All the Way to Heaven

by Becky Doughty

  “You said you weren’t coming until today, but you’ve been here all week. Did you… did you come early because I was sick?” I did not want to be responsible for him losing work over me.

  “Not because you were sick.” He brought my hand forward to rest on his thigh, uncurling my fingers to examine my palm. I resisted the urge to pull away.

  “Oh.”

  “I came, Ani, because I could not stay away.” Lifting my hand, he placed a soft kiss on the backs of my fingers. “I came because I wanted to see you and Saturday seemed an eternity to wait. But you were lost to me in your fever dreams.” He watched my face as he spoke; a man clearly skilled at the art of courtship, even though his words were just the slightest bit slurred. “My own Sleeping Beauty.”

  I wondered if his mind went where mine did at that moment. I brought my free hand up to my mouth, touching my lips before realizing what that gesture might suggest. I quickly dropped it back to the mattress beside me.

  He smiled knowingly, his eyes resting on my mouth as he said, “A kiss is good medicine.” He turned my hand over and brought it to his mouth again, his breath warm against my skin. This time, he moved his lips against my palm, humming softly as he did so. My whole body tingled. “It is all better now, see? I am a very good doctor, Ani.”

  That made me laugh, breaking the spell. I rolled my eyes and tried to withdraw my hand, but he didn’t let go. “Stay,” he murmured. “Stay here with me, passerotta, okay?” He saw the doubt in my eyes. “Do not worry, Ani. Your virtue is safe with me.” He turned to gaze out the window again, then after a few moments, added, “Tonight.” I wasn’t sure he realized he’d spoken the word aloud, but it wasn’t a threat or a promise, more just a passing thought.

  Besides, he seemed to need to be here right now, hiding away in my room, from what I didn’t know, holding my hand like it was a lifeline. When I realized this, I made myself relax, and we reverted back to silence. It wasn’t exactly what I would call comfortable, but I kind of liked whatever it was.

  I began to get chilled and reached to draw the covers over my legs. He realized what I was doing and stretched across me to help, an action that had the potential to get intimate really quickly.

  Not a word was spoken out loud, but I sensed a hundred thousand of them hanging in the air between us, just waiting to be plucked. The heightened anticipation was intense, like the stillness before a storm. I couldn’t wait until I was feeling better, because I suddenly wanted to get to know Cosimo Lazzaro a little better. A lot better. I kind of liked this enigmatic side of him, this sense of disquiet he was sharing with me tonight. It reminded me a little of what had drawn me to Jacob….

  That wasn’t a bad thing, I reassured myself.

  Besides, it was nice to be needed for once, rather than being the needy one. I took a deep breath of satisfaction and closed my eyes. As I began to drift off, the thought occurred to me that if Cosimo had brought me food, it was going to be cold by the time I ate it.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  I awoke ravenous, my stomach growling in rebuke.

  And alone. No sign of Cosimo, thank goodness. No evidence that he’d been in my room at all. The house around me was uncharacteristically quiet, and for a moment, I thought perhaps it was too early for anyone else to be up. But out the window, the sun was high, the birds were chattering away, and I could hear the sound of a tractor off in the distance.

  Linking my fingers behind my left knee, I hoisted my leg over the side of the bed and lowered it carefully to the floor, sitting up in the process.

  Stretching, my arms high over my head, I yawned widely enough to make my jaw pop. I took a deep breath in through my nose and let it out with a contented sigh. I felt so much better.

  Someone had laundered and hung my long skirt in the cupboard, and I pulled it out and slipped it on, mainly because I still wasn’t sure I was ready to tackle pants yet. I dug around in my things for a silhouette-enhancing bra over which I donned a scoop-necked lightweight sweater with three-quarter length sleeves, the color of the sky outside my window today. Paired with my bohemian skirt and one cute little black crocheted Toms on my right foot, it was really quite a feminine ensemble.

  Today, I’d explore. If no one was around, that might even be better. I could just wander aimlessly, relishing in the possibility of whatever that whole exchange with Cosimo had been last night.

  Cosimo. Had he been drunk? How would he behave toward me today?

  I shook my head at my self-consciousness. I was a big girl now. He was a grown man. We’d talk like adults do.

  Cosimo, like Jacob, was several years older than I, and that was something that attracted me to both of them. I wasn’t looking for a replacement father figure. My dad was the best a girl could have; patient, long-suffering, supportive, encouraging, and a steadfast—but reasonable—authority figure in my life. Perhaps, though, because I held all men to the standard of my father, I had a difficult time seeing guys my own age as mature enough to consider as serious relationship potential. I had lots of guy friends and we had great fun together, but that was all I could imagine with them; friendship. I was consistently drawn to older men who carried themselves with confidence and purpose, who exuded a sense of security, who were providers.

  Jacob, however, had been a fine example of neither one. Not for me or his wife, in fact. Whether she knew about his adulterous relationships or not—I was sure I wasn’t the first college girl to be lured in by the smoldering bachelor professor act—didn’t change the fact that whatever security and provision she thought she and their children got from him was only on the surface. There was no security without trust, and financial provision did not make up for the lack of emotional, mental, and spiritual provision.

