Lessons Learned

by Nora Roberts

  It took her three days before she’d gathered enough strength to go back to her office. It hadn’t been difficult to convince her supervisor she was ill and needed a replacement for the last day of Carlo’s tour. As it was, the first thing he told her when she returned to the office days later was that she belonged in bed.

  She knew how she looked—pale, hollow-eyed. But she was determined to do as she’d once promised herself. Pick up the pieces and go on. She’d never do it huddled in her apartment staring at the walls.

  “Deb, I want to start cleaning up the schedule for Lia Barrister’s tour in August.”

  “You look like hell.”

  Juliet glanced up from her desk, already cluttered with schedules to be photocopied. “Thanks.”

  “If you want my advice, you’ll move your vacation by a few weeks and get out of town. You need some sun, Juliet.”

  “I need a list of approved hotels in Albuquerque for the Barrister tour.”

  With a shrug, Deb gave up. “You’ll have them. In the meantime, look over these clippings that just came in on Franconi.” Looking up, she noted that Juliet had knocked her container of paperclips on the floor. “Coordination’s the first thing to go.”

  “Let’s have the clippings.”

  “Well, there’s one I’m not sure how to deal with.” Deb slipped a clipping out of the folder and frowned at it. “It’s not one of ours, actually, but some French chef who’s just starting a tour.”

  “LaBare?”

  Impressed, Deb looked up. “Yeah. How’d you know?”

  “Just a sick feeling.”

  “Anyway, Franconi’s name was brought up in the interview because the reporter had done a feature on him. This LaBare made some—well, unpleasant comments.”

  Taking the clipping, Juliet read what her assistant had highlighted. “Cooking for peasants by a peasant,” she read in a mumble. “Oil, starch and no substance…” There was more, but Juliet just lifted a brow. She hoped Summer’s plan of revenge went perfectly. “We’re better off ignoring this,” she decided, and dropped the clipping in the trash. “If we passed it on to Carlo, he might challenge LaBare to a duel.”

  “Skewers at ten paces?”

  Juliet merely sent her a cool look. “What else have you got?”

  “There might be a problem with the Dallas feature,” she said as she gave Juliet a folder. “The reporter got carried away and listed ten of the recipes straight out of the book.”

  Juliet’s head flew back. “Did you say ten?”

  “Count ’em. I imagine Franconi’s going to blow when he sees them.”

  Juliet flipped through the clippings until she came to it. The feature was enthusiastic and flattering. The timid Ms. Tribly had used the angle of preparing an entire meal from antipasto to dessert. Carlo’s recipes from The Italian Way were quoted verbatim. “What was she thinking of?” Juliet muttered. “She could’ve used one or two without making a ripple. But this…”

  “Think Franconi’s going to kick up a storm?”

  “I think our Ms. Tribly’s lucky she’s a few thousand miles away. You’d better get me legal. If he wants to sue, we’ll be better off having all the facts.”

  After nearly two hours on the phone, Juliet felt almost normal. If there was a hollowness, she told herself it was a skipped lunch—and breakfast. If she tended to miss whole phrases that were recited to her, she told herself it was hard to keep up with legalese.

  They could sue, or put Ms. Tribly’s neck in a sling, both of which would create a miserable mess when she had two other authors scheduled for Dallas that summer.

  Carlo would have to be told, she reflected as she hung up. It wouldn’t be possible, or at least ethical, to crumple up the clipping and pretend it didn’t exist as she had with the one from LaBare. The problem was whether to let legal inform him, pass it off through his editor or bite the bullet and write him herself.

  It wouldn’t hurt to write him, she told herself as she toyed with her pen. She’d made her decision, said her piece and stepped off the carousel. They were both adults, both professionals. Dictating his name on a letter couldn’t cause her any pain.

  Thinking his name caused her pain.

  Swearing, Juliet rose and paced to the window. He hadn’t meant it. As she had consistently for days, Juliet went over and over their last evening together.

