Invitation to Italian

by Tracy Kelleher

  “There are rules. Morals,” he explained, though obviously with some difficulty on his part.

  “What? Adversaries have morals in this day and age?”

  He looked at her askance. “When it comes to taking advantage of damsels in distress, even adversaries in this day and age have rules.”

  Julie leaned back on her haunches and studied him. “So noble.”

  “Better than uptight,” he said.

  She played over the past few minutes. “No, you’re definitely not uptight.” She grabbed one of the many needlepoint pillows—this one a gaily patterned Provençal square—and squeezed it tight. “So if we’re both going to be noble—something I’m not sure I totally want to go along with, by the way, but at least I’ll play along for now—let’s switch to a less…ah…charged topic.” She could see he was still breathing hard. “You never told me why you came over tonight?”

  “The truth? I came over after my A.A. meeting because I was thinking of you.”

  “You associate me with deprivation?”

  “Quite the contrary. I’ve been thinking of you for quite some time, in fact. I want you to know just how hard it was for me to act so nobly.”

  Julie smiled “I’ll take that as a compliment.” She studied his face. His pupils might still be dilated, but lines of stress and fatigue carved deep furrows in his cheeks and forehead. She shook her head. “What was I thinking? Check that. I knew exactly what I was thinking when I responded like that. But what I mean is, it doesn’t take a dummy to see how tired you must be, and since we’ve called off further…ah…action, maybe you want to go home and get some sleep?” She checked her watch, the watch from Nonna. “It’s after ten.”

  “No, that’s all right. I’m tired, but that doesn’t mean I’m sleepy. I’m one of those people who don’t sleep much.”

  She dropped the pillow on her lap. “Me neither. Something we have in common. Don’t tell me this is the start of a trend. I mean, if we find out we have other things in common, it would ruin all my preconceptions of just how incompatible we are.”

  “Well, if it makes you feel any better, I don’t play basketball.”

  “I’m sure you can make a few baskets.”

  He shook his head. “No, I’m hopeless. I’m just not that coordinated. You would kill me on the court.”

  She nodded. “I think I like that idea.”

  He frowned. “Strange, but I think I might, too.”

  His response pleased her.

  Sebastiano rose from the couch. “But maybe you’re right. Perhaps, as you say, I should go then?”

  She unfolded her legs and got up, too. “Don’t be ridiculous. Surely we can act like civilized adults, even if that is extremely boring, in my opinion.” She shot him a teasing stare.

  He wet his lips but didn’t bite.

  “Okay, then,” she continued, “civilized it is. In which case, why don’t I play the good hostess? Tea? I have herbal? Caffeinated?”

  “Si, grazie. Tea sounds very respectable, and respectable is my aim at the moment.”

  Julie crossed the living room and dining area to the galley kitchen. She opened an overhead cabinet. She moved a box of sweetened cereal to the side and pushed aside a bag of potato chips to peer in the back. “You know, just because you are aiming for respectability doesn’t mean you need to suffer. And, don’t worry, I’m not suggesting anything even remotely R-rated. How about hot chocolate? I have some cocoa mix?” She shook the box. The individual packets rattled.

  “Ah, ciocolatta calda. My downfall. I shouldn’t, but I can’t resist.”

  “Please! You’ve sworn off alcohol. You say sex is out of the picture for the evening. I think you can indulge in a little hot chocolate.” She put the kettle up to boil and rummaged in another cupboard for two mugs. Then she slid open a silverware drawer and retrieved two spoons.

  Two of everything matching, she couldn’t help noticing. Almost as if they were a couple. She shook her head. Sometimes two mugs and two spoons were just two mugs and two spoons, thank you, Sigmund Freud.

  She strummed her fingertips on the counter and waited for the water to boil. She felt the need to fill in the silence. “So, if you weren’t into sports, what did you do for fun as a child? Or were you totally serious, bent over schoolbooks all the time?”

  “It’s true I was a good student, but I had outside interests,” he said, watching her pour the powdery contents into the mugs. “I loved the outdoors—camping, hiking, chopping wood.”

