One Summer in Rome

by Samantha Tonge

‘I don’t know,’ she said shyly.

  ‘Well, I do.’ He leant forward and slipped his solid arms around her. Their lips met. How she’d ached for that touch that felt headier than the finest Cristal champagne. As his mouth pressed against hers, Mary’s heart raced faster than a machine gun, spurts of pleasure firing throughout her body and into places she’d never known had existed with previous boyfriends. The barman clunked glasses together. The pulled apart and Mary looked over at him. He gave them a glare.

  She giggled. ‘The barman isn’t impressed. I feel like a teenager. Come on. Let’s get back.’

  They strolled towards the underground, hand in hand. Hand in hand. A small act that really did mean so much. When Mary was younger, and fostered, it really only happened as a safeguarding measure, when crossing a road. Not as a gesture of true love. She interlocked her fingers tightly with his and as they sat down in a train, leant her head against his shoulder. Jake would have said she was too soppy. She’d thought he was right. But with Dante, nothing seemed too sentimental.

  ‘What?’ he said. ‘You are smiling?’

  ‘How could you tell that?’

  ‘Your cheeks plumped up against my body.’

  ‘What a romantic thing to say! I’m not a hamster, you know.’

  ‘You are happy?’ he said.

  ‘Very.’

  ‘Let me make you even happier later on,’ he said huskily.

  When they left the underground neither could get back to Pizzeria Dolce Vita quick enough. Dante locked up whilst Mary headed up to her room. As she put down her handbag and slipped off her shoes, she caught sight of herself in the mirror, lit up by the street lamp. Audrey Hepburn? No. Just plain old Mary Smith. But that felt really okay – in fact, it felt great.

  A knock sounded and, catching her breath, she opened the door. Dante closed it behind him. He turned back and smiled before taking her hand and leading her confidently to the bed. He put his protection on the bedside table. She unbuttoned his shirt and impatiently pulled him down, onto the mattress. He slipped a hand under her blouse. A groan escaped her lips, and they kissed more frantically after they both stripped and Dante pressed against her, skin upon skin.

  Mary had left the lights off, wanting her experience to be similar to his. Dante trailed kisses down her body, both of them naked, both urgently touching. His strong hands read her body, those slim hips, her soft breasts. What a tortuous process as it heightened her pleasure. She could sense his longing to picture every line and curve. A feeling of impatience, she didn’t quite understand, resonated from her core, as if someone had dropped a pebble in her pelvis and like with water, tremors of ecstasy rippled outwards.

  Dante reached for the bedside table. ‘You are so bella,’ he murmured. ‘Dear Mary …’

  How did he manage to make her English name sound like the sexiest word in the English language?

  ‘Hurry,’ she whispered urgently and tried to catch her breath. ‘I need you. Now.’

  Dante moaned with pleasure as he entered her. Simultaneously those tremors, in her pelvis, increased to an unbearable rate. Don’t stop, don’t stop, Mary prayed as a primeval urge to be satisfied took over her mind and body. All thoughts, all reservations, had disappeared and left her with just one focus. Her pulse raced, her chest heaved, and flickers of light danced before her eyes. What was happening?

  Was that her? Making that noise? It was as if she was separate, lost in an oasis of deep, satisfying pleasure, falling, still falling into the darkest, most sensuous place, her mind emptied of thoughts save the closeness of this strong, powerful man. Her toes flexed and her body squirmed with sensations she’d never experienced before. A tear trickled down her face as the tremors slowly, deliciously dissipated to tease her, in the background.

  A floating feeling replaced them. Mary never wanted this moment to end. For the first time in her life she’d been taken to that … special place. For the first time she felt … completely valued. Serene. Complete.

  ‘You okay?’ he said, moments later, breath raspy as he lay by her side, her fingers interlocked with his.

  Barely able to speak, she nodded.

  ‘Are you nodding?’

  ‘Yes. I’m okay. I’m good. Great.’ She looked at him sideways. ‘And you?’

  ‘You smell exquisite,’ he murmured and turned his head away.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ she whispered.

  Eventually he turned back to meet her gaze. She propped herself up on one arm and studied the lines on his brow and the drooping corners of that delectable mouth.

  ‘I wish, really wish, I could see you, just for a few seconds.’

