by Gina Holmes
“Easy,” I said, putting my hands up. “Listen to yourself. You’re threatening me.”
He rubbed his face. “Just don’t call me a loser because I’m not. I may not do things the same as you, and I may not want to take over the world, but that doesn’t mean I don’t have aspirations.”
“I know that,” I said. “I know you do.”
“Do you?”
Now that the imminent threat of being beaten up had past, I dropped to the couch and looked up at him. “Just tell me what’s got you so worked up.”
He pointed his kielbasa-size finger at me. “You better not tell Thompson we talked about this.”
“Never.”
He sat in the recliner beside the couch and leaned forward with his elbows on his knees. “Thompson told me you said my gross is lacking. I’m laying over too easy, huh?”
Blood rushed to my face. That was something I said to our boss when he pressed me to find something about Larry that could use improving. Nobody was perfect, he’d said, and a good leader needed to see the positives and negatives even in their best friends. “He pressed me to give him one thing you could work on.”
“You just can’t stand to lose, can you?”
“Lose what?”
“Thompson told me he was leaning toward me for the promotion.”
“That’s funny,” I said, “because he told me he was leaning toward me.”
Larry crossed his arms. “When?”
“Today.” I figured that answer ought to shut him up. He didn’t look bothered, which freaked me out.
“What time? Because he pulled me into his office right before he left.”
The blood drained from my face. What was that slob pulling?
“You look kind of ticked. I was hoping you’d be happy for me.”
I shook my head. Was he for real? “How happy can I be? That’s supposed to be my job.”
He sneered. “Says who?”
“Sales manager is next in line for general manager. You’re next in line for my job. You don’t leapfrog over your boss. That’s not the way it works.”
He looked up at the ceiling and shook his head. “Let me ask you something. Why do you even want this promotion?”
“Because I deserve it.”
“You seem to think you deserve a lot of things.”
I stood. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“I’m just speaking the truth. You might want to try it sometime.”
“Where’s all this coming from?”
“I’m sick of you getting everything a man could ever want and just throwing it away for nothing.”
“Is this about Kyra?”
“Yeah, it’s about Kyra. What do you think I’m talking about? You had it all and you blew it, for what? A stupid promotion and a girl who still sleeps with stuffed animals? I still can’t wrap my mind around that.” It was Larry’s turn to stand. He dwarfed me by several inches and close to a hundred pounds. His face twisted with anger. “Why would you do that?”
“This isn’t about the job or Kyra. It’s about Tina.”
“No, it’s about why you would throw your whole life away for nothing. And look, at the end of the day, you’re not going to end up with anything. Which is exactly what you deserve. I thought you were turning things around when you finally leveled with Danielle, but I guess I was wrong. You’re just as big a jerk as you ever were.”
I shoved Larry, but bounced right off him onto the couch. Before I could get my footing, he had me turned around and in a headlock. I could hardly breathe with my throat jammed in the crook of his arm.
“Just tell me why you’d do something so stupid? You had it all. Great job. Big house. Beautiful wife. What’s your problem?”
Somehow I managed to push him off me. “Stop making this about Kyra and me. Just forgive Tina. She’s not even with the guy anymore.”
Red-faced and breathing hard, Larry took a few steps back, watching to make sure I wouldn’t pounce. “I forgave her a long time ago, but what good would it do to take her back when I can’t even stand to look at her? You may get this stupid promotion, and you may get your bride back, but someday your lies are going to catch up with you.”
“If the promotion’s so stupid, why do you want it so bad?”
“I don’t have a wife to come home to. I don’t have anything but a broken-down TV and a best friend willing to sell me out for a corner office. That’s why.”
Dumbfounded, I just stared at him. “I didn’t know you wanted it so bad.”
“Does it make a difference?”
I looked down at the Berber carpet beneath my feet. Did it? It was true that I wasn’t used to losing. “You want me to throw the fight?”