  “How very rustic.” The kettle whistled, and Julie poured the water into the cups. She stirred them and passed him one. Then she stirred her chocolate a bit more, removed the spoon and licked it suggestively.

  Sebastiano stared, his mouth slightly open. He cleared his throat. “I thought we were going to be civilized.”

  “Excuse me, I’m just drinking hot chocolate here,” she protested and turned to put her spoon in the sink. She was enjoying this. But she should quit it, really. Otherwise he’d leave, and she didn’t want that. “So you were telling me how outdoorsy you were? All very natural and earthy.”

  He held his spoon out to her. It wasn’t quite steady. She reached for it. Their fingers brushed. He coughed. She turned and placed the utensil in the sink.

  “Not totally natural,” he said, taking a sip. “Like most young men, and not-so-young men, I had a thing for power tools, things like chain saws.”

  “I see the potential for many hospital visits.”

  “No, I was very careful, as you’ve noted.” He smiled knowingly.

  She smiled back.

  “Of course, there were a few visits to the emergency room from cycling accidents,” he added. He leaned back on the island that separated the kitchen from the dining room.

  Most people would have used it as a convenient work surface. Julie used it to pile her mail. She liked to think the flyers and junk mail livened up the pure-white Corian countertop and the high-gloss snow-white cabinets—the builder’s idea of luxury, not hers. Kitchens for her were more than adequate if they had a microwave and a place to keep a box of Frosted Flakes.

  “You had a few dustups?” she asked, searching for details.

  “I used to compete in road races, and minor injuries are to be expected—a collarbone here, an elbow there.”

  “I wouldn’t call those minor.” She motioned toward the living room. “Why don’t we go back and sit down?” she suggested. She swayed her hips to push past him in the narrow confines. She felt her sweatpants slip slightly, exposing the smooth skin below the hem of her T-shirt. She decided to live dangerously and not pull them back up.

  She reclaimed her place on the couch, tucking one leg underneath as she sat. He seemed to find the movement fascinating.

  “I bet you were very good on the hill climbs, am I right?” she asked.

  He sat awkwardly and took a sip.

  She did, too. It was hot and sweet. Like his mouth had been.

  “You’re right about the hill climbs.” He paused, and the corner of his mouth twitched as he mused, “But I was also a bit of a daredevil on the descents.”

  She stared at him, trying to imagine him throwing caution to the wind, finding it difficult to do so. Her eyes wandered to his legs. “That explains it, the cycling, I mean,” she announced.

  “I don’t quite follow.” He looked over the rim of his mug.

  “Why you have well-developed quads.”

  “You’re speaking as a medical professional, of course?”

  She could tell he was quite pleased that she had noticed his body. But then, he was a man. “Not necessarily,” she answered truthfully.

  “Please, you’re not supposed to be leading me astray,” he complained.

  “In that case, what else should we talk about? Religion? Politics?”

  “We agreed in class that they leave too much possibility for arguments.”

  “Not that we need any more possibilities.”

  “Exactly.” Sebastiano glance
d around. “So, tell me about these pillows.” He slipped one out from behind him. It was a brightly colored floral pattern, part Matisse painting, part Caribbean wicker basket. “This is nice. I like it. Did someone make it? Your mother?”

  Julie scoffed. “As if. My mother is a great cook, don’t get me wrong. But I would never trust her with a needle in her hand unless it was to truss a turkey. No, I did. I do needlepoint. I find it helps to relieve stress.”

  He surveyed the room again. “Then you must have a lot of stress.”

  She grabbed a pillow that sat between them and chucked it at him. He caught it with his free hand.

  “You’re not as uncoordinated as you claim,” she announced.

  He studied the pillow she’d sent his way. “I like this one, too. It looks like a Persian carpet. So, tell me. How you do it? All the stitches?”

  “You really want to know?”

  He nodded. “Yes, I really want to know.”

