by Amanda Usen
“Not for long,” Mr. Marconi’s voice was gruff.
Sean forged ahead. “Well, I appreciate the ride. I have business in Padua, and my cell phone isn’t working. Giovanna suggested I buy another one in the market.”
Mr. Marconi frowned. “I don’t have a use for cell phones. I prefer to stay connected to the earth, not the air. I don’t understand why everyone is always on their phones these days.”
“I need to stay in touch,” Sean said, annoyed that he felt the need to justify himself.
Mr. Marconi nodded agreeably, but his eyes were sharp. He started the car. “So how is it you come to Italy with my daughter?”
Sean felt his lips curve thinly. “A happy coincidence. I need to meet with a client and Olivia was already coming to Italy.”
“This isn’t the first time you’ve chased after my daughter,” Mr. Marconi said, leaving Sean in no doubt that he remembered the boy who had walked past his restaurant so many times.
“As her lawyer, you should know she doesn’t need another man to complicate her life.”
“I agree with you there.” Out of politeness, Sean resisted the urge to say more.
Olivia’s father slowed the car to a crawl as they came up to the main road. “I don’t mean to insult you, Mr. Kindred. I’m sure you are an honorable man, but I’m thinking of my daughter. I don’t understand why you booked a room in the villa since you were traveling with Olivia. Surely she would extend our hospitality to you. Didn’t she know you were coming?”
“No,” Sean said tersely. “She did not.”
“Does she want you here?” the man asked bluntly, making a slow turn onto the main road.
“Have you asked her that?” The lawyer in him knew just how to handle cross-examinations.
Mr. Marconi shook his head. “Not in so many words.”
“Well, why don’t you do that first? I’d like to know myself.”
Mr. Marconi snorted.
Sean could understand the man’s plight. He wanted the best for his only child. Sean wanted the best for her too, but their understanding of her needs was necessarily different. He certainly wasn’t going to get into that discussion, so he settled for saying, “I don’t want to hurt Olivia.”
“So don’t. Go back to New York. Leave her alone.”
“I can’t do that.”
Silence settled between them, a silence that Mr. Marconi seemed to have no intention of breaking again. Sean steeled himself. “How long to Padua?”
“About an hour.”
That was a lot of silence.
***
Mr. Marconi pulled the car over to the side of the road and parked. “Here you are.” He gestured at a street lined with green and white umbrellas. The Padua market looked prosperous and welcoming, but Sean was too tense to enjoy the hustle and bustle. The hour in the car had felt like a week.
Olivia’s father cleared his throat. “Mr. Kindred, there is no delicate way to make this offer, so I will just say it. I want you to go back to New York. In fact, I’m willing to pay your travel expenses if you quietly take your leave of my home and my daughter. She’s been through enough, and I don’t want her getting hurt again.”
Sean opened the car door. “Thank you for the ride. I’ll call a taxi for my return trip.” Even if it cost him a small fortune. There was no way he was going to spend another hour in the car with Olivia’s father.
“Your trip to the airport?” Mr. Marconi suggested.
Sean ignored the glint of humor he saw in the other man’s eyes. He did not want to like this man. “No, not today. I think my leaving her would hurt her too.” Sean shut the car door and began to walk toward the market.
He felt a tight knot of frustration in his center. Her father was wrong. He wasn’t going to hurt her. In fact, she was more likely to hurt him. Holding Olivia in his arms last night had been so peaceful, and he hated to be reminded that their affair could be short. What if she decided to stay in Italy? What if he couldn’t convince her to come back to New York with him?
Sean set off into the market, looking for a street sign. According to his map, the Hotel Loggia Antica was near the Piazza Dante. He passed displays of vegetables, scanning the tables for electronics. Finding the hotel was his first priority but if he happened to see a phone he would certainly stop. He paused to admire a stall filled with nothing but different varieties of the red lettuce they had eaten at dinner last night, then slowed in front of a stall displaying so many kinds of cured meat products that it looked like the walls had been papered with sausage. The next stall offered a hard squash that looked like a pumpkin. “Zucche! Zucche!” the seller called out to him.