His laugh was cold and mirthless. “I’m not asking you to throw the fight, friend. I’m just asking you to fight fair.”
Twenty-Three
“I can’t believe you’re here.” Kyra wrapped her arms around my neck and kissed me. The cashmere of her sweater didn’t feel half as soft as her lips against mine. When she retreated, the disturbed look in her eyes betrayed her true feelings. I’d caught her off guard and apparently not pleasantly so.
Drained from the twelve-hour flight from Virginia to Italy, I stood in the hallway waiting to be invited into the hotel room.
“You don’t look happy to see me,” I said, as much to her as Marnie, who glared at me from the bed she sat on.
Kyra stepped aside and let me into the room. Two full-size beds took up most of the space with a claw-foot table, two chairs, and a chest of drawers occupying what was left. Though tastefully decorated, it was a small room by American standards. On the edge of my wife’s unmade bed sat a silver tray holding a plate with a spoonful of tomatoes, a crust of bread, and a fork in the center of it.
“Of course I’m happy,” she said. “I’m just surprised. Why didn’t you call? It would have been terrible if you flew this whole way and we weren’t even here.”
That possibility practically gave me an ulcer on the flight, then taxi ride over, but I didn’t think the leading man I was trying to play would admit that. “Sometimes in life, you have to take chances.” I pulled the bouquet of roses I’d picked up on the way over from behind my back and held them out to her.
She gave them a strange look as she took them from my hands. “That’s really sweet. Thank you.”
Her hesitancy made me wonder if her feelings for me had changed overnight. I brushed the dampness from my hands, wondering if it was from the flowers or my own nervousness.
She walked over to the bathroom and disappeared inside it with them. I heard the water turn on, which Marnie took as a cue to finally say what she’d been trying to convey through scowls.
“What are you doing here?” she whispered.
“Trying to win my wife back. What else?”
“Shouldn’t you be doing that after her memory returns?”
She was right, of course, but I was more and more convinced that a preemptive strike at redemption seemed my best and only hope. If and when Kyra’s memory returned, she might weigh this moment against what I’d done and maybe I’d earn a little leniency.
Her eyes narrowed, and she was about to say something else but stopped and turned. Kyra emerged from the bathroom holding the flowers, which leaned awkwardly inside their makeshift, ice-bucket vase. Petals rained down like snow. In my mad rush to get to the hotel, I must have overlooked the fact I’d bought a bouquet of half-dead flowers.
Decaying roses. Real romantic.
Embarrassed, I squatted down and began plucking debris from the carpet. “These are already on their last leg. I’m sorry. I’ll take them back and get you fresh ones.”
She stooped beside me to help. Our hands brushed as we reached for the same petal. “Don’t you dare. I love them. It’s just that . . . the only time you bring me flowers is when you’ve done something wrong.”
Laughing nervously, my gaze jetted from her up to Marnie, hoping she’d save me. Knowing she wo
uldn’t.
Instead, she sat there on her bed, arms and legs crossed, wearing a stony expression and her workout clothes. “He’s a man. They’ve always done something wrong.” She tapped her sneakered foot against the carpet. “Where are you staying?”
“Nowhere. I’m just in for the day,” I said.
“What?” both women said simultaneously.
I shrugged as if it were no big deal. “Hey, I missed my wife, so I decided to fly in and spend the day with her.” Somehow that line I’d rehearsed at least a dozen times on the flight over sounded more Pee-wee Herman than the John Wayne I’d intended.
In my fantasy, Kyra was supposed to lay a hand across her heart as tears sprang to her eyes. Looking at her now, staring me down with that unreadable look of hers, I began to wonder if maybe I’d accomplished nothing more than inconveniencing her.
I stood and brushed my hands together, knocking off the last bit of dried leaf. “I thought you might think it was romantic. You know, the man you love flies across the globe just to spend a day with you in one of Europe’s most amazing cities. I thought women liked that sort of thing.” My face grew warm. “I thought, well, you know . . . ”
“You should have called,” Marnie said. “We have plans for tonight.”
