by Beth Ciotta
I’m staring at him like an idiot, stunned by his heartfelt admission.
“I’ve spent the last six months trying to win you over,” he says. “Every time I asked you out, you blew me off. But every time I saw you at the bar, you gave me hope. I kept it light because I didn’t want to scare you off. Then my life got complicated and I backed off completely. Life’s still complicated, but when fate threw me this chance to whisk you to Tuscany, I took it as a sign. A chance for us to spend time together and to explore what I sensed was a mutual attraction.”
His nearness and honesty is wreaking havoc on my senses. I lick my lips, scrambling for a calm and mature response. “Physical desire is one thing, Nick, but—”
“This isn’t about sex. Not solely.” He drops his forehead to mine. “I’m in love with you, Meg.”
I’m pretty sure my heart stopped. Or maybe it’s racing so fast that I just can’t feel it.
When my silence stretches on, he eases back and cradles my face. “Give me something to go on. I know you’re shocked. But in a good way or bad?”
“I don’t know. I can’t…You can’t…This is out of left field, Nick.”
“For you, yes. I’ve been living with it for months. Love at first meet intensified by Epic Adventures.”
The urge to pinch myself awake is fierce. I’m standing under an olive tree, hip deep in beautiful wildflowers, surrounded by the rich scents and splendor of the Tuscan countryside as a gorgeous man professes his love. As he praises my fun-loving spirit, my wit and intelligence.
“But those are things you saw on television,” I manage.
“And in real life. Remember I live next door to you, share the same laundry room, shop at the same grocery store.” He blows out a breath. “Jesus. I sound like a stalker.”
I back away, desperate for distance. Not because he sounds creepy but because he’s sincere. I can hear Sylvia in my head expressing Nick’s deepest desire. A steadfast family and a joyful home. “I can’t do this, Nick.”
“Is it the age thing? My career? Your career? Ben?”
“Yes.”
“To what?”
“To everything.”
In truth, Ben has nothing to do with my rejection, but the other factors weigh heavily. Given I’m a restless spirit any one of those things could tear us apart, making me the next woman in line to abandon Nick. I’m not prepared to hurt him like that. Better to walk away now.
“Please think about what I said. About coming clean with Sylvia about our pretend marriage. Or, at the very least, have an honest conversation with her about the grudge you can’t kick.”
I spin away before he can comment, my heart pounding with a scary realization.
My feelings for this man aren’t as shallow as I originally thought.
It rattles me as much as his declaration of love.
Chapter 30
WITHIN SECONDS OF our returning to the house it’s clear Nick has no intention of coming clean with Sylvia about our relationship.
Seemingly refreshed by her power nap, she greets us with a smile and a suggestion to drive into Cetona for dinner.
Nick agrees with a smile, saying he hopes she doesn’t mind but he made plans for the next night as well—dinner with the Quests.
It occurs to me that their mutual good humor is perverted. Clearly they each decided it’s easier to dodge talk of grudges and regrets.
I watch as they pretend brunch didn’t end on a sour note, and marvel as they spend the half-hour drive into town dancing around any talk of the past or future.
I panic as Nick continues to play the adoring husband while we tour the town’s main square. Every touch, every look sparks with sincerity and as much as I don’t want to enjoy his company and affection, I do.
As the day progresses, things get worse.
At one point during dinner, I excuse myself, escaping to the toilette for a heart to heart.
Hands braced on the marble vanity, I stare at my reflection. “You’re not in love. Who falls in love over a weekend?”
And yet my cheeks flush at the mere thought of Nick. My heart kicks. Not with giddy infatuation, but with something much more powerful. It’s a kick that scares the shit out of me. Something I’ve only experienced once before. With the director of the Ren Faire acting troupe—a man fifteen years my senior.
Given the severe heartbreak I suffered when Harrison broke it off with me, I’ve since limited my relations to casual affairs. Love only mucks up camaraderie and great sex. Who needs it?
