The Weekend Wife

by Beth Ciotta

  Cell phone reception is sketchy, so instead of the GPS, I’m consulting a conventional roadmap. “Should be just ahead,” I say.

  “There it is,” Nick says.

  I glance up from the map, smiling as we crest the slope and the house comes fully into view. A multi-level farmhouse with a stone and brick façade and a breathtaking view of the rolling Tuscan hills.

  “Either your grandmother has a green thumb or she employs an exceptionally gifted gardener.”

  I drink in the lovely landscape. Roses of varying colors, lavender, and poppies. Fruit trees and immaculate hedges. My senses are on overload from the layered scents and visual splendor. “The olive trees must be around back,” I say, hungering for the full effect.

  Nick cuts the engine, flexes his hands on the wheel, and squares his shoulders.

  I absorb the sight of him as well. His stunning profile against the spectacular countryside. Picture perfect, I reach for my phone, but before I can snap a shot someone blows out the front door, stealing my attention. She’s a wisp of a woman wearing a long, gauzy purple skirt and a billowy yellow blouse. A vibrant free spirit with waist-length white plaited hair and vintage professor eyeglasses.

  Unlike me, Nick isn’t smiling. I’m beginning to worry that all that internalizing he did on the short drive here is about to explode.

  Because he’s been angry with her for years.

  “I’ll come back for our luggage,” he says, then shoves out of the car.

  For the first time on this trip, he doesn’t open my door. He’s heading for the woman barreling straight for him.

  Oh, no, I think as I leave the car. Please don’t give her hell.

  “Nicky!” she cries, flinging herself into his arms.

  I freeze just behind them, my stomach knotting because she’s doing all the clinging.

  But then Nick tightens his hold. He lifts her up and hugs her tight.

  When he finally sets her to her slippered feet, I can see that her tanned, wizened face is moist with tears. I can see the joy in her smile, the wonder in her eyes.

  “My, how you’ve grown, Nicky.”

  He’s yet to say a word.

  Her bright, gray gaze turns to me. “You must be Angel Face.”

  I blink.

  Nick turns. His eyes are dry, but I can see he’s struggling with…something. He drags a hand over his clean-shaven jaw. “The night I told Gram about our wedding,” he says to me, “I referred to you by your pet name only.”

  I have a pet name? Angel Face? I almost snort. Then I remember he was drunk when he blurted his lie and I wasn’t even in the picture at that point. No real woman was. Hence no real name.

  “Of course, since then he shared your actual name,” his grandmother says with a beaming smile. “Welcome to Casa di Gioia. House of Joy,” she translates. “And welcome to the family, Megan.”

  Chapter 23

  NICK’S GRANDMOTHER, SYLVIA Manachetti, is a whimsical force of nature. Her home is as colorful and unique as its owner. She talks rather fast, sometimes lapsing into Italian, as she gives us a whirlwind tour.

  Although each component of the house is only two stories high, due to the unique construction, there are actually four levels.

  The ground floor features an entrance hall and two spacious living rooms with jewel-toned walls and exposed ceiling beams. One room boasts a massive fireplace, comfy sofas, and an outdated television. The other doubles as a library and overlooks a charming pergola.

  Climbing a few steps to a slightly higher level, we breeze through an adorable, eclectic kitchen, then a dining room offering breathtaking views. Everywhere we go we’re greeted with pleasant scents—bouquets of flowers, perfumed wax, citrus and berries, fresh herbs and baked bread. Scents that scream happy and cozy and home.

  Additional levels include a basement/laundry room, a wine cellar, and a garage. All in all, there are three bathrooms and four bedrooms—three of which offer balconies and fabulous views of the property’s gardens and the surrounding vineyards.

  Nick’s quietly soaking it all in and I’m too enraptured to interrupt Sylvia’s animated rambling. Each room spurs a special story and she’s cramming twenty years’ worth into a few frenetic minutes.

  I marvel at her zeal and can easily imagine Sylvia at the height of her “hostess” days. Even though our guide’s narration is somewhat scattered, it’s clear to me that at one time Casa di Gioia was a frequent stopover for friends. But not so much anymore. And now with her husband gone…

  It’s just so much house for one person.

