I’m worthy of holding the brush.

  As if he can tell I’m staring at him, he squeezes my hand tightly.

  I squeeze it back.

  We hold hands like that until the haunting strings of “Never Tear Us Apart” begin to play. My mind is automatically brought back to our session in his studio. He’d held me so close, not a care in the world. And I remember the feeling of letting go.

  That surrender.

  I want that again.

  And I also want more than that.

  “Vanni,” Claudio says to him, barely audible over the music. “Do you want to come on my shoulders for this song?”

  He shakes his head violently. “No. You said I was too old for that.”

  Then Claudio turns his head toward me, peering down.

  “Grace?”

  I want to laugh. I can’t get up on his shoulders. I might be short, but I’m heavy. I will break his back. Not to mention, the people behind us will probably get mad.

  I look over my shoulder. Then again, the couple behind us is making out and not paying attention to the show at all.

  “I…” I say. Wanting to say yes, needing to say no.

  Before I can complete my sentence, he squats down low, like impressively low (those quads are beasts), and pulls me around so I have to get on his back like we’re playing leapfrog, my legs around his neck.

  His hands take a firm grasp on my thighs, his forearms pressing my calves against his chest. “Hold on,” he says.

  I immediately grab hold of his hair, though that’s probably not what he meant, and he straightens back u
p, slowly. He does it with so much ease, it’s like I’m not on his back at all. Meanwhile I’m not making it any easier with my wavering back and trying to get a grip on his head.

  “Sorry, sorry,” I tell him.

  “Don’t be,” he says. “I like it when you pull my hair.”

  Oh lord.

  And now I’m suddenly very conscious that his head is between my thighs. Backwards from the way I’ve dreamed about, but still. He better do nothing to turn me on.

  “Are you okay?” he asks.

  “Yes,” I squeak. I glance down at Vanni who is shaking his head in disapproval.

  I do have an amazing view of the concert, but angry Italian gibberish from behind me grabs my attention.

  I turn and the making out couple have ceased their tangled tongues and are giving me a dirty look.

  “One song,” I tell them, trying to think what that is in Italian. “Una sonata.”

  “Canzone,” Claudio whispers, correcting me.

  “Una Canzone,” I tell the couple. “Per favore.”

  The couple shrugs and goes back to making out.

  “Very good, Grace,” Claudio murmurs.

  He begins to stroke his thumb against my thigh, his rough skin against mine, making my veins course with heat.

  Yeah, so much for not being turned on.

  What is he doing?

  Just shut up and enjoy it.

  So I listen to that voice. While Claudio rubs his thumb along my skin, back and forth, over and over, I wind my fingers into his hair. It’s very thick and strong and soft, and I can feel him relaxing beneath me. Every now and then I give it a playful tug, hoping he’s as turned on as I am.

  But eventually the song comes to an end.

  It’s time for me to come down.

  And Vanni says, “Papà, I need to use the toilet.”

  “Okay,” Claudio says, grabbing his son’s hand while gripping my leg tighter with the other. “Hold on, Grace.”

  “Wait!” I cry out, my nails digging into his head as he starts to walk through the crowd with me on his back. “Put me down!”

  But I’m drunk and I’m giggling.

  I feel like I’m in a circus, riding an elephant, but in fact it’s just a stupendously talented and handsome man, and I’m up here on display. I start waving to people, waving to the band, who are paying me no attention, of course.

  I can’t stop smiling.

  By the time we reach the line of porta loos on the side of the field, I’m laughing hard, having a tough time staying upright.

  As Vanni goes off into one of them, Claudio starts to stumble.

  I shriek, still laughing, and he goes down on his knees.

  “Ahhhh!” I wrap my hands around his face, blinding him, and pitch forward until my shoulder hits the grass.

  The impact is soft, and I roll over onto my back, my hands clasped over my stomach, knees up, and I am laughing so hard that I think my ribs might give out.

  Claudio is laughing too, a big and boisterous laugh that only fuels mine.

  He grabs my legs as he crawls over to me, leaning over.

  “Mio Dio,” he says, chuckling. “Are you okay?”

  I look up to see him looking down at me, hand at my face.

  I can only grin at him, nodding. The stars are shining in the sky beyond him, one insanely bright star right behind his head, and my eyes keep going in focus between his face and the starlight.

  Both are insanely beautiful.

  “I am sorry about the crash landing,” he says, his hand still at my cheek. “I tried very hard to make it gentle.”

  I bite back my innuendo.

  “I imagine that’s what riding a camel is like,” I say through a laugh.

  “Yes, but I would hope I’m less smelly and hairy.”

  “Much less smelly. You smell like almonds and sunshine,” I tell him. The drunk in me is speaking now.

  He blinks at me for a moment, then his smile deepens. “That doesn’t sound so bad.”

  “It’s really not.”

  I sit up and he puts his hand on my shoulder to help me.

  Then leaves his hand there.

  His other hand is on my bare thigh.

  I swallow, noticing the goosebumps on his arm.

  “You have goosebumps,” I say quietly. “That song really does it for you.”