  Her eyes pricked. This was the first time Dante had ever complained about his condition. Oh he got cross, sometimes, about people patronising him, but didn’t moan about his actual blindness. He’d let his mask slip in front of her and she felt privileged.

  ‘What do you miss seeing most?’ she asked, softly.

  ‘Colours. Sometimes I get shades of red but it is mostly black and brown. Orange if I’m facing sunlight. Green used to be my favourite colour. And I miss reading – reading emails, books, posters, signs. And then people’s expressions.’ He bit his bottom lip. ‘Alfonso has a killer look he used to give me growing up, if I’d done something wrong. I’d do anything to catch a glimpse of that now.’

  ‘I can’t imagine how hard it must be,’ Mary said. ‘But, just let me say, you’ve seen far more of me than any other man.’

  ‘How so?’

  ‘You’ve seen into my soul. I’ve shared things with you that no other person – not even Jill – has witnessed. You’ve seen the real me.’

  He moved towards her and kissed her tenderly on the lips. ‘I’ve also seen your kindness. Your sense of humour. Your resilience.’

  She snuggled up close. ‘And I don’t need my eyes open to see that you’re my hero, Dante. I don’t mean like heroes out of an old movie, where the man rides in and saves the damsel in distress. Heroes like that have never existed in real life. You’ve expected yourself to be some sort of protector, but that’s just not possible; people have to look after themselves. Hugo, Alessia, your mum – you haven’t been responsible for the paths their lives took.

  ‘No, what I mean is, you’re my hero, in this modern day, where … where hopefully I, the heroine, can help you as well. Together we make a good pair. I reckon we’re both pretty strong. And we can save each other from the worst part of ourselves. Heroes and heroines must work together. That way they can take on the world.’

  ‘So, I’m no Prince Charming?’ he said and faked indignation.

  She giggled. ‘You’re a lot of things, but not that. And I’m no Audrey Hepburn.’

  I’m just plain Mary Smith, she thought and a smile spread across her face.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Mary gazed across the square to Dante. He stood at the front of Pizzeria Dolce Vita, with a tray of her special almond and pistachio cookies. Alfonso was still barbecuing herb-rubbed lamb kebabs. Rocco served customers drinks. Natale manned her jewellery stall. It was four o’clock and one hour until the Lombardi List was announced. And in a few minutes, the remaining couples in Cheyenne’s dance competition would perform. The street festival showed no signs of winding down. It officially finished at six p.m., but the Rossis said it always went on into the night. Mary looked down at Lucia who was eating a chocolate lolly from the chocolatier’s stall.

  ‘What a busy day,’ she said to her, in Italian.

  ‘I liked the dancers best. And that focaccia bread was yummy. Mamma said I can take some in my lunch box tomorrow, when I go to my best friend’s house.’

  ‘The friend Natale took, with you, to the cinema last week?’

  Lucia nodded and jumped up and down. ‘We are visiting a park and painting outdoors.’

  ‘Just don’t actually paint the insects,’ said Mary in a teasing voice. ‘If someone suggests you paint a bumble bee, you don’t chase one until you can reach it with your bru
sh.’

  Lucia giggled and bit into her lolly. ‘You are funny, Maria. Funny, funny. It is good. The house is more cheerful since you moved in.’

  The little girl couldn’t have paid her a bigger compliment. Mary looked around, feeling blessed with this life she had. What a colourful day it had been, from the lush green olives on sale to the red and yellow skirts and sashes of the traditional dancers. And as for the backdrop … fountains that glistened in the sunshine and the clearest ever skies …

  Mary inhaled the smell of herby meat that wafted over from Alfonso’s barbecue. His face shone bright red. All day he’d complained about the torture of cooking for others, when all Natale would let him have for lunch was a chicken salad – although he had enjoyed Mary’s chocolate beetroot biscuits and didn’t miss his nightly red wine. In fact he’d admitted over a bowl of fruit that morning that he felt fresher first thing and actually wanted to get out of bed. It was early days for his health kick, but already he realised how much he’d been drinking, since Viola’s death.

  Dante and Mary had just made it downstairs in time for breakfast, without arousing suspicion. Since Sunday … her neck flushed. They’d spent every night together, getting to know each other’s bodies, learning to trust each other’s hearts. At the moment it was their little secret – before the inevitable questions and winks that would come from the rest of the house.