  Every space is charmingly furnished and lovingly accented with quirky collectibles. Every room is perfectly neat—much like Nick’s place. Once I hopped over to borrow a screwdriver and he invited me inside. I was stunned by the pristine nature of his apartment, especially since it’s easily twice the size of mine. Clearly the neat-freak thing runs in the family.

  My rental has one and a half rooms and, even though I’m a minimalist, there’s always clutter and there’s always dust. “How do you do it?” I ask when Sylvia pauses for more than five seconds. “This place is immaculate.”

  “A few years ago, we hired a local woman, Adriana, and her daughter, Jemma, to handle the deep cleaning,” Sylvia says. “Otherwise I keep up on a day-to-day basis. In the past, caring for this house was my passion. Since Frank passed…” She sighs and shrugs. “Cleaning distracts me.”

  Before I can comment on the personal loss that so obviously pains her, Sylvia springs back into action.

  I glance up at Nick, wishing I could read his thoughts. From what he’s told me about his childhood, Casa di Gioia far and away exceeds any home he ever lived in. While his mom and stepdad dragged him from town to town, bouncing from one generic rental to another, Sylvia created a cozy, longtime home within this spacious Tuscan farmhouse.

  Is he bitter? Envious? In awe of her domestic creativity?

  “Now that you’re familiar with the layout, please make yourselves at home,” Sylvia says as she veers back toward the bedroom she designated as the “bridal suite.” “Take your time freshening up and settling in. I’m preparing a delicious meal to hold us over until dinner.”

  Before I can offer to help, Sylvia grasps Nick’s hand and then mine. “You’ve made this old woman very happy.”

  Her squinty eyes are bright with tears and, for a scrawny thing, her grip is vise-strong. Guilt nips at my conscience and I struggle not to squirm.

  Sylvia’s joy is built on our lie.

  “Thank you for coming, Megan, and thank you for indulging me, Nicky. My bucket list is complete. Almost,” she adds before sailing down the stairs in a blur of purple and yellow whimsy.

  Chapter 24

  AFTER USHERING ME into our room, Nick leaves to get our luggage.

  I check my phone. I have a fair signal. Enough to skim e-mail and voice messages.

  It’s still early in the States so I’m not surprised I’ve yet to hear back from my parents or Liza. And I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised that there are no additional messages from the crew. Everyone already expressed their sympathy and disappointment. What else is there to say?

  Restless, I cue up my browser and search a couple of news sites. No mention of me or the cancellation of my show. Although, what am I thinking? It’s not like I’m a household name.

  Not like Missy Delecorte.

  Envy and resentment flare. I’m dying to tap into her social media site. Has she announced her new show? Has she hinted at a new lover? Is there a picture of her and Ben? Is there mention of me? Did her rabid followers make toxic remarks about my show? About me?

  “You don’t want to know,” I tell myself. Although, morbidly, I do.

  Nick swings into the room with our luggage and I remind myself to focus on him. Not me.

  “Thanks for toting my stuff up,” I say, while digging an adapter out of my purse. If I leave my phone in the room, allowing it to charge, I won’t be tempted to peek in on Missy.

  N
ick places our belongings on the bed and my brain instantly returns to where we left off. “What do you think Sylvia meant by almost completing her bucket list?”

  “I have no idea.”

  “Do you think it pertains to you?”

  “No clue.”

  I palm my forehead, thoughts spinning as Nick moves into the adjoining bathroom. Since he doesn’t close the door, I follow.

  “She’s just as you described her,” I say, while he rinses his face. “Warm and vibrant. Whimsical and infectious. She is not, however, feeble or sickly.”

  “I noticed.” He nabs a towel and dries his face, moving aside so I can make use of the sink as well. “She’s aged over the last twenty years, obviously,” he says. “But other than that, she’s as spry as ever. Either she’s masking the gravity of her illness or lying about it.”

  Contemplating his cynical accusation, I wash away the grime of country driving in a convertible. A beat later, I speak my mind. “Her affection for you seems genuine, Nick. Why don’t we give her the benefit of the doubt?”

