by Robena Grant
“Oh, yeah, totally,” Dia said.
This could be his excuse to escape, to disappear and never see her again. She stared out the window. The rain had started up again. She turned on the windshield wipers.
“Got your jacket? I um…tossed your tie over there somewhere.” Heat rose in her cheeks, and she gave thanks for the dark. “There’s an umbrella, if you want.”
“Nah, I’m good. Anyway, you’ll need it when you get home.”
Carlo reached over to the backseat, raising his body so he could grab his clothes. His dress pants stretched tight, giving a nice view of his great ass. She heated up a few more degrees. Keep your mind off his body.
He slid back into the seat, put his damp jacket on, and stuffed the bowtie into his pocket. Then he leaned across, tilted her chin with one finger and kissed her again, one sweet, soft kiss.
“Goodnight.” With his hand on the door handle Carlo gave her a quizzical look. “Call you tomorrow?”
“I’d like that. ’Night.”
He was gone then, sprinting through the rain and up the front steps of his building. She waited until he punched his numbers into the security panel. The dark building swallowed him up as he gave one last wave. She’d been wrong, again. He wasn’t escaping. He was a gentleman. Well, she’d wait and see if he did call tomorrow, before making any final decisions on his status.
Dia headed for the freeway. She needed home, a stiff drink, comfort from the single bed in her purple-walled bedroom, and all of it as soon as possible. What the hell happened tonight? She eased into the flow of traffic. And where the hell will this end up?
Back at Mama’s house, she sloshed through the puddles in the driveway.
The house was still and quiet. Cat was spread out across the back of the sofa. He raised his head and then went back to sleep. The kitchen was the same as they’d left it earlier. She walked in, reached for an already open bottle of merlot, and poured a glass.
“Hi, Cat,” she whispered, stroking a finger down his back.
Nobody else had arrived home from the wedding. That was good. She couldn’t tolerate the thought of conversation. Upstairs she took a long sip of wine, stripped out of her clothes, and got into the shower. The drumming water reminded her of being in the car with Carlo, and the music of the rain when she’d sat outside a few minutes ago.
She ran her hands over her breasts, down over her abdomen. She could still taste him on her lips. She’d wanted him so badly, but she’d felt him pulling back. And so had she because she wasn’t into casual. No one-night stands for her. Not anymore.
Blasting the cold water, Dia snapped herself out of the mood. That got her mind off sex, and Carlo. She shivered, shut off the water, and wrapped her body in a large towel. No way would she enter a relationship with someone not totally there for her…or her for him. Not ever again.
She’d go to Italy and see how things played out. She’d stand at Frank’s magical gate, speak her wish to the sea, and let it be swept across the ocean to her new doorstep in San Diego. If Carlo survived all that, if he was still in the picture, then she’d deal with her Italian issues.
Could you make more than one wish?
She’d have to ask Frank. If you only got one wish then she’d write it down. No sense botching a good wish. She laughed at her silliness. Who would ever imagine she would be lured to Corsica to visit a magical gate—and worse than that, to make a wish about love?
Chapter Seven
When Dia came downstairs the next day Mama was seated at the kitchen table. She’d expected her to sleep much later. Mama and Frank hadn’t arrived home until the early hours of the morning. It wasn’t even noon.
Now that the cat was out of the bag on her mother’s relationship, Frank had slept over. Dia smiled. Mama’s head rested on one of her cupped hands, and the other gripped a mug of steaming coffee. Frank had his back to her as he rooted around in the medicine drawer. He was barefoot but wore shorts and a tee-shirt. Mama was still in her dressing gown.
He picked up a container, and turned. “Morning, Dia. How many of these do you need, Rosetta?” Frank shook a pain reliever bottle in Mama’s direction, and then removed the cap.
“Stop that noise. Three,” her mother mumbled. She grabbed the pills and swallowed them with a half glass of water. “Frank made coffee.”
“I’ll make you a super-duper breakfast, too, Dia,” Frank said. “Just say the word.”
Mama shuddered.
“Thanks. I’m good…going light today.” Dia crossed the room, careful not to make too much noise. She poured coffee and a bowl of cold cereal, added non-fat milk to both, and then headed to her assigned seat—the one she’d had since she was out of her high chair.