Still.
Nick’s touch lingers on my skin. His words echo in my heart. “Love at first meet intensified by Epic Adventures.”
This is insane. You’re not in love. You’re vulnerable. You haven’t been yourself since you were fired.
Irritated, I check my phone. Aside from an auto-response acknowledging that she received my last e-mail, I’ve heard nothing substantial from Liza. I wish she’d contact me with a list of potential networks for my future show. Or with news regarding some other, any other, potential gig. Anything to get my thoughts off Nick.
I tell myself she’s working on it and that I’ll hear from her when she has something concrete. I tell myself she’s not ignoring me. Or giving up on me. Or concentrating her efforts on a more marketable client.
Cursing my balled-up emotions, I refresh my lipstick, tousle my curls, then return to my party.
We’re dining all’aperto, outdoors in the cool evening air. Sylvia knows the owner well so we’re enjoying a premium table and a breathtaking view of the sunset. Service was slow, but the food was delicious and the ambiance divine. Even the background music was delightful.
Nick was especially impressed by the live duo, commenting on their musicianship and traditional Italian instruments. I’m not surprised to see him speaking with the musicians as I reclaim my seat next to Sylvia.
“I guess he couldn’t help himself,” I say as I watch him stroke the body of the mandolin he’d admired earlier on. “Wait. Is he going to sit in?”
“It’s been so long since I’ve heard Nicky play,” Sylvia says. “I was afraid he wouldn’t agree if I asked, so I bragged about him in front of Mario and Mario insisted!”
I turn my head and see the owner of the restaurant leaning against the wall and watching the tiny stage.
I focus on Nick who’s now conversing with the accordion player. I assume they’re discussing a song. How will a Beatles tune sound on mandolin and accordion, I wonder? Or maybe Nick will fall back on an Italian classic like “That’s Amore.”
I glance at Sylvia. She’s on the edge of her seat. And I realize suddenly, so am I.
Nick strums the opening chords and my skin tingles in memory of one night, one song, one time. He sings and damn, my heart kicks.
“Imperfect Love.”
Chapter 31
THE FIRST AND only time I heard Nick perform “Imperfect Love,” I assumed it was an album cut. Or an obscure song from an obscure band. On second listen, I’d lay money he wrote it himself.
“No matter how many times you break my heart, I’ll never give up. I’ll never lose hope.”
An original composition inspired by a real-life experience? Who was the muse? A past girlfriend? His mom? His grandmother? Me?
My insides turn to mush as Nick sings his tale of imperfect love. As he captivates the audience. As he captivates me.
As he strikes the last chord and sings the last note…
As Sylvia and Mario and every other soul within hearing distance breaks into enthusiastic applause…
I massage my chest in an effort to quiet the kick. I worry I’m fighting a losing battle. I’m frustrated and panicky because I don’t want this. We’re not suited for long term. I’m not suited for love.
And then I flash on something Nick said the other day.
“I had no idea you were such a fan, Meg. If I sing to you now, will you sigh and cling?”
I suddenly feel manipulated.
Manipulated i
nto coming to Tuscany. Manipulated into a lie that has us sharing a bed. Manipulated into clinging.
I tell myself Nick’s a calculating bastard even though I don’t believe that deep down. Anger is the only thing that’s keeping me from giving up and giving over to the romantic madness of it all.
I sit and stew as everyone around me demands an encore. As the mandolin player produces an acoustic guitar and suddenly the duo becomes a trio. One song leads to another. Sylvia’s in heaven. Nick’s in his element. And I’m feeling more resentful by the minute.
By the time we finally return to Sylvia’s farm, I’m mentally and emotionally wiped from a day of pretending and mediating, resisting and musing.
Deep in thought, I escape into the bathroom and change into my boxers and cami. If Nick is bothered by my silence he hasn’t said. Blessedly, Sylvia dominated the conversation on the ride home. Mostly she praised Nick’s impressive performance. He didn’t just make her night. He made her life.