  He says nothing as we drift back into the bedroom and start to unpack. I can fairly hear him building walls to protect his emotions. I marvel at the childhood baggage we cart into our adult lives. Where family is concerned, we seem exceptionally susceptible to ancient wounds. I know I am.

  “She seems awfully lonely,” I say. “Did you notice that every story she shared involved houseguests? Visiting friends and family?”

  “Frank’s family,” Nick says, and I realize maybe this isn’t the best course for the moment. Considering she never invited her own grandson to visit until now. Why is that? I wonder.

  “Let’s focus on why we’re here,” I say, while stationing myself between Nick and his duffel. “The goal is to mend bridges so you and Sylvia can move on with lighter spirits. That means that we’ve got to convince her you’re not love-starved or lonely. Let’s go out there and prove what a great match we are.”

  I smile, hoping to ease his tension. I hug him, needing to lend support.

  And then I kiss him…because I want to.

  Kissing Nick, I’ve decided, is a guilty pleasure. I know I’m courting trouble by encouraging intimacy, but I can’t resist.

  I lose myself in his touch, his scent. I give in to the moment, allowing him to woo me with his lips, his tongue.

  I hear myself groan as I curl my fingers into his shirt and assume the role of aggressor. He likes it when I’m dominant. He told me so last night. Which is good. I’m into role reversal. Especially with Nick.

  “If we keep this up,” he says, while I scrape my teeth and tongue along his neck, “we’ll end up in bed.”

  “I don’t have a problem with that,” I say in a breathless rush, “but Sylvia’s waiting.”

  We freeze for a moment, locked in a tight embrace, our hearts pounding hard, pounding fast.

  I breathe, letting out an unconscious sigh.

  Nick kisses my forehead then glances toward the terrace and to the garden beyond where Sylvia and brunch await. “Let’s get this over with,” he says while squeezing my hand. “At least I’ll enjoy the touchy-feely part.”

  Chapter 25

  “OUR GROVE IS small,” Sylvia says as she lovingly cradles a decorative decanter. “We were never in the business of selling olive oil like a few of our neighbors. It was mostly a pet project for Frank. Pressing olives and bottling the precious liquid, sharing his private stock with friends and family. As a small producer, he focused on quality.”

  Seated outdoors at a long table with enough food for six people and surrounded by lush and fragrant rose bushes, Nick and I watch as Sylvia pours thick green oil into three tiny blue bowls.

  “Unlike wine, and a good woman,” she says with a wink to me, “olive oil does not improve with time. Freshly pressed oil in the fall months is the most desirable, but Frank and I took great care to store our bottles properly. I hope you’ll taste the great difference between this oil and ones you find in the states.”

  “I’ve heard Tuscan olive oil referred to as liquid gold,” I say, while following Sylvia’s lead and rubbing a peeled garlic clove over the hot bread in front of me.

  “Tuscans use olive oil as liberally as Americans use butter,” Sylvia says. “Over salads and steaks, in soups and risotto. But this is my personal favorite.” She drizzles oil over the garlicky toast then tops it with generous sprinkles of salt and pepper.

  Nick and I do the same.

  Sylvia smiles. “Mangiare.”

  On cue, we all bite into our Tuscan toast, known locally as fettunta. The flavors explode in my mouth and I smile. Sylvia’s right. Frank’s oil has a distinct and wonderful flavor. “Peppery and spicy,” I say.

  Nick nods. “Delicious.”

  Sylvia beams and launches into a story about her late husband and his last olive harvest while we indulge in fettunta, cheese soufflés, arugula salad, and a robust wine.

  Nick and I are sitting side by side. I’m conscious of his every move, every touch. Knee bumps, thigh brushing, subtle and not-so-subtle caresses, and meaningful glances. He’s pouring on the affection for Sylvia, playing into our constructed conceit.

  And yet it all feels so wickedly real. Between the delicious culinary and physical distractions, I’m finding it hard to focus on Sylvia’s chatter.

  “It’s a fascinating process,” she says, “but a lot of work. Work made lighter by many hands. Frank enlisted the help of neighbors and, in return, assisted with their harvests.”