He shook his head politely. “Hotel Loggia Antica?” The woman pointed down the way. Just past a booth filled with artichokes, strings of garlic, and about twenty vegetables he couldn’t identify, he spotted a stack of cell phone boxes. He approached the stall.
A young girl talked on her own cell phone as she sat behind the table. “Telefono?” he asked.
She looked up at him. “Documenti?”
He shook his head apologetically. “English?” he asked.
She released a long-suffering sigh and said something in rapid Italian. “Ciao,” she said into her phone and pushed a button. “Are you from Italy?” she said slowly.
“No, I need a telephone because I can’t get a signal.” He held up his phone. “Do you have something like this?”
“Yes, but I can’t sell it to you unless you can prove you live here or you show me a passport.”
His passport was in his room at the villa. “Are you kidding me?” he asked.
Her phone signaled a text. “I’m sorry, but no,” she said, looking about as sorry as a teenager with an unread text message can look. Sean tried not to glare at her as she told him that it wasn’t her fault that rules were rules and her employers, indeed the government itself, required documenti for every cell phone sold, that no, it wasn’t just her. Her competitors would also be unable to sell him a phone. And no, he didn’t look like a terrorist but she didn’t want to lose her job.
Having no polite response, Sean simply nodded. “Is this the way to the Hotel Loggia Antica?” he gestured down the street.
“Yes, right there.” She pointed at a building across the square, clearly impatient to get back to her conversation.
He crossed the piazza and took the stairs by twos, nodding his thanks to the hotel doorman. The Hotel Loggia Antica was almost as nice as Villa Farfalla. Mrs. Russo had excellent taste in accommodations. He approached the front desk. “Hello, I’m looking for Marilyn Russo. Could you tell her someone is here to see her, please?”
“Certainly, sir.”
The divorce papers were tucked in his pocket. Hopefully his ruse would get Mrs. Russo into the lobby, and he could deliver them without incident. Then he would decide whether to try his luck with another phone vendor or head back to the villa for his passport. Was it worth paying a fortune in taxi fares to stay in touch with Mr. Russo and his family? Maybe he could find the train Gia had mentioned.
The clerk hung up the phone with a smile. “She is coming.”
“Grazie.” Sean walked over to the seating arrangement in the middle of the lobby and took a seat next to a tall potted plant. A few minutes later, a woman rushed into the lobby. He knew Mrs. Russo was in her fifties, but this woman looked much younger. Her auburn hair was twisted on top of her head and she was wearing high heels. Her blue dress swirled around her ankles as she whirled to look where the desk clerk was pointing—at him.
Sean moved into her line of sight. As their eyes met, she looked puzzled. Then her face crumpled and she pressed a hand to her lips. Sean felt like someone had punched him in the stomach as he realized she must have been expecting her husband. He forced himself to approach the front desk.
&n
bsp; “Mrs. Russo?” he said softly. “I’m Sean Kindred. Your husband sent me.”
Her shoulders straightened. “I realize that now.”
“I’m sorry…I didn’t think…I guess I wasn’t thinking, but I’m sorry for misleading you.” He took a breath and pulled the divorce papers out of his pocket. “I’m your husband’s lawyer. He wants a divorce.”
She cleared her throat. “Yes, I know he does.”
Her sudden smile stunned him. He blinked and felt like a cad as he held out the papers.
Mrs. Russo shook her head and kept her hands at her sides. “He’s not going to get it until after my vacation. I told him that before I left New York.”
“How long is your vacation going to be?” he said, already fearing the answer.
“I haven’t decided.”
Sean had to ask, “Why on earth do you want to stay married to him if he wants a divorce?”
“Because I love him.” Her voice broke on the last word.