Or as she said, “What’s left of it anyway.”
Toothbrush in hand, I exit the bathroom and challenge Nick, who’s already in bed and, surprise, skimming phone messages. “You need to ask her straight out. Sylvia,” I add when he glances my way, brow raised. “Ask her why she’s dying and how long she has to live.”
Restless and distracted, I return the bathroom—scrub, rinse, spit—then stalk back and face the man who’s still looking my way. “And another thing. ‘Imperfect Love.’ You wrote it, right?”
“Right.”
“Tell me you didn’t write it for me.”
“I didn’t write it for you. But I did sing it for you.”
I flop in a chair, drop my head to my hands. “You and Sylvia skated through the entire evening without mention of you inheriting the farm or her mysterious illness. You didn’t talk about her desertion or your grudge.”
Avoidance is the name of the game and I’m fuming knowing that, even though this family rift has nothing to do with me, both Nick and Sylvia are relying on me to help them get closure with each other.
“I’m guessing she finessed your performance to show you how successful you can be over here. That restaurant in Cetona is just one venue—”
“Come to bed, Meg.”
Weary, I do as Nick bids, but I give him my back.
He turns out the lights, then pulls me into a spooning position.
I shut my eyes, squeezing back tears as my heart kicks. “I don’t want this, Nick. Us.”
He kisses the back of my head and holds me close. “I know.”
Chapter 32
I WAKE IN a fog of swirling misery and wonder.
I’m used to sleeping in random beds in random parts of the world, so I’m not disoriented as much as hungover from a day and night of rollercoaster drama.
I’m sprawled diagonally across the bed in a tangle of cotton sheets that smell faintly of herbal soap.
My first clear thought: Nick.
Then: I’m alone.
Followed by: I’m in love.
I lay quiet for a moment, absorbing the notion as dust motes dance on the morning rays and a cool breeze tickles my exposed limbs.
Last night I fell asleep cocooned in Nick’s arms. As angry as I was with him and the situation, I soon found solace in his composed presence. His tender embrace sparked relentless yearnings. Sex would have quieted both those yearnings and my chaotic thoughts, but it also would have muddled my stance.
Even though I felt Nick’s arousal pressing against my backside, his restraint proved he was sensitive to my struggle.
He must have risen with the dawn and yet I can still feel his solid comfort. Cuddling was as fulfilling as sex and definitely as intimate. I feel cherished and, dammit, loved. It’s unsettling.
And magical.
I’d feel ecstatic if I wasn’t mired in numbers. They haunted my dreams and now they’re slapping me full awake.
I’m dogged by the fact that I’ll always be eight years ahead of Nick. I’ll be fifty while he’s barely into his forties. And when he finally hits fifty, when a few silver strands flirt at his temples, I’ll be eking toward sixty with a full head of gray roots and sporadic chin hairs. How long before he starts looking for a substantially younger woman to replace the older model?
I reach for my phone then retreat. I don’t need to Google the subject. When things fell apart between Harrison and me, I researched the older man/younger woman phenomenon to death. Now every stinking fact is slowly screaming to the forefront of my mind, albeit this time from a new perspective.
Being the older, wiser man is a power trip for him.
Turning a younger woman’s head proves he’s still “got it.”
The primal urge to procreate.
Oh, yeah. And then there’s that.
Feeling the walls close in, I shove out of bed and pad toward the terrace doors. I push outside and onto the balcony.
What about kids?
I tip my flushed face toward the floral scented breeze and flash on our visit to Cetona. On a precious moment in the Piazza Garibaldi when I caught Nick watching a small group of children at play. His face was alight.
In turn, I think about how fantastic he is with the few children who live in our brownstone. This man loves kids. Surely, he wants kids of his own.
Allowing myself the fantasy of marrying Nick for real, I palm my stomach and obsess on babies. What if I can’t conceive safely? Or what if he wants a whole brood? I’m not certain I’m up for even one. I’ve never seen myself as a stay-at-home mom. Even if I swing around to that notion, how would Nick provide for a family on what he makes at Joey Mac’s?