  He glances at his arm and then slowly meets my eyes, giving a small shake of his head. Something in his gaze changes, no longer playful. His smile fades.

  “No,” he says thickly. “It’s not the song.”

  His fingers press into my shoulder.

  Eyes smoldering.

  He licks his lips.

  And for a moment, we aren’t on the grass outside the loos at an INXS concert. We’re nowhere at all. It’s just empty space and it’s him and it’s me, and every wire that has tightened between us over these last weeks is close to snapping.

  Once they snap…

  “Papà!’ Vanni’s voice dissolves the world.

  It was there, and now it’s gone.

  The roar of the concert comes back and Vanni is running over.

  “Stai bene? Why are you on the grass?” he asks, looking down at us in surprise.

  “Your father dropped me,” I tell him, throwing Claudio under the bus so that Vanni doesn’t pick up on the fact that we just shared one very strange and fleeting intimate moment.

  Vanni looks heavenward. “I told you I was too old. Of course she is too old too! Come on, can we get another Coke?”

  “We’ll see,” Claudio says.

  He gets to his feet and then turns and hauls me up, fingers wrapped around my elbows. Our eyes lock, an expression that I can’t read sitting deep within his eyes, and his hand trails down my forearm, over my wrist, over my hand, then finally lets go.

  I swallow hard, feeling drunk and dizzy, all because of him.

  He grabs Vanni’s hand and they walk along the edge of the crowd to the food cart, me right behind them.

  Twelve

  Claudio

  I am nervous.

  I stare at my reflection, trying to decide if I should wear a tie with my suit or not, but I can’t make up my mind. It shouldn’t matter—I have nights like this at the gallery all the time. It’s just me and my friends, and maybe one of my friends will bring someone with money who will buy one of my pieces of art and I can breathe easier.

  Or maybe not.

  But of course, it’s not just business as usual this time. This time, I have company.

  In another world, another universe, perhaps one that even Vanni isn’t aware of, she would be a date.

  But in this one, at least, she is a guest.

  Grace is coming with me to gallery night.

  And she’s why I’m nervous.

  She’s why I can’t decide on tie or no tie.

  She’s the one I want to impress.

  La mia musa.

  I’m starting to think she’s my muse.

  Outside, thunder rumbles ominously. After nearly two weeks of sun and building heat, the tension has broken. Dark clouds gather behind the peaks of the distant hills with threats of rain. It would be good for the land to have some rain tonight. Perhaps it would be good for everyone, a reprieve of sorts.

  The relationship between Grace and I has gotten more complicated over the last week. Prior to my sisters showing up, I was willingly pushing her, seeing how far I could go. I wanted to know if she felt what I felt. Something a bit more complicated than pure attraction. Yes, I lust for her but it’s more than that. It’s something inside me recognizing something in her. Perhaps the pull of an artist’s heart for an artist’s heart. Maybe it’s just the potential of what we could be.

  But my sister Maria reminded me that it wasn’t just my feelings that were complicated. It was the situation. With Grace being Jana’s client, with her being here because of Jana, because she needs to finish this book, I realized how selfish and inappropriate I have been. There’s a part of me that phy
sically aches for her, this need to be around her, to gaze at her beauty, and I can do all that without involving Grace.

  I just haven’t felt this way in a long time … dare I say, ever. I’m not sure what to do with myself, and pleasuring myself night after night with thoughts of her hasn’t helped—if anything, it’s made it worse because my imagination is pretty fantastic, but it stops just short of being the real thing.

  I want the real thing.

  I want Grace.

  I want to touch her, to explore her body from head to toe, discover everything hidden to me, lose myself in the way she’s put together. She’s art, I know she is, and if I can’t have her, I need to create her. She inspires me to no end.

  Slow down.

  I stare at my reflection, at the dark eyes peering back. I can’t let my mind run away on me because if it does, my body will follow.

  I decide against the tie, tossing it on my bed.

  Rake my fingers through my hair, adjust my cufflinks. Black suit, white shirt, no tie. I know I look good. But there’s only one opinion I care about.

  I grab the keys to the Lusso and leave my room, closing the door behind me.

  Out in the hall, Grace is doing the same thing.

  I stop, air seizing in my chest.

  Grace is wearing a dress that would be fitting in a Dolce and Gabbana ad. White with a bright floral print—the top is like a bustier, with skinny straps and cups that push up her breasts, dangerously close to overflowing.

  When I tear my eyes away from her chest, ignoring that persistent pang of need in my dick, I’m taken by her face, the red on her lips, the smoky eye, the way her dark hair shines, cascading softly over her shoulders.

  “It’s not too much, is it?” she asks, her voice quiet and anxious.

  It’s too much for me, I want to say. Far too much for me to handle.

  I don’t think I’ll survive tonight.

  Somehow I manage to speak. “You look beautiful.”

  I want to say more. She looks more than beautiful. There are no words in my vocabulary to describe her. She’s the writer here, not me. I just know that if I were to sculpt her, people would be fighting over themselves to own her, to display her beauty forever.

  In the back of my head, a risky proposition rears its head.