“I’m sorry,” he said again, and she nodded.
“Me too. But I’m not going to throw away twenty-eight years of marriage because Tony won’t take a vacation. He works too much and he doesn’t know how to relax. It’s ruining our marriage—”
Sean held up the papers again. “Are you sure it hasn’t already ruined your marriage?”
“Tony is an idiot.”
Sean nodded in agreement. “You can do better than him.”
She patted him on the cheek. “But I want Tony. I picked him, and I’m keeping him. Whether he knows it or not—he’s keeping me too.”
“I’m sorry for being the bearer of bad news, Mrs. Russo.” Sean pressed the papers into her hand and turned toward the door.
She caught his arm. “What are you going to tell Tony?”
“I’m going to tell him I delivered the papers.” He’d also tell him that he should keep his wife, not that Russo would listen to him.
“Would you tell him one more thing?” She gave him an impish smile.
Sean raised his eyebrows and waited. Nothing good could come from a smile like that.
“Tell him I won’t contest the divorce if he takes a two-week vacation in Italy. I just know he’d love it here as much as I do. Have you seen much of Padua?” she asked.
“I’m staying in Verona at Villa Farfalla,” he said.
“I’ve heard wonderful things about that place! When you speak with Tony, tell him to book a room there, please.”
Sean bit back a chuckle. Mrs. Russo was as relentless as her husband. Maybe they were perfectly matched after all. “I’ll send him an email when I get back to the villa. I imagine he’ll need some time to get used to the idea before I talk to him.”
“Tony’s like that,” Mrs. Russo said complacently, and he heard the truth of twenty-eight years ring in her voice.
Sean pulled his wallet out of his pocket and gave her his card. “Keep in touch.”
She shook his hand. “Thank you for your help. I hope we’ll see you at the villa.”
“Good luck,” he said and meant it.
He stopped at the front desk to pocket a hotel card in case he needed to contact her again. Then he stepped outside and headed back toward the market. Russo was going to be furious, but he wasn’t sure he cared. To be perfectly honest, he wasn’t sure he wanted to be his lawyer anymore. It was hard to believe the lovely woman he had just met had been driving Mr. Russo crazy. It seemed more likely the other way around.
Slowly he became aware of music. He followed the cheerful sound and found several musicians set up outside a café. His stomach growled, so he sat down at an empty table. Vivi nel presente. He might as well have lunch while he figured out what to do about his phone.
Chapter 10
Olivia staggered out of the spa. Her muscles felt like room temperature butter, soft and malleable. Her nails were gorgeous, fingertips buffed to a natural shine and toes painted a racy dark red. Her stomach ached from giggling for hours as her cousin entertained her with even racier stories from her love life. As Olivia reached the bottom of the stairs, she fought the urge to hook a sharp left and keep walking, to continue out the back door and into the vineyard. So far her day had been stress free. That would end once she joined her mother in the kitchen. She stopped in the hall and took a deep breath.
The desire to please her mother was too strong for her to actually walk out the door, but just for a minute, she indulged the fantasy. What would she do? Where would she go?
She could spend the day lying in the vineyard watching the grapes grow. Or maybe she would walk into the village. A long lunch in a cute trattoria sounded very appealing.
The back door opened and she jumped.
“Ciao, cara. How was your morning?” her father asked, stepping into the hall.
“Peaceful. I was just on my way to help Mamma.”
His face softened and a teasing light entered his dark green eyes. “I can see you’re in a big hurry.”
Olivia turned toward the kitchen but her father touched her arm, holding her back. “You don’t look like you’ve had a peaceful morning, tesoro.”
“I’m fine. Just gearing up to chop some more herbs.”
“Bah! Why don’t you play in the vineyard with me instead? It is lovely among the vines.” The kindness in his eyes made her feel weak. She shook her head.
“I can’t. Mamma is expecting me.”
“And what’s the worst thing that could happen if you disappointed her?”