No way would she eat one of Frank’s super-duper breakfasts. She’d whittled her body, after its four-month splurge on comfort foods, down to an agreeable size in order to get into last night’s evening gown. Determined to maintain her figure for her trip, and maybe for Carlo, she grinned, ducked her head and stared at her cereal bowl.
“What’s funny?” Mama asked.
“I remembered a conversation from last night,” Dia said. “Great wedding, Ma.”
Mama nodded. “Maria’s parents know how to put on a bash.”
“That they do.” Frank cracked a couple of eggs into a frying pan. The sizzle and the aroma slowly filled the air. He popped bread into the toaster. Dia reminded herself to stay strong, and took another spoonful of cereal.
“Where did you go last night?” Mama raised her mug and took a slurp. “Hot.” She ran her tongue over her lips and put the mug down with a bang, sloshing some of the liquid onto the table. Frank moved over with a napkin to dab at the table until Mama smacked his hand away. Dia grinned. Frank went back to get his toast. Then he dished up the eggs.
“You sure you don’t want any?” he asked, looking at Mama as he sat.
She groaned and moved her chair away from him. She waved a hand in front of her face. Dia thought she looked a bit green. The eggs smelled delish.
“Where did you run off to?” Mama said, sharply.
Uh-oh. Dia spooned in another mouthful of cereal and talked around it, going for casual. “I drove Carlo home. I left you a message.”
Mama moved forward, eyes glinting. A smile curved her lips. “And?”
“And…nothing. I drove him home.”
Dia chewed for a little longer than necessary. She reached for her coffee.
“No kissy-kissy?”
“Rosetta, give the young ones a break,” Frank said.
Dia laughed. “It’s okay. Ma, we’re not a couple, and we’re not getting married.”
“You don’t know that. Give the boy a chance.”
“I’ve warned you Ma, no set-ups, no arrangements. Besides, his mother is a snob. Don’t try to manipulate anything.” Her thoughts went immediately to last night, how she’d learned Carlo wasn’t gay, but also how he’d come to date her in the first place. “Remember, I’m taking a trip.” She took several sips from the coffee mug.
“Did you tell him?”
Dia didn’t have to ask her mother what she meant. She hadn’t told him about the trip, not that it mattered. He’d probably be thankful, anyway. She searched her fuzzy brain for a change of topic. “You can relax now. The wedding is over. There’ll soon be grandkids.”
“Yep,” Frank said. “You’ve got one child married, Rosetta. How about that? I’m sure Maria will provide you with a much-desired grandchild.”
“Pish.” Mama lifted her coffee and blew on the liquid. “First they will work every day. Then they will build the house, and buy new cars. When they finally get around to a family, I’ll be too old to recognize a grandchild. Or maybe dead.”
“Mama! Don’t talk nonsense,” Dia said. “You’re young and healthy.”
Frank moved closer to Mama. “Dia’s right. You’ve got a hangover, that’s all.” He laughed, and slung an arm across her shoulders. “You’re young, beautiful, and one hell of a d
ancer.”
Mama slapped her cheek twice. “So beautiful today…so beautiful.”
When the house phone rang, Dia breathed a sigh of relief. The subject of Carlo, and her trip, had been forgotten.
****
Dia poured another coffee. Mama’s murmurs, mixed with the tinkle of laughter, made Dia figure she was probably talking with Mrs. Cupertino. They’d hold a post-mortem on the wedding, share the gossip, rip into the clothes their friends had worn, and giggle over who said what.
Frank’s toast, smeared with butter, was now loaded with strawberry preserves. “Want some?” He cut the slice in half. “I’ll make more.”
She shook her head. It was better to stick to her plans of fitting into her clothes. “Tell me about Corsica. How do I get there? What’s it like?”
Frank chewed and swallowed. “You could take a ferry. It’s high season. This time of year it won’t be too choppy. Lots of tourists. Which part do you want to go to?”
“Well, that’s it,” Dia said. “I have no idea.”
Frank watched her, his gaze steady, inquiring.
“But, um…that gate you mentioned.”
