Now Elsa and I are sitting on a blanket in the sand. I’m probably the only woman who hasn’t gone topless. At first seeing women without bikini tops was jarring, but then I remembered this is Italy. Not even the children are traumatized by the slew of nipples and slopes.
“You know I’ve been cooped up in your lovely house for the last three weeks.” I take a deep breath, tasting the salty air. “I would’ve loved to have gone to Rome, Bologna, and Milan. Then down to Cannes. I’d cruise the Italian Riviera all the way to Naples.”
Elsa stops rubbing sunscreen on her shoulder. “Then stay, and you and I will do it.”
I raise an eyebrow, intrigued. “That actually wouldn’t be so bad. Three more weeks. That’s it.”
“Or however long it takes.”
I gaze off to picture how wonderful that would be. “I would definitely have to bring Aiden.”
“And my nanny.”
I quickly face her. “Your nanny?”
“Yes.”
We look at the shore, where Floriana, the nanny, has Aiden dangling in front of her in a sling. His legs are still a little stiff, but every now and then, they kick happily. One of Elsa’s kids dives into the water, showing off for Aiden. I chuckle.
“But doesn’t she have to tend to your children?”
Elsa shrugs. “My mother-in-law will watch them.”
“And what about Giovanni?”
“He will stay and do my job, and we will go, yes?” She watches me with a smile.
I study her expression. “You’ve been such a good friend.”
“And so have you.”
My eyes water, and I sniff back tears as I hug her.
“Remember how we first met?” I ask, still holding her.
“You were my favorite student.”
We let go of each other. “You were a good such professor, and I was just trying out a media class to see how it felt.”
“I always say you missed your calling.”
I sigh shallowly. “My dad used to say…” I bob my head as I imitate him. “‘Go into business. You’ll be more successful.’ So that’s what I did.”
“And now here you are,” she says.
I furrow my eyebrows, then release them. “Yes, here I am. A twenty-seven-year-old single mother and divorcee.” My shoulders slump because I’m feeling sorry for myself again.
Elsa rubs my back. “That is not what I meant. Here you are, alive and enjoying the sun. You have a beautiful son, a beautiful face, and the rest of your life ahead of you.”
She’s been saying things like that to me for the last three weeks. They’re beginning to seep in, although I have a long way to go in order to believe them.
“Okay then,” I say, getting back to her earlier question.
“Okay?”
“I’ll go. We’ll go.”
She shakes her fist in a cute way. “Yes, yes, yes! Now take your shirt off.”
I look around the beach. “You’re right.” I untie my bikini top. “It’s time for me to get with the program.”
We laugh as my milk-engorged tits join the rest of the world.
Three weeks of traipsing across Italy turns into a month and a half. I take Elsa to visit places she’s never heard of. We’re at the Castillo di Rizzi outside of Naples, a castle that was obtained by Orlando De Luca as a payoff of a gambling debt in 1589. In 1601, Orlando died, and his sons, Dino and Vitale, dueled to the death for ownership of the castle. Vitale won. It was later discovered that he was not Orlando’s real son but the result of an affair between Enzo Rizzi and Orlando’s wife, Beatrice, who was Enzo’s third cousin.
“You have known a lot about the places we visited,” Elsa says.
We’re walking through the estate’s famous tomato garden, shaded by the spiraling tree limbs over our heads.
“I do a lot of reading before I travel, and I’ve done a lot of traveling in my life.”
She grunts thoughtfully.
“What?” I ask.
We make it to a stone bench and sit. Together we turn to observe a statue of a naked boy standing in the bowl-shaped fountain with water spraying out of the cup in his hand.
“What do you know about this?” she asks sarcastically.
“Well… it’s the cup that Vitale drank from after he shot his brother to death.”
“His half brother.”
I raise a finger. “That would be correct.”
We chuckle softly.
“Have you considered staying?”
I sit up straight. “In Italy?”
She goes on to tell me about a government grant they’ve been given to produce an English language show that will promote tourism.
“You have instructed me thoroughly during our travels, and our journeys would make the most interesting program.” She taps me lightly on the shoulder as if another great idea just came to her. “And you will be the talent.”
I blink, taken aback by her proposition. “Wow. I don’t know what to say. I never considered living outside the United States.”
“You can consider it now.”
I open my mouth to staunchly refuse the offer, but then I close it. Before my father died, I quit my job as the chief executive officer at the Minneapolis branch of our family-owned enterprise, North Star Holdings, because I planned to start my career as a stay-at-home mom. Funny… when I shared my plan with my dad, he said the longest journey I’ll ever take would be from my head to my heart. Then he asked if I was sure leaving the business was what I truly desired.
“Of course!” I said, slightly irritated that he questioned my decision.
But now I don’t know. Flat-out saying no to Elsa’s offer doesn’t feel like the right thing to do, and I’m grappling with saying yes.
“I fly back home tomorrow,” I say.
Elsa gives me a tight-lipped smile, studying my expression. Finally, she throws up her hands. “Well… I tried. Now”—she hops to her feet—“let’s not be late for dinner.”
I’m still trapped in indecision, but we really must get going. It’s our last night in Naples, and we’re slated to have dinner with a few of her friends who are in the area.