  Clapping forced Lucia and Mary to turn their heads. In the middle of the piazza jazz music sounded out from a CD player as Cheyenne set up for the final of her competition. There were just two couples left from the class – Paola and Dante, plus the mother and daughter couple. And, to Cheyenne’s delight, another couple from the public had joined in and made it this far.

  Mary and Lucia headed over and Cheyenne joined them. ‘This is the best day ever,’ she said, in Italian. ‘I’ve had loads of bookings for next term.’

  Dante appeared. ‘You mean my stylish moves have inspired people?’

  ‘Stylish?’ said Paola who’d come over and was jogging on the spot, to warm up.

  Cheyenne winked at Mary and, grinning, hurried back over to clear a space in the crowd for the performance.

  ‘Hardly,’ continued Paola. ‘It’s been painful trying to get you to look less stiff than a starched shirt.’

  Lucia giggled.

  ‘Although …’ she said, in a begrudging tone, ‘I have to admit that spectator was right – you look pretty cool now, doing the waltz.’ She gazed at him and a wave of emotion crossed her face. ‘In fact … I, I haven’t said it before, but … I … I think you’re a pretty cool guy. The way you’ve supported Rocco, all this time …’ Her eyes glistened and she suddenly lunged forward and gave him a hug. For short Paola this meant slipping her arms around his waist. Her head pressed against his chest. Just as quickly she drew back and sniffed. ‘But don’t think my gratitude means I’m going to be any less demanding for this last dance. Now do those stretches I explained to you a few hours ago.’

  Dante smiled. Lucia did the stretches with him. Paola wiped her eyes and switched to English, so that Lucia couldn’t understand. ‘Thanks, too, Maria. If it wasn’t for you, Angelo might still be abusing Rocco. I can’t bear to think about it. All this time. I wish I’d known.’

  Mary squeezed her arm. ‘Most people can’t be helped until they are ready to ask for it. Rocco’s been so in love with Angelo, even if you’d known earlier, there is a chance you wouldn’t have been able to do anything until he hit rock bottom.’

  Paola wiped her face with the back of her hand. ‘All I can do now is support him through the court case.’ She gave a lopsided smile. ‘I reckon Fortuna is ready to pop. Then we’ll have to home the little puppies.’

  ‘Don’t for goodness’ sake invite Lucia over – she’ll try to smuggle one home in her rucksack.’

  ‘What are you saying about me?’ asked Lucia in Italian and folded her arms.

  The two women chuckled.

  ‘How good your hearing is,’ said Mary, in Italian. ‘Now come on, let’s watch your uncle dance.’

  Cheyenne had moved back passers-by and the three couples took up position. A song came on, sung by Frank Sinatra. The couples moved backwards and forwards in each other’s arms, and glided across the ground. Cheerful faces surrounded them. People pointed to certain competitors, clearly scoring their own favourites. The judge was Cheyenne’s dance teacher friend. A difficult decision, thought Mary. Although there was only one winner for her and she admired Dante’s broad back, his long legs, and the gentle way his arm held Paola’s waist.

  You couldn’t tell he was blind. People might think it unusual, him wearing sunglasses, but apart from that, with all the practice, he moved with great confidence, with no sign that he was worried about tripping or falling over. He and Paola moved in perfect harmony, despite the difference in height and temperament.

  The music stopped and the judge tapped the mother and daughter on the shoulder. That left Dante and Paola and the couple who’d joined from the audience.

  ‘Uncle is in the final!’ said Lucia, gleefully and did one of her little jigs. Mary grinned and pointed to a nearby waste bin. Lucia ran over and dropped in her finished lolly stick and then ran back. They turned back to the competition. Poor Dante. Paola was whispering furiously in his ear, no doubt giving some last-minute tips.

  The other couple – a middle-aged wife and husband, by appearances – shook hands with Dante and Paola. The music started again. This time Dean Martin. No wonder jazz music fan, chef Enzo, had taken a break from the kitchen to watch. The couples moved graciously and Mary shook her head. Considering that Dante and Paola had both been beginners a few weeks ago, it was amazing what they and Cheyenne had achieved.

  Once again the music stopped. Paola turned around and Mary gave her two thumbs up. Cheyenne held a small gold trophy. She chatted to her friend for a while and finally nodded.