“Oh, yeah…well.” Frank cast a warm look in Mama’s direction. She’d barely hung up the phone when it had rung again. “It’s probably nothing. A folk tale is all.”
Dia stared at him. Don’t tell me that! I’ve rearranged my trip and—
“Calvi.” Frank took another bite of toast. “Nico, my nephew, he could get you. He’s got a yacht.”
“A yacht?”
“Yeah. A big fancy one. Real nice.”
Frank picked up his mug and watched her for a minute. “You’ll have to be careful. He’s a bit of a ladies’ man.”
“Nico?”
Frank nodded, took another bite of toast. “Yeah, he lives at Villa Ventimiglia, the family estate, with his Mama and a bunch of old aunts.”
Mama laughed at something, and Dia glanced across the room. Her mother pressed the handset to her chest for a few seconds, and then hung up the phone. “I have to get dressed. I look not so good.”
“You’re fine,” Frank said. “Who you been talking with?”
Halfway to the stairs, Mama shot a quick look at Dia and beckoned. “Come. Come. It’s Carlo. He’s coming over.”
“Now?” Dia asked.
“Yes. Come. Change.”
To hell with it. If Carlo didn’t have the decency to ask if he could come over, then he could put up with yoga pants and an oversized tee-shirt. Besides he knew who they were, how they lived. They were Little Italy peasants. Wonder what Mama would think about that? She shoved a hand through her curly dark hair that had been messily pulled into a top knot. It must look great. Oh, and she had on no makeup. She reached for her coffee.
Frank laughed softly. “Rosetta, she has a crush.”
“Tell me about it.” Dia rolled her eyes. Then she smiled at him. “How long have you two been…ah, you know…”
“Dating?”
“Yeah.”
“Not even one year. It took me nearly ten years to get up the courage to ask her.”
“What changed your mind?”
“The gate. I made a wish.”
“Can you tell me?”
“Sure. I don’t mind.” Frank blushed. “I asked for Rosetta Romani of San Diego’s Little Italy to view me as a…as a lover.”
“And how did it happen?”
“I took a date to the annual festival, and we ran into your mama. Stella was very affectionate. She kept holding my hand, kissing my neck. Your mama got a bit blustery and said she didn’t know I’d been seeing anyone. I could see her watching Stella. There was shock in her eyes, but something else too. Then I realized it was jealousy.”
“So what happened?”
“I took Stella home and told her it wouldn’t work out for us. Then I hightailed it over here. Rosetta was sitting out on the porch—”
“Drinking wine, smoking, and listening to Dino.” Dia laughed.
“Yeah.” Frank laughed too, and he seemed to gain a bit more courage to tell his story. He leaned across the table, forgetting his last half of the toast. Dia snagged it and took a bite. “Go ahead,” he said. “It’s yours.”
“So go on.” She licked at the preserves that coated her lips “Then what happened?”
“You don’t mind?” His eyes darkened, his features turning serious. “You know…that your mama and I…”
“Frank, I love you. I adore you two together. I told you that already.”
“Oh, yeah.” He smoothed his hair back with both hands. The light brightened in his eyes, and a smile tweaked his lips. He leaned toward her again. “I walked up onto the porch, extended a hand, and asked, ‘Rosetta Romani, would you like to dance?’ She ground out her cigarette, drained her wine glass, and said, ‘Where’s the strumpet?’ ”
Dia and Frank burst out laughing.
“Where’s the strumpet?” Dia repeated, her laughter erupting again. A minute or so later she wiped her eyes on the napkin, and finished the last bite of toast. Frank’s words rolled around in her thoughts for a while. He sat back in his chair, hands clasped against his stomach, looking decidedly pleased with himself.
“I told her it wasn’t going to work out with Stella, and that I was a free man. Then I told your mama she held a special place in my heart. She never said a word, just stood, led me into the living room, and cranked up the music.”
“What a lovely story,” Dia said. “So the gate wish works.”
“Oh, it works all right.” Frank nodded. “You have to be specific. You know the old saying about being careful what you wish for? I wouldn’t have worded my wish that way, if I’d known. ’Cause I’d meant for your mama to view me in her mind as a lover for her. Not to view me as a lover of someone else.” He shook his head. “But it all worked out in the end.”