Olivia opened her mouth to answer before she realized she didn’t know. She had never deliberately defied her mother. She pressed her lips together, frowning.
“Your Mamma loves you,” he said.
“Of course she does.” That wasn’t the sort of thing a daughter needed to be told. She glanced out the door behind him, looking for Sean. “How was your morning? Did Sean find a phone?”
“I wouldn’t know.” Her father crossed his arms. He looked like he was trying not to laugh.
“Where is he?” she asked, suspicious.
“In Padua.”
“You left him there?” she exclaimed.
“He’s a big boy. He’ll find his way back.”
“Papà, he doesn’t speak Italian! How is he going to—” She broke off. “Go get him.”
Her father’s truculent expression told her he would do no such thing. Logically, she knew Sean could get back to the villa fairly easily. Someone would speak English and help him find the train but it had been a dirty trick. “Fine. Be that way. But when he does make it back on his own, you have to promise to be nice to him.”
A calculating grin creased her father’s tanned face. “Only if he makes it back before dinner.”
“Then you have to be nice to him for the rest of the week,” she countered.
“It’s a deal.” He held out his hand and they shook. “But I can’t speak for your mother.”
He kissed her cheek and headed toward the front of the house, chuckling. Olivia entered the kitchen and saw a young man clearing the chef’s table. His back was to her as he lifted a heavy tray onto his shoulder. She stepped out of the way, nodding a greeting as he passed. Below, she could see her mother deftly rolling pasta dough while Alessandro hovered over the stove, stirring something with a long wooden spoon. The kitchen smelled like garlic and roasting vegetables. She felt a twinge of guilt for spending the morning getting pounded like veal while they had been busy serving up lunch. She tugged an apron from the stack in the dish room and joined them.
“Ciao, Olivia,” her mother said as she stepped down the stairs.
“Ciao, Mamma. What’s on the menu today? Do you have a list ready for me?”
Her mother turned to Alessandro.
He untied his apron. “Ask Marco. I gave the list t
o him.” He gestured toward the young man who had been clearing the chef’s table, who was now leaning on the table and laughing with two women wearing black pants and white shirts. Her mother made a beeline for the stairs. To get the list? To put the waitstaff back to work? Alessandro glowered and threw his apron in the linen bin. He moved toward the glass door.
She followed him. “Alessandro, I’m here to help. I don’t plan to stay long, but I’d like to be useful while I’m here. Isn’t there something I can do while you’re gone?”
He turned to face her. The proud lines of his face softened. Olivia waited, hoping he would accept her olive branch, but the sudden ring of his cell phone ruined the moment. His face hardened again. “Nothing,” he said.
Olivia crossed her arms. “What about the class tomorrow?”
“What about it? The people will come. We will cook.” His hand moved toward his pocket. “Un momento,” he said sharply into his phone. He turned back to her and jerked his chin toward the stove. “Make soup for primo piatto if you want something to do.”
Olivia had taught occasional cooking classes at Chameleon. They were a ton of work, and it was far easier to have a good bit of the prep done ahead of time. Amateur chefs were interested in the exciting parts of cooking not the scut work. It was fun to peel one potato; it was not fun to peel two bags of them. It had taken both her and Marlene, prepping at warp speed the day before the class, to get everything ready to roll. There was no way in hell she was going to show up and wing it tomorrow.
She stepped in front of him. “Where’s the menu for the class?”
He pointed impatiently at the chalkboard next to the stairs.
“What time will you be back?” she asked, refusing to allow him to intimidate her.
He waved his cell phone at her. “Mi scusi.”
She shrugged and stepped aside. The patio door slammed behind him. What on earth was wrong with that guy? As her mother had said, dinner wasn’t going to make itself and she wanted to help. Well, she was done being polite and trying not to step on his toes. She’d run her own kitchen for years, and she didn’t need him to tell her how to make dinner.