  ‘Thank you for watching, everyone,’ she said, in a loud voice. ‘I hope this competition has inspired you to realise that anything can be achieved with a little passion and dedication. It has been a very difficult choice but the winners are …’

  Lucia and Mary hardly dared breathe. Two names were read out. Lucia screamed!

  ‘Uncle has won! Uncle is the champion!’ She let go of Mary’s hand and raced over to him. He lifted her in the air and then dropped her down for a big hug. The crowd applauded and Dante’s friends whistled.

  ‘I can’t believe it,’ he said, ten minutes later, downing a well-deserved lemonade by the fountain.

  ‘Paola is ecstatic. Not so sure about Rocco, though – it means they have won the dance classes and his sister insists they go together!’

  Mary slipped her hand into his, even though Alfonso stood next to them. No one else was looking. ‘It was kind of you to offer the other couple free dinner tonight, at the restaurant.’

  Dante squeezed her hand. ‘Everyone told me their dancing was excellent too and they seem like my sort of people. Someone pointed out to the man – Piero – that I was blind. He paused and then said that that hindrance was nothing compared to his wife’s two left feet.’ He smiled.

  A little third hand squeezed into theirs, as Natale appeared at their side and started chatting to a neighbour, next to her in the crowd. Mary looked down. Lucia gave them a cheeky grin. ‘Shhh,’ she whispered. ‘I’ll keep your secret from everyone.’

  Dante chuckled. ‘What secret, little Missy?’

  Lucia pulled a face. ‘All that slushy, yukky love stuff. I hope you aren’t going to be like Franco in my class. He daydreams about my best friend all day.’

  ‘Did you and your mummy buy Paola a nice bunch of flowers, as a congratulations?’ said Mary, changing the subject as Natale stopped talking to her friend.

  Lucia nodded and with her free hand lifted up a daisy. ‘Aren’t they pretty. So big. They remind me of the sun. Paola loved them. Said they made the day even more special. Later she’s going to show me how to make a daisy bracelet.’


  Dante stared at Lucia and his face went pale. Paler still. He swallowed and looked across the crowd.

  ‘Non possible,’ he muttered and ran a hand through that gorgeous bedroom hair. Then he muttered, ‘of course.’

  ‘What’s the matter?’ said Mary, as the mayor fiddled with the microphone.

  ‘Those daisies have just reminded me … something about Hugo that I had forgotten – that has been obvious all this time.’

  She wanted to ask more but a hush had fallen. The mayor stood on top of a podium. Margherita was visible not far from him, clenching her hands. The time had come to see if Pizzeria Dolce Vita had managed to hold on to their place in the Lombardi List.

  ‘Perhaps it is our lucky day,’ said Alfonso and he wiped perspiration from his forehead with a white handkerchief. ‘Dante won the dance competition. It is a good sign.’

  ‘Perhaps. Perhaps not,’ said Dante. ‘Either way, we have lots of ideas for the restaurant, no?’

  Alfonso squeezed his son’s arm. ‘Si, my son. It is time to make changes.’

  Mary glanced over at the pizzeria. How hard they had worked, at the last minute, polishing the windows and power-cleaning the ground out the front. Every inch of mahogany inside had been dusted and the canopy had been washed down.

  ‘The changes you brought in, Maria, have already made a difference,’ said Natale. ‘The mini pizzas, the biscuits – small things but that is how great ideas start.’

  She swallowed. Thought back to her job in the pub in England. She’d managed to establish herself as a respected member of staff here, not by confrontation but with kindness. Helping Rocco. Trying to improve Pizzeria Dolce Vita. A foster mum had once told her that kindness was the most powerful tool available to humans. She was beginning to understand what that meant and, looking back, snappy landlady Brenda had probably needed a large dose of it.

  ‘Thank you for coming here today, everyone, and celebrating Assumption Day …’ said the mayor.

  Mary’s stomach lurched. This was it. She caught Alfonso’s eye. He winked at her. The listed restaurants were read out in no particular order. The mayor named the first. Then the next couple. At each announcement there were cheers from the crowd and relieved-looking faces. The Rossis clapped loudly for a friend who owned a seafood bar near to the river. Soon, there was only one name to be called. Neither Pizzeria Dolce Vita nor Margherita Margherita had been named yet.