  It was all romance to him. Just flowers and candlelight. He could get carried away with the moment and not suffer any consequences. I love you—such a simple phrase. Careless and calculating. He hadn’t meant it the way it had to be meant.

  Marriage? It was absurd. He’d slipped and slid his way out of marriage all of his adult life. He’d known exactly how she’d felt about it. That’s why he’d said it, Juliet decided. He’d known it was safe and she’d never agree. She couldn’t even think about marriage for years. There was her firm to think of. Her goals, her obligations.

  Why couldn’t she forget the way he’d made her laugh, the way he’d made her burn? Memories, sensations didn’t fade even a little with the days that had passed. Somehow they gained in intensity, haunted her. Taunted her. Sometimes—too often—she’d remember just the way he’d looked as he’d taken her face in his hand.

  She touched the little heart of gold and diamonds she hadn’t been able to make herself put away. More time, she told herself. She just needed more time. Perhaps she’d have legal contact him after all.

  “Juliet?”

  Turning from the window, Juliet saw her assistant at the door. “Yes?”

  “I rang you twice.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “There’s a delivery for you. Do you want them to bring it in here?”

  An odd question, Juliet thought and returned to her desk. “Of course.”

  Deb opened the door wider. “In here.”

  A uniformed man wheeled a dolly into the room. Confused, Juliet stared at the wooden crate nearly as big as her desk. “Where do you want this, Miss?”

  “Ah—there. There’s fine.”

  With an expert move, he drew the dolly free. “Just sign here.” He held out a clipboard as Juliet continued to stare at the crate. “Have a nice day.”

  “Oh—yes, thank you.” She was still staring at it when Deb came back in with a small crowbar.

  “What’d you order?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Come on, open it.” Impatient, Deb handed her the crowbar. “I’m dying.”

  “I can’t think what it might be.” Slipping the crowbar under the lid, Juliet began to pry. “Unless my mother sent on my grandmother’s china like she’s been threatening for the last couple of years.”

  “This is big enough to hold a set for an army.”

  “Probably all packing,” Juliet muttered as she put her back into it. When the lid came off, she began to push at the heaps of Styrofoam.

  “Does your grandmother’s china have a trunk?”

  “A what?”

  “A trunk.” Unable to wait, Deb shoved through the styrofoam herself. “Good God, Juliet, it looks like an elephant.”

  Juliet saw the first foolish glitter and stopped thinking. “Help me get it out.”

  Between the two of them, they managed to lift the big, bulky piece of ceramic out of the crate and onto her desk. “That’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever seen,” Deb said when she caught her breath. “It’s ugly, ostentatious and ridiculous.”

  “Yes,” Juliet murmured, “I know.”

  “What kind of madman would send you an elephant?”

  “Only one kind,” Juliet said to herself and ran her hand lovingly down the trunk.

  “My two-year-old could ride on it,” Deb commented and spotted the card that had come out with the packing. “Here you are. Now you’ll know who to press charges against.”

  She wouldn’t take the card. Juliet told herself she wouldn’t look at it. She’d simply pack the elephant back up and ship it away. No sensible woman became emotional about a useless pi
ece of glass three feet high.

  She took the card and ripped it open.

  Don’t forget.

  She started to laugh. As the first tears fell, Deb stood beside her without a clue. “Juliet—are you all right?”

  “No.” She pressed her cheek against the elephant and kept laughing. “I’ve just lost my mind.”

  When she arrived in Rome, Juliet knew it was too late for sanity. She carried one bag which she’d packed in a frenzy. If it’d been lost en route, she wouldn’t have been able to identify the contents. Practicality? She’d left it behind in New York. What happened next would determine whether she returned for it.

  She gave the cab driver Carlo’s address and settled back for her first whirlwind ride through Rome. Perhaps she’d see it all before she went home. Perhaps she was home. Decisions had to be made, but she hoped she wouldn’t make them alone.

  She saw the fountains Carlo had spoken of. They rose and fell, never ending and full of dreams. On impulse she made the driver stop and wait while she dashed over to one she couldn’t even name. With a wish, she flung in a coin. She watched it hit and fall to join thousands of other wishes. Some came true, she told herself. That gave her hope.