“It certainly did.”
The front door bell chimed. Frank and Dia shared a knowing smile as Mama clattered down stairs in high heels. “I’m a-coming,” she called out.
“We can talk more later.” Frank tilted his chin toward the front door.
“Okay.”
“I’ll call Nico. You put together a list of questions about Corsica, and I’ll have him call tomorrow. You’ll stay with them at the villa. He’ll answer anything you want to know.”
“Thanks, Frank. I’m looking forward to this. I’ll call Anna and see what part of my trip needs rearranging.” Dia stood and took her dishes to the sink.
A yacht? A villa? How exciting.
She’d tell Carlo about her trip, but not the gate. That was her secret. She sensed his arrival in the kitchen and turned. He stood in the doorway, a scowl on his face. Mama peeped from behind him. He looked like every angry, passionate, Italian man she’d ever known. Every man she’d worked hard to avoid her entire adult life.
“When were you going to tell me?” Carlo asked. “Or were you going to text me from the airport?”
****
A thought that he was being irrational tried to break into Carlo’s sense of having been cheated. He’d zoomed from extreme happiness to wounded knight in less than ten seconds, in a grocery market parking lot too, and holding a bunch of flowers, which he’d immediately shoved into a trash bin. Then he’d driven like a half-crazed man to confront her. At least Mama Romani didn’t keep secrets. He took in a deep breath and let it out slowly.
He raised his arms, and flipped both hands outward refusing to listen to the voice that warned him to be calm. “So. Cat got your tongue?”
“Meow.” Dia turned the faucet on hard.
Water and soap suds looked like they’d flood the floor at any second. “You’d better turn off the water.” He motioned to the sink, even though she couldn’t see him. A few frothy bubbles ran down the front of the cupboard, pooling on the floor.
“Meow.”
He looked down as the ugliest cat he’d ever seen brushed against his bare leg.
He swallowed hard,
trying not to see the humor in that while he waited for Dia to say something, anything.
“Sit down,” she finally said. But she kept her back to him.
He didn’t sit. Hell, he couldn’t walk. He leaned against the doorframe. He’d worked out at the gym, and remembering the passion of last night, and excited at the thought of seeing her, he’d figured he should drive over and bring flowers. He looked down at his sneakers. He hadn’t even cared that he was unshaven, wearing a pair of shorts and a sweaty tee-shirt. No doubt he smelled really bad. He’d figured Dia would be happy to see him.
“It will be okay,” Rosetta whispered from somewhere behind him.
He’d called first, of course, and Rosetta had spilled the beans about the trip. “Will you speak to me, Dia? Please?” Even though he could admit he was in a snit, part of him wanted to stay in it, and he wanted her to feel bad because she’d made his heart ache. He never acted like a crazy Italian jerk. Why now?
Dia turned and stared at him, her eyes wide. “I don’t understand why you’re so upset. You look like a thundercloud that’s about to burst.”
“Sorry,” he mumbled.
Rosetta breathed heavily behind him. She stroked his back. The old cat continued to rub its head on his bare leg. He bent, lifted the cat, and stroked its fur. It nestled against his chest purring so loudly it sounded like an outboard motor. Frank stared at him, his mouth open. Dia did the same.
“That cat never goes to anyone.” A look of admiration crossed Frank’s face. “It’s Dia’s cat.”
Carlo stroked its fur again. “Smart cat. What’s its name?”
“Cat.” Frank laughed. “He’s old. Missing one eye. Good mouser though.”
“It’s gonna be okay,” Rosetta whispered again. She stayed behind him, probably using him as a human shield against the expected anger from her daughter.
But Dia, even though uncommunicative, didn’t seem angry. He put Cat on the floor.
Frank picked up his coffee mug. “Sit down, son. Have you had breakfast?”
Carlo nodded. The last thing he needed to attempt was choking down food. His heart pounded, his palms were sweaty, and his brain tried to warn him to slow down. But he still wanted answers. He glanced at Dia, but she stared back, unsmiling. He took a few deep breaths. Still, she didn’t speak. He realized an explanation of his behavior was in order, because he had barged into their home at breakfast time.