  She leaned over and placed her half-empty mug on a coaster that, naturally, was needlepointed in a Bokhara rug pattern. She scooted over more closely to him. “Okay. Let me tell you all about needlepoint.” And she didn’t even try to hide the enthusiasm.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  JULIE’S CELL PHONE woke her with a start. Disoriented, she blindly fumbled for the phone’s usual place on the nightstand next to her bed.

  Only a body was where the nightstand was supposed to be.

  She shot up. Sebastiano was slumped next to her on the couch. His head was slanted to the side, pressed up against a needlepoint pillow. He had one arm slung over the arm of the couch. A five o’clock shadow made the sharp contours of his cheeks and jaw stand out even more. A stray curl of hair sprung loosely forward. A mother would have immediately finger-combed it back.

  Not just a mother, Julie thought.

  She looked down. She was still dressed in her sweatpants and top. He still wore a dress shirt and gray slacks.

  Her phone skittered on the table. The marimba tune sounded again. Whoever it was wasn’t content to let the message go to voice mail. She gingerly freed her arm that was enmeshed behind his back and reached forward. She wiped the sleep from her eyes and glanced at the caller ID.

  It was the maternity ward. It was two in the morning. “Antonelli,” Julie answered. “What’s up?” She kept her voice soft, not wanting to wake him. She nodded as information was relayed.

  “How many centimeters dilated?” she asked before checking on other vital signs. “Okay, I’ll be there in about an hour. Looks like we have a while to go, especially since it’s a first delivery.”

  She ended the call and looked at her sleeping companion. She poked him lightly on the shoulder. “Sebastiano,” she called quietly.

  He sniffed.

  She jostled a little harder. “Sebastiano? Svegliati. You need to wake up.”

  He breathed in loudly and raised his eyebrows before venturing to open his eyes. “Que?” What? He squeezed his eyes shut, then opened them abruptly and very wide. He pulled the pillow away from his cheek. He held it for a minute and studied it. It was a sampler that read Welcome to the Make Your Own B & B. He blinked slowly and looked at her. “Tell me I don’t have the words printed backward on my face.”

  She craned her neck to check. “No, I think you’re unblemished.” She glanced around. “We must have fallen asleep. For two confirmed night owls it appears that we went out like a light.”

  “It must have been all that discussion of French knots and Hungarian ground and long-legged cross stitch.”

  “Hey,” she protested, “some things are sacred.”

  “Pardon me. I should have known better. Please note, however, that I listened closely to your very detailed explanations.”

  She patted his thigh. “I always knew you were special, not always right, of course, but special.” Then the phone call came to mind. She shifted away prudently. “Listen, I got a call. I’ve got a patient in labor.”

  “I thought I heard something.”

  “I have to leave soon before the real action begins.”

  “Tell me, did you ever consider getting a partner for your practice? Spread the load?”

  “Only every other day. But somehow I can’t seem to go through with it. I’m not sure I would trust someone else. It’s a matter of control.”

  “Why do I get the feeling that we are treading on familiar territory?”

  She inhaled through her mouth. “You’re right. I know. But do I really look like the type of person who plays well with others?” She pressed her hand to her T-shirt. And saw Sebastiano’s eyes linger there, as well.

  “Listen, I want to thank you for earlier this evening.” She started to smile, but quickly looked away. “I’m feeling better. Surprisingly. Thanks to you.”

  “What time is it?” he asked. Dark circles ringed his eyes. When had that ever seemed so sexy?

  “Just after two a.m.”

  “That means it’s already Tuesday. Happy birthday. I’m sorry I didn’t bring you anything.”

  “That’s all right. Just having you here has been nice, really nice, actually. But if you tell anyone that, I’ll deny it completely.” She got up off the couch, stretching her arms over her head.

  He rose also. “For professional reasons, you mean? Not wanting to compromise your position at the hospital?”

  Julie watched him bend over to straighten and arrange the pillows. “What good manners you have. You must have been a very good boy at home.” She waited till he turned to face her before answering his question. “I suppose there’s that. But, frankly, it’s more that I don’t want the word to go around that the two of us have mellowed about each other. I mean, can you imagine how that would get in the way of all the gossip around town?”