I finally break out of my mood. “Sure. I’m ready.”
Above the Apennine Mountains, the perfect sunset paints the sky with pink, red, and purple. The hosts of tonight’s dinner are Marco Santi, the sexy and famous Italian pop singer, and his lovely wife, Gianna. We’re on their yacht in the harbor. Elsa’s husband Giovanni is also here. He drove from Bari to Naples to drive us back in the morning. Every moment has been perfect—having drinks on the deck, gathering around the table for dinner, the good conversation, and the fantastically gorgeous guy sitting across from me.
His name is Salvatore. He has perfect dark wavy hair and sky-blue eyes. His chest is wide, biceps strong, and he has perfect posture. My father used to say confident men have perfect posture and only wimps slouch.
They’re speaking in Italian, and on a scale from one to ten, my Italian is about a six. As usual, when an American is at the table, the topic of conversation veers toward me and my place of origin.
“What do you do in America?” Marco asks.
I explain how I used to run part of my father’s business.
“Then you are a rich American girl?”
I shift in my seat. My father taught me to never dangle my wealth in the faces of others, especially since it could be taken away as fast as he could snap his finger.
“Our family business has been very successful,” I say.
Marco smirks as he studies my expression. “Beautiful and humble—those are new American qualities.”
I roll my eyes a little. “Grazie, I think.”
They always like to dump on the Americans. However, I never get offended. My countrymen have thick skin. We’re strong. We can take it.
“She is for sure beautiful,” Salvatore says, dazzling me with his hypnotic blue eyes.
I cough after forgetting to breathe. Gianna makes a comment
about how crazy the politics are in America and waits for my response.
I shrug halfheartedly. “Politics is always crazy.”
“But not as it is in America.”
I run my fingers through my blond hair. I’ve been taught to never discuss politics or religion in polite company.
“She has a point,” Salvatore says, then goes into a story about an elected official who wipes tax burdens for a certain percentage of the amount owed.
Gianna counters by saying that it’s not the same as a US President.
Salvatore winks at me. “It is exactly the same!”
I blush, knowing he’s chosen to stand up for me.
He and Gianna go back and forth until Marco pulls his guitar from under the table and sings a song about making love instead of war. The song ends, and we applaud. I’ve never been this close to a person who sings so passionately, and my eyes tear up.
He goes into a new song about a woman he has never told that he loved her, but he does love her and he’s saying it now. Finally, I break down and cry. I can’t control myself. I’m waiting for the music to stop and for everyone to scrutinize me and try to figure out what’s going on. But the music doesn’t end, and Elsa puts her arm around me. I continue weeping on her shoulder.
Last night, Marco Santi made music until we sang and danced ourselves tired. Salvatore had to leave earlier than we did, but he asked that I look him up if ever I return to Italy. He also lives in Bari.
This morning, we woke up bright and early to make the drive back to Elsa’s flat. A deep, pervading woe overcame me as I packed Aiden’s and my things. I was half hoping Elsa would spend more time convincing me to stay in Italy, but she and Giovanni had to rush off to the station as soon as we got back. They had some sort of crisis. So I take a cab to the airport.
The airport is busy today. I can’t find a cart to stack my luggage on, and since I’m not supposed to leave my luggage unattended, I drag suitcases and bags as far as I can in order to not lose sight of them. I’m inching toward the ticketing agent, and every muscle in my body hurts. Also, Aiden is bawling in the stroller, something he hardly ever does.
“It’s okay, sweetie,” I say, knowing that my attempt to comfort him is falling on deaf ears.
Heck, I’m miserable too. It’s hot, and I’m sweating like a stinking armpit. A woman takes pity on me and tells me to stay put while she goes off to locate a cart for me, so I give Aiden his bottle. That quiets him. When the woman is back with a bright shiny cart that will fit every piece of my luggage, I thank her profusely and try to pay her for saving my sanity, but she refuses to take my money.
“Grazie,” I say, trying not to whimper.
Who would’ve thought my trip would end with me in such misery? Finally I make it to the line—and it’s long. Each step forward makes my heart feel heavier. Soon I’ll be on the airplane and on my way back to Minneapolis.
But why?
Nolan and I are close, but he’s busy trying to keep my father’s company from falling into the wrong hands. I’m not going back to be a wife and a mother. I’m next in line, and I feel as if my head is finally meeting my heart.
“Next!” the woman behind the counter says.
My feet do not move. I look at Aiden, and his eyes are closed. He’s on his way back to sleep.
The woman behind me taps my shoulder. “You may go.”
I make a quick decision and step out of line. “I’m sorry.”
She nods and rushes to the next representative.
I’m breathing heavily, trying to figure out what I just did. What did I just decide? I dig my cell phone out of my purse and call Elsa. This will be the determining factor. If she doesn’t pick up, then…
“Pronto, Liza?”
“Elsa. Does your offer still stand?” I hold the phone closer to my mouth, turn away from curious onlookers, and lower my voice. “The television show about traveling.”
“Yes, indeed!” she sings.
“Then I want to do it.”
“Where are you?”
“In the airport.”