I grip the rod-iron railing, my thoughts careening like a racing Ferrari on a cliff-top road.
What if I’m not cut out to be a mom? What if I resent giving up my career? Or what if I choose to be a working mom and somehow end up neglecting my child the way Valerie neglected Nick?
The more I explore a bottomless pit of what ifs, the more the magic fades.
I’m in love and now I’m screwed.
Breathing deep, I focus on Sylvia’s expansive and beautiful gardens. And that’s when I see him—alone and pacing amid the poppies while arguing with someone on the phone. Though I can’t hear what Nick’s saying, his body language telegraphs his anger and intensity.
I shiver in response. “What the hell?”
Not wanting him to glance up and think I’m spying, I back into the room, wondering what he’s keeping from me.
I move toward the bathroom with the stirrings of a dull headache. Maybe a shower will help to right my morning. I just need to make it through another day of this pretend gig and then I can fully focus on reality and my future.
Along the way, I snag my phone. Skimming texts and e-mails, my gaze gloms onto a message from Liza.
NO MATTER THE TIME, CALL ME WHEN U SEE THIS
Chapter 33
“I WAS GOING to send you a gently worded e-mail,” Liza says in a rusty, sleepy voice, “but I owe you better.”
I shut myself in the bathroom, affording a wisp of privacy as I brace for bad news.
“Please know this has nothing to do with your talent, Meg.”
“Sounds like I need to be sitting for this.” Still dressed in my boxers and cami, I perch on the cushioned commode. Nervous sweat prickles my forehead and pits. “Go on.”
She clears a frog from her throat and I remember suddenly that it’s the middle of the night in the States.
“I know it’s only been a couple of days,” she says, “but I’ve put out a lot of feelers where you’re concerned. The feedback thus far…Maybe I should preface this by saying you’re liked and respected by those who are familiar with your—”
“Liza, please. Just spit it out.”
She blows out a breath. “I worry that your hope of signing with a new network—at least in the immediate or near future—is a pipe dream. The market is inundated with shows and—”
“Competition’s a bitch,” I say, r
epeating what Ben told me, confirming what I already know.
“When it comes to travel hosts, the current trend favors securing established icons—I’m talking major celebs, Meg—or the exact opposite. Fresh talent.”
“Young faces.”
“Personalities who appeal to millennials. This sucks, Meg, but I’ve known you for years and I don’t want to blow smoke. I’m not saying you can’t work in the industry, but you can’t pick up exactly where you left off with Epic Adventures. You had a good run but you never broke out. I can’t shop you as an established icon. As someone who will automatically attract millions of viewers. And…”
“I don’t fall into the fresh, young talent category.” I drop forward and hang my head between my knees. I’m not hyperventilating, but I’m damn close. Breathe.
But my heart hammers, threatening to shatter my fragile composure. “Has the news about the new show broke?” I ask.
“As of yesterday, it’s run rampant. I’m surprised you haven’t seen it.”
“I was preoccupied and unplugged most of the day.” I push off the toilet, turn on the faucet, and soak a cloth with cold water. “Major coverage?”
“It’s all over the internet and social media sites. Plus, Delecorte’s people landed her a guest feature with a late-night talk show and another on a major morning show.”
I slap the cold washcloth to the back of my neck. “So am I being called out on the ageism issue?”
Silence.
“Liza?”
“Just now the coverage is focused on Missy and teasers about her adrenaline-charged adventures. No mention of the cancelation of your show, Meg, or any mention of you. To date, I haven’t fielded any calls regarding a statement on ageism or sexism or…anything.”
And just like that I feel invisible. Irrelevant.
“Have you checked your e-mails?” Liza asks. “Maybe reporters reached out to you directly?”
“I didn’t see anything.”
“It’s still early in the game.”