  After describing the details of the harvest, she explains the next process—pressing the olives at the local mill. It leads to an animated account of the annual olive festival in Cetona.

  Since Sylvia’s eyes are mainly glued on Nick, I assume the lovely verbal portrait is mostly for him. It’s like she’s trying to sell him on this region, on this farm, and well, on her. Her mouth is praising Tuscan traditions, but her eyes are saying, “I’m not a bad woman, Nicky.” Is she going to bring up their past at all? And what about her mysterious ailment?

  “As a travel commentator,” Sylvia says to me, “I’m sure you’ve experienced a variety of cultures throughout the world. I’m sorry I’ve never seen your show. Nicky told me he’s seen every episode and that you’re brilliant.”

  Flattered but skeptical, I glance at Nick. “Every episode?”

  “Compliments of Netflix.”

  Huh.

  “So where are you off to next, dear? Will Nicky be traveling with you now that you’re married? Can I purchase your show on DVD? I’d love to see your work.”

  “Meg’s on hiatus,” Nick explains. “She’s considering a new project, and, no, I won’t be traveling with her. I have a job and responsibilities in Philly.”

  Sylvia frowns. “But as a married couple—”

  “We’ll figure it out,” he says.

  “Nick’s a popular performer at one of our local pubs,” I say, wanting to shine some praise in his direction.

  “An accomplished musician and singer,” Sylvia says. “I know. Nicky always had a gift for song. I bought him his first guitar, you know.”

  “The landscaping is impressive,” Nick says while peering around the garden. “Your work, Gram?”

  “Heavens, no,” she says. “I’m a veritable plant killer. Frank tended to the flowers and herbs with the same loving care as his fruit trees. I’ve employed a part-time groundskeeper to keep the property in check. Wait until you stroll through the olive grove. Given the abundance of rain this month, the wildflowers are waist-high!”

  And just like that, Sylvia’s off on another ode to the farm. I wager Nick prompted the ramble to veer away from talk of the past. He even encourages her, commenting on the allure of the province and the laidback lifestyle. The conversation is cordial, never touching on Sylvia and Nick’s rift. Yet the simmering tension is as heady as the wine.

  Concluding it’s something they’ll discuss in private, I go with the flow, contributing to the conversation when I can get a w
ord in edgewise. Twice I catch Nick sneaking a peek at his phone messages. Annoying, but not surprising given his seeming inability to unplug. Is his dour expression due to whatever he’s reading? Or is he reacting to Sylvia’s latest story regarding her beloved Frank?

  Falling back on the PDA angle, I slide my hand across his back and smile lovingly while giving his foot a gentle kick. Get off the phone.

  He pockets the thing, then kisses my neck.

  Sylvia falters midsentence and sighs. “You can’t imagine how thrilled I am that you two found one another. You’re obviously deeply in love and that’s a welcome elixir for this injured old heart.”

  Guilt nips at my conscience, the sweet apples souring on my lying tongue.

  “Witnessing the tenderness you and Megan share,” she says to Nick, “the strong bond…it reminds me of what I had with Frank. Seeing how smitten you are with each other bolsters a notion I had. This house and farm thrived on the joyous union between me and my husband. Now it will flourish under the ownership and care of the two of you.”

  I swallow hard, a choking gulp.

  Nick strokes my back while gawking at Sylvia. “You’re willing me this property?”

  “Gifting, dear. You can move in anytime. The sooner, the better, as far as I’m concerned.”

  “You can’t be serious.”

  Shocked by his curt response, I squeeze his thigh. “Nick.”

  “After ditching us for a better life,” he says to Sylvia. “After…” He breaks off with a muffled curse then clenches his jaw as if fighting to contain a young boy’s ugly spew.

  “I wish I could rewrite the past, Nicky, but I can’t.”

  I cast him a look. Breathe.

  “Using this place as a peace offering is an insult to both of us,” he says in a measured tone. “A simple explanation would do, Gram. I know you had Frank. I know you had this,” he says while gesturing to the beautiful house. “But why couldn’t you make room in your new life for me? You said you loved me.”

  Instead of fessing up, Sylvia presses her thin lips tight.