“Then you’re not leaving?”
I shake my head. “No. I’m staying.”
I’m at the restaurant, facing Salvatore. My life has moved rapidly forward since I decided to stay in Italy. I moved to a small villa on the hillside, which is about twenty minutes from town. Floriana, the nanny, left Elsa’s employ to work for me. I reconnected with the man across the table from me about two weeks after I decided to stay. One dinner turned into two dinners, and then two to three, and three to four.
Then he asked me on romantic excursions. Sometimes out to sea, and others to Rome and Naples. When he made love to me, many times, it was never a great experience—really not even an enjoyable one. I so desperately wanted him to be a great father for Aiden, but he spent no time with my son. And why would I burden my child with this man? He’s a burden to me!
Salvatore only likes to talk about himself. He flirts with almost every attractive woman we see. He flies off the handle when I don’t give him his way or do what he wants. When I first cut my hair and dyed it back to my natural color, his head nearly exploded. Now he says that I’m attractive, but I used to be beautiful. And here’s the sad part—I let myself tolerate this. For the first time, I’m trying to get him to sympathize with my pain, and instead, he’s asking me for money.
I look deeper into Salvatore’s eyes. He’s waiting for my answer. He’s sure that I’ll give him anything he asks for. However, anger propels me to my feet.
“Salvatore?”
He snorts like an arrogant bull. “Sit down.”
“Go fuck yourself.” With a clear head and heart, I let my feet lead me out of the restaurant.
5
I drive down the old cobblestone street, feeling as if there’s a wall around my heart. I stop at the first intersection and stare at the traffic light, waiting for it to turn green. This part of town, at this time of day, is empty. I stroke the wheel of my car, breathing deeply. Did I just walk out on Salvatore? I can hardly believe I did it.
Finally the light turns green, and I go. My vehicle turns up the winding hillside that almost took my life just hours before. My mind skips a beat when I pass the corner where I had the scare.
My hands bite the wheel again. I can’t be so blind when it comes to men, can I? I place my hand over my chest, and my diamond bracelet slides up my arm. I look at the very expensive gift. I recall when he presented me with the bracelet and earrings. He had been gone for three days. He didn’t call me, text me, or drop an email—he was just gone.
I scoff and glare at the bracelet. I bet he bought it out of guilt, but more than that, it was strategy—that’s why he spent more than some people’s annual salary on jewelry. I should’ve known the intention behind his actions. Just like John, when it comes to spending his money on anyone but himself, Salvatore’s cheap as hell. My heart races from the thought of how similar the two men are, and that I didn’t even realize it until tonight. I snap the bracelet off my arm and pitch it onto the floor in front of the passenger seat.
“What a pig.”
I accelerate. I’ve taken things freely from Salvatore. At least they were from Salvatore, unlike my slug-bag ex. He would use my money to buy things for me.
I slow before turning up the hill. Thinking about how I almost killed myself earlier, leaving Aiden without the only parent he can rely on, I take my time and arrive home safely. I walk up to the door, the cobblestone walkway lit brightly under the moon.
After relieving Floriana for the night, I walk up the stairs. She reported that Aiden played a bit more, had dinner, and then it was off to bed.
I look at him lying in his bed. He has no idea of the destruction his father has caused. Disturbing him is unnecessary, but I want to look at his sweet, angelic face. I tiptoe into his room, the old wood floor creaking with each step.
I kneel by his bed and smell his sweet breath. I think about the amount of time he’s spent with Flor
iana as of late. If I keep this up, then one day he’ll be calling her madré instead of me. I’ve been swept up with work and Salvatore, and I’ve let my time with Aiden slide. Well, not anymore. I stand up tall and push back my shoulders. Tomorrow will be a long and new day. I return to my room and lie down for the night.
This morning was hectic. The first thing I did was call Floriana and tell her that I will no longer be needing her services. That didn’t go well. She needs the job, and she really loves Aiden. I couldn’t remain on the phone with her until she calmed down, so I told her I’d call later to arrange her final check and severance pay.
I was able to keep Aiden in the high chair, tuned into Barney, as I raced around the house, collecting his pull-ups, two sippy cups, a jar of mixed whole and 2% milk, and the toddler food Floriana made him. Today he has crushed bananas, puréed apples, and crumbled walnuts, and the peas and lentils mixed with fish. I can’t forget the portable video player that already has six episodes of Barney programmed on it. I also bring three of Aiden’s other favorite toys—the red train, wood blocks set, and the touch Etch-a-Sketch.
I stand between Aiden and the mounted TV. He’s watching me with a sippy cup in his mouth.
“Did I get everything?” I ask him.
He doesn’t take his eyes off me.
I snap my finger. “Your toilet seat.”
I zoom to the bathroom and snatch his seat off the toilet. Finally, I look at my feet. I’ve done it all with just one shoe on.
I shriek and hurry to my room to put on the other shoe. What a crazy morning this has been. I’m so close to calling Floriana to tell her I’ve changed my mind. But nope. I shall persevere. I get my purse, Aiden’s bag, and my car keys, put Aiden in his stroller, and we head out.
Her Perfect Man- The Complete Series Box Set Page 23