  When the driver barreled up to the curb and jerked to a halt she began to fumble with bills. He took pity on her and counted out the fare himself. Because she was young and in love, he added only a moderate tip.

  Not daring to let herself stop her forward progress, Juliet ran up to the door and knocked. The dozens of things she wanted to say, had planned to say, jumbled in her mind until she knew she’d never be able to guarantee what would come out first. But when the door opened, she was ready.

  The woman was lovely, dark, curvy and young. Juliet felt the impetus slip away from her as she stared. So soon, was all she could think. He already had another woman in his home. For a moment, she thought only to turn and walk away as quickly as she could. Then her shoulders straightened and she met the other woman’s eyes straight on.

  “I’ve come to see Carlo.”

  The other woman hesitated only a moment, then smiled beautifully. “You’re English.”

  Juliet inclined her head. She hadn’t come so far, risked so much to turn tail and run. “American.”

  “Come in. I’m Angelina Tuchina.”

  “Juliet Trent.”

  The moment she offered her hand, it was gripped. “Ah, yes, Carlo spoke of you.”

  Juliet nearly laughed. “How like him.”

  “But he never said you would visit. Come this way. We’re just having some tea. I missed him when he was in America, you see, so I’ve kept him home from the restaurant today to catch up.”

  It amazed her that she could find it amusing. It ran through her mind that Angelina, and many others, were going to be disappointed from now on. The only woman who was going to catch up with Carlo was herself.

  When she stepped into the salon, amusement became surprise. Carlo sat in a high-backed satin chair, having an intense conversation with another female. This one sat on his lap and was no more than five.

  “Carlo, you have company.”

  He glanced up, and the smile he’d used to charm the child on his lap vanished. So did every coherent thought in his mind. “Juliet.”

  “Here, let me take this.” Angelina slipped Juliet’s bag from her hand while she gave Carlo a speculative look. She’d never seen him dazed by a woman before. “Rosa, come say good morning to Signorina Trent. Rosa is my daughter.”

  Rosa slipped off Carlo’s lap and, staring all the way, came to Juliet. “Good morning, Signorina Trent.” Pleased with her English, she turned to her mother with a spate of Italian.

  With a laugh, Angelina picked her up. “She says you have green eyes like the princess Carlo told her of. Carlo, aren’t you going to ask Miss Trent to sit down?” With a sigh, Angelina indicated a chair. “Please, be comfortable. You must forgive my brother, Miss Trent. Sometimes he loses himself in the stories he tells Rosa.”

  Brother? Juliet looked at Angelina and saw Carlo’s warm, dark eyes. Over the quick elation, she wondered how many different ways you could feel like a fool.

  “We must be on our way.” Angelina walked over to kiss her still silent brother’s cheek. As she did, she was already planning to drop by her mother’s shop and relate the story of the American who’d made Carlo lose his voice. “I hope we meet again while you’re in Rome, Miss Trent.”

  “Thank you.” Juliet took her hand and met the smile, and all its implications, with an acknowledging nod. “I’m sure we will.”

  “We’ll let ourselves out, Carlo. Ciao.”

  He was still silent as Juliet began to wander around the room, stopping here to admire this, there to study that. Art of every culture was represented at its most opulent. It should’ve been overwhelming, museumlike. Instead it was friendly and lighthearted, just a bit vain and utterly suited to him.

  “You told me I’d like your home,” she said at length. “I do.”

  He managed to rise but not to go to her. He’d left part of himself back in New York, but he still had his pride. “You said you wouldn’t come.”

  She moved one shoulder and decided it was best not to throw herself at his feet as she’d intended. “You know women, Franconi. They change their minds. You know me.” She turned then and managed to face him. “I like to keep business in order.”

  “Business?”

  Grateful she’d had the foresight, Juliet reached in her purse and drew out the Dallas clipping. “This is something you’ll want to look over.”