I licked my lips. “Oh, well, I . . .”
When Kyra’s mouth turned upward in that Mona Lisa way of hers, I knew it was going to be okay. “It’s true, lover, we do have a party to go to.”
“Not a party,” Marnie interjected. “A gala on a yacht with the biggest names in fashion. Probably the most important networking opportunity I’ll ever get.”
Kyra turned to her sister and tilted her head to the side. “He flew in just to spend the day with me. How awesome is that?”
Relief filled me. “So, you’re not mad?”
She laughed. “Yes, I’m furious that a handsome man flew all the way across the world just to take me on a romantic excursion. What girl wouldn’t be?”
I extended a hand down to her and she took it. Bracing myself against the pull of her weight, I helped her stand.
Marnie pouted. “You can’t do this to me.”
Kyra sat beside her on the bed and leaned into her shoulder. “What are you sad about? You’ll rub a lot more elbows if you don’t have to babysit your little sister.”
Looking on the verge of tears, Marnie said, “Please don’t make me go alone. What if I fall over the side of the boat? Who would even know? I could be treading water for days until I died a slow, horrible death of thirst. Do you know what saltwater does to your insides if you drink it?”
Kyra raised an eyebrow. “You’re not going to fall off the side of the yacht.”
“You don’t know that.”
I could see Kyra’s resolve melting away with each quiver of her sister’s lip. “Fine, but he’s coming too.”
My heart sank. I had our evening planned. I’d reserved a table at the most romantic restaurant in all of Milan—according to Google, anyway—and a horse and carriage to take us there. I even arranged for a violinist to serenade her over dinner. I haggled the guy down to one hundred and fifty if he learned Rod Stewart’s “Broken Arrow” by then.
A boat party with Marnie and her snooty fashion friends was not on the menu.
She squinted at me long and hard, as though deciding if I was yacht-gala worthy. After a moment she rolled her eyes. “You need to call the concierge and tell him you need a tux.”
Kyra must have seen the disappointment in my eyes because she set her soft hand on my cheek and gave me the sweetest look. “You are the kindest, most romantic husband in the entire world.” When she kissed me, I realized my plans weren’t nearly as important as her happiness. What really mattered was that I was with the woman I loved, and we had an entire day together.
“Can I at least have you to myself until then?” I asked. I’d really hoped to see da Vinci’s The Last Supper while we were here, knowing neither of us would likely ever get the chance again.
Marnie frowned at me. “We couldn’t possibly. I’ve got a meeting across town in an hour.”
“Who’s got a meeting?” Kyra asked.
“I do.” Marnie sounded perturbed.
“Who?” Kyra repeated.
“I . . . do,” Marnie said slow and loud as if Kyra were deaf and stupid. A knowing look finally washed over her. “Fine. Go. But remember, it’s a two-hour drive to the party.”
Kyra glanced at her watch. “We’ve got enough time to catch one or two attractions and get a quick bite.”
Marnie lit up. “Oh, you’ve got to take the tram tour. Catch number twenty. It’s the one with the big Ciao Milano sign painted on the side. The whole tour just takes about forty-five minutes, but you’ll learn so much about the city. Then, you can catch a taxi to Golden Quadrilateral. It’s one of the absolute best places to shop in Milan. Most of my inspiration so far comes—”
“Don’t you have to get ready?” Kyra said, grabbing her purse.
Marnie rolled her eyes and mumbled something about a cultural vacuum and McDonald’s.
Twenty-Four
“So, where we headed?” Kyra said as she walked beside me down the dimly lit hotel corridor. “I’m guessing it’s not Milan’s shopping district.”
“You probably don’t remember this,” I said with a smile in my voice, “but you hate to shop as much as me. I’d like to take you to see da Vinci’s The Last Supper. Is that okay?”