  He laughed and collected his blazer from the back of the rocking chair. He fumbled in a pocket for his keys.

  But she wasn’t quite ready to let him go. “Listen,” she said, “I just have to take a quick shower. If you want to wait a few minutes, we can leave together?”

  “Sure, no problem.” He didn’t appear to need a lot of convincing.

  “The fridge has an automatic water dispenser if you want something to drink. I think there might be some orange juice there, as well. Beyond that, I’m not sure. Cooking is not my forte.”

  “Don’t worry. I’m still living off your mother’s cookies,” he quipped. He slipped on the jacket.

  She had the urge to straighten his shirt collar. Truthfully, she wanted to remove his collar along with the rest of his shirt. Hell. He looked absolutely scrumptious. If only she didn’t have to get to the hospital.

  Julie wasn’t into casual affairs for all the obvious reasons. And most nights she was too exhausted to get out and mingle and make things happen. But she could not deny the strong attraction she felt for Sebastiano, an attraction that had materialized out of the blue. Or had it?

  Okay, they had initially been at odds, but seeing the way he taught and interacted with students during their first class, and the way he had consoled her last night, there was something more, something special. He had an empathy that seemed so rare in this age of speed dating and online relationships. Clearly, he wasn’t perfect—witness his admission about his alcoholism. But it was his imperfections that made him all the more attractive, that much more approachable.

  “Go ahead and shower,” he urged her. “I don’t want to hold you up. Besides, I think I can manage a glass of water on my own.” He pointed to the kitchen.

  She felt rooted to her spot, and only with great effort did she turn to go down the hall. “Okay, good then.”

  With her mind only half on what she was doing, Julie walked to her bedroom. Out of habit more than conscious behavior, she stripped off her clothes and dropped them on the floor, then went to the connecting bathroom via her bedroom rather than the hallway entrance. As she slipped her bath towel off the railing, she could hear him opening and closing the cupboards in the kitchen and the sound of water
filling a glass. She gripped the towel and hesitated. Then she knew she couldn’t wait any longer. She dashed down the hallway and skittered to a stop by the kitchen.

  He turned around, visibly startled.

  “I know this is bad timing, so nothing can happen right away, but I wanted to tell you—needed to tell you—that I don’t want it to end here,” she blurted out.

  He opened his mouth and appeared to want to say something.

  But she waved him off. “No, wait. Let me get this out before I lose my courage. What I mean…what I want to say…is that despite the fact you get on my nerves, probably as much as I get on yours—” she synchronized a side-to-side head bob along with that admission “—I think we have something special, the potential for something even more special. That…that if we get together in some fashion it’ll mean something…it’ll be important. That it won’t just be a way of scratching some itch or some short-term solution to the fact that my sex life is virtually nonexistent.”

  She saw his eyebrows arch up, but she continued to let the words spill out.

  “Please, all I’m asking you is to think about what I’m saying and consider if it all jives with what you have in mind or maybe imagine. I realize you’re the deliberative type and maybe you’re not ready to commit—not that I’m asking for a commitment, mind you.” The words rushed out. The she frowned and searched his face. “So, at the risk of putting you on the spot, do you have any reaction to what I’m saying? Like now? Thumbs up, thumbs down?” She mimicked her question with her hand.

  He trained his eyes on her face. “I appreciate your candor.” Then he swallowed.

  “I try to say what I feel.” She bit down on her lower lip.

  “You know, ah, before I say anything, may I just ask one question?”

  She nodded. “Of course. More than one if you want.”

  “Your decision to speak frankly? It just suddenly came to you?”

  She nodded again.

  “It just came to you? Just as you were about to take your shower, perhaps?” For the first time he dropped his chin and let his eyes follow.

  Julie looked down, too. And suddenly realized—“Oh, my”—that she was naked. She frantically covered her breasts, then her lower body with her arm. Totally ineffectually, of course.