  When she came no farther, he was forced to go over and take it from her. Her scent was there, as always. It reminded him of too much, too quickly. His voice was flat and brisk as he looked at her. “You came to Rome to bring me a piece of paper?”

  “Perhaps you’d better look at it before we discuss anything else.”

  He kept his eyes on hers for a long, silent minute before he lowered them to the paper. “So, more clippings,” he began, then stopped. “What’s this?”

  She felt her lips curve at the change of tone. “What I thought you’d want to see.”

  She thought she understood the names he called the unfortunate Ms. Tribly though they were all in fast, furious Italian. He said something about a knife in the back, balled the clipping up and heaved it in a scrubbed hearth across the room. Juliet noted, as a matter of interest, that his aim was perfect.

  “What does she try to do?” he demanded.

  “Her job. A bit too enthusiastically.”

  “Job? Is it her job to quote all my recipes? And wrong!” Incensed, he whirled around the room. “She has too much oregano in my veal.”

  “I’m afraid I didn’t notice,” Juliet murmured. “In any case, you’re entitled to retribution.”

  “Retribution.” He relished the word and made a circle of his hands. “I’ll fly to Dallas and squeeze my retribution from her skinny throat.”

  “There’s that, of course.” Juliet pressed her lips together to keep the laughter in. How had she ever thought she’d convince herself she could do without him? “Or a legal suit. I’ve given it a lot of thought, however, and feel the best way might be a very firm letter of disapproval.”

  “Disapproval?” He spun back to her. “Do you simply disapprove of murder in your country? She overspiced my veal.”

  After clearing her throat, Juliet managed to soothe. “I understand, Carlo, but I believe it was an honest mistake all around. If you remember the interview, she was nervous and insecure. It appears to be you just overwhelmed her.”

  Muttering something nasty, he stuck his hands in his pockets. “I’ll write to her myself.”

  “That might be just the right touch—if you let legal take a look at it first.”

  He scowled, then looked at her carefully from head to foot. She hadn’t changed. He’d known she wouldn’t. Somehow that fact comforted and distressed all at once. “You came to Rome to discuss lawsuits with me?”

 
She took her life in her hands. “I came to Rome,” she said simply.

  He wasn’t sure he could go any closer without having to touch, and touching, take. The hurt hadn’t faded. He wasn’t certain it ever would. “Why?”

  “Because I didn’t forget.” Since he wouldn’t come to her, she went to him. “Because I couldn’t forget, Carlo. You asked me to come and I was afraid. You said you loved me and I didn’t believe you.”

  He curled his fingers to keep them still. “And now?”

  “Now I’m still afraid. The moment I was alone, the moment I knew you’d gone, I had to stop pretending. Even when I had to admit I was in love with you, I thought I could work around it. I thought I had to work around it.”

  “Juliet.” He reached for her, but she stepped back quickly.

  “I think you’d better wait until I finish. Please,” she added when he only came closer.

  “Then finish quickly. I need to hold you.”

  “Oh, Carlo.” She closed her eyes and tried to hang on. “I want to believe I can have a life with you without giving up what I am, what I need to be. But you see, I love you so much I’m afraid I’d give up everything the moment you asked me.”

  “Dio, what a woman!” Because she wasn’t certain if it was a compliment or an insult, Juliet remained silent as he took a quick turn around the room. “Don’t you understand that I love you too much to ask? If you weren’t who you are, I wouldn’t be in love with you? If I love Juliet Trent, why would I want to change her into that Juliet Trent?”

  “I don’t know, Carlo. I just—”

  “I was clumsy.” When she lifted her hands, he caught them in his to quiet her. “The night I asked you to marry me, I was clumsy. There were things I wanted to say, ways I’d wanted to say them, but it was too important. What comes easily with every woman becomes impossible with the only woman.”

  “I didn’t think you’d meant—”

  “No.” Before she could resist, he’d brought her hands to his lips. “I’ve thought back on what I said to you. You thought I was asking you to give up your job, your home, and come to Rome to live with me. I was asking less, and much more. I should have said—Juliet, you’ve become my life and without you, I’m only half of what I was. Share with me.”