She slid the long leather straps of her purse crossways over her shoulder, letting the bag fall across her stomach. I’d never seen her wear it that way before, but from everything I’d read, tourists couldn’t be too careful in Italy. I guess she’d heard the same thing.
Keeping stride, she slipped her fingers into mine. “A great choice. You’ll love it.”
“You’ve already seen it?” Disappointment filled me. I’d just assumed we would experience it for the first time together.
“The day I arrived. It’s the one thing I didn’t want to chance missing.”
A stocky man with thick blond eyebrows and matching ear hair ducked out of one of the rooms and looked at us as if expecting someone. When our eyes met, his face turned red, and he retreated back inside his room and closed the door.
“We can do something else, then,” I offered, hoping she’d insist we go.
“I’d love to see it again.” She gave my fingers a squeeze. “You know you can’t buy the tickets at the door, right? They only let twenty or so people in at a time and they’re always sold out.”
I gave her a you should know me better look, which made her laugh.
“Guess I forgot who I was talking to.”
On the ancient-looking streets of Milan, catching a taxi was easy enough, and to my relief, our driver spoke perfect English, albeit with a heavy Italian accent. The ride to the church was short, so when he told me I owed him forty-two euros, I about choked. Kyra gave him a tongue-lashing like I’d never heard, and by the time she was through with him, he was apologizing for everything from dishonest drivers to the global economic decline. I was just glad I wasn’t on the receiving end of her rant.
Watching the cab speed off, we stood on cobblestone streets just a few hundred feet from the large brick church that housed the world’s most famous painting.
“Here it is,” Kyra said. “Santa Maria delle Grazie, home of Leonardo da Vinci’s masterpiece.”
From the outside, the church was plainer than I’d imagined. “For some reason I thought the place would be more cathedral-like.”
She stared ahead at the large brick building with a look of affection. “If you look at it from the back, it looks ten times bigger, but if it’s a cathedral you want, let’s hit the duomo next. It’s one of the most magnificent in the world.”
“Do we have time?” I hated that we only had the afternoon to fit in our little Roman holiday when there was so much to see here.
“Plenty,” she said. “It’s not far and there’s a restaurant clos
e by that has great pizza.”
“Little Caesars?” I asked.
She gave me her you’re not funny look as she took my hand and pulled me gently toward the church.
I glanced at my watch. “Our viewing starts in about ten minutes.”
“We better head right back there then. Those guys wait for no one.”
The church was so much more on the inside than its outside alluded to. Our feet clicked along the tiled floors as we explored the magnificent frescos hanging between massive columns. The place even smelled old and impressive—a combination of linseed oil, incense, and time. Soon, we were joined by a group of a dozen or so other tourists and ushered back like sheep.
We all grew reverently quiet as we stepped into a white, rectangular room. Rows of generic spotlights pointed toward the main attraction, with the only natural light in the space coming from a line of small windows at the top of one wall. Those windows were outlined with chipped, multi-colored tiles that looked every bit as old as I suspected they were.
The rest of the room looked rather blasé except for the arched ceiling. The floor was made of simple brick, and the white plaster walls had been patched here and there. The room itself was not worthy of the rest of the church, but the nondescript backdrop only made the two frescos stand out.
On the wall behind us loomed a magnificent painting of the crucifixion. I knew nothing of this artwork and wondered why it got so little attention when it seemed to me to be every bit as well done as its more famous neighbor. Directly across from it, spanning the space of an entire wall, was what we’d come to see. We were allowed only so close, and while cameras were forbidden, it didn’t stop the onlookers from blatantly snapping pictures with their cell phones.
Kyra and I stood with our hands touching on the railing that kept us from getting too close. “Can you believe they built a door in the middle of it?” she asked.
I looked at the arch in the center of the painting, which had been sealed shut. “Guess they didn’t realize what they had.”
“I can empathize with that.”
“Me, too,” I said, wondering if she intended the same double meaning that I had.