  From what I could tell, at least Cosimo wasn’t married. But then, I had no reason to believe he was interested in heading that way, either. And why did it matter anyway? I was heading back to another part of the globe in a few weeks, barring any hold up getting my passport replaced, and Dr. Cosimo Lazzaro would find some other clumsy tourist to assess with those magic hands of his.

  On the other hand, it felt rather redeeming to have the handsome doctor fawning over me and flirting so openly with me. I still chafed a little over Paulo Durante’s initial response to me on the train, but maybe he’d just been crabby that day, and on any other day, he would have been drawn to me instead of repulsed by me. He’d been very kind to me the day of my accident.

  Well, once he’d heard me mention l’Aurora, that is. So then, maybe he’d thought I was flirting with him on the train and he was just being loyal to his woman. If that were the case, I could totally respect that. That was the kind of security a relationship should have.

  And once again, why did it matter anyway? Not only was I leaving shortly, but I shouldn’t be thinking of Paulo that way, not if he and Madalina—I broke that thought off, not liking the way it made my stomach feel.

  It had crossed my mind before. Madalina was one lucky girl.

  So the question, then, was could I just play the game with Cosimo and enjoy myself while I was here? Would I, a girl remarkably vulnerable to the lure of men who sported laugh lines and five o’clock shadow with a hint of silver, be able to resist falling head over heels in love with him over the next week or two?

  I needed to come up with a plan of action. A set of boundaries.

  Tonight. I mentally added it to my to-do list for tonight.

  Right now, I had a house to explore. And food to find, reminded my hollow insides.

  Rolling jauntily along on my office chair, I made my way down the short hall to the large front room. I sighed pleasurably at the way the light spilled across the floor from the open windows on one side of the room and from the extra-wide French doors that stood open, giving me a teasing glimpse of some of the terrace I’d thought so much about. That meant the kitchen and dining room had to be nearby, too.

  I smelled coffee in the air, and cinnamon. My stomach gurgled encouragingly. I
wheeled through a side door into a spacious old world kitchen, complete with a monstrous wood-burning stove in one corner. A deep, farm-style sink, and a six-burner gas range were set into a long tiled counter over cabinets painted a burnt orange. It ran the length of one whole wall beneath a row of glass-doored cupboards. A massive butcher-block work table sat in the middle of the room, its years marked by the myriad of stains, dents and nicks in its surface. A second counter, this one narrow and cluttered with baskets and canisters bunched up around a small bar-style sink jutted out into the middle of the space. It divided the cooking area from the dining area where an elegant table of some kind of dark wood, highly polished and decorated with a lace table runner, was surrounded by a dozen high-backed chairs in the same wood.

  In the center of the work table was a colorful ceramic bowl piled high with pomegranates that set my mouth to watering. I hadn’t broken open a pomegranate since they were in season nearly a year ago in California, and I could taste the pea-sized arils bursting red and tangy on my tongue. Surely, Claudia wouldn’t miss just one. I rolled up to the table, snagged one that was so ripe, the peel looked like it might split if I held it too tightly, and scanned the room for where I might find a paring knife. My gaze landed on a recently used coffee press and a thermos-style carafe on the counter beside it. I rolled across to it with the focus of a thirsty man come upon an oasis in the desert. There was a small square of paper with my name on it, one corner tucked beneath the carafe, and I smiled, moved by the thoughtfulness of my hosts. Sure enough, the thermos was full. And the coffee, when I unscrewed the lid, released a puff of steam heavy with the decadence of a rich roast. There were several mismatched mugs stacked on a nearby tray and I selected a large yellow one, the color making me feel happy.

  “You only have two hands, Ani,” I reminded myself. Tucking the pomegranate into the over-sized coffee cup and nestling it securely between my thighs, I grabbed the carafe and began rolling my chair back the way I’d come. I’d come back for a knife and anything else I might be able to scrounge up. Fresh coffee on the terrace in Tuscany. Who could ask for a sweeter way to start a new day?

  I rolled out backwards. I wanted to really savor my first impression, so I did my best not to peek at the view until I had cleared the ridge of the threshold. Then I spun slowly in my chair, took a long deep breath, and held it as my eyes took it all in.

  “Oh. My. Land. Oh. Lakes.” The rest of my breath came out in a rush.

  The back of the house looked out over the valley beyond, the landscape rolling and mounding in various hues of autumn golds, silvery sages, and the deep hunter tones of evergreens. Other houses and outbuildings cropped up on the hillsides here and there, and it seemed like every home came with a pool, the rectangles of brilliant aqua in sharp contrast to the earthy browns and greens. The Lazzaros, too, had a pool, down the slope a little where the land leveled out, presided over by a rather fancy pool house.

  The terrace itself ran the length of the long section of the L-shaped house. The majority of it was framed out by a portcullis that supported massive wisteria vines, the gnarled trunks evidence of their longevity and tenacity. For all I could tell, they were holding up the house itself. To my left, groupings of deck chairs and scrolled iron bistro sets were scattered about here and there, some under the trellis, some out in the sun. To my right, a long boxy table that looked like it could have been hewn with an axe from a single mighty tree, complete with mismatched chairs and benches on either side, sat waiting for a gathering. My mind immediately filled in the blanks from my imaginary Tuscany still life. The linens, the dishes, the food, the wine, the people.

  A dream just waiting to come true.

  “It is beautiful, yes? I do not think I will ever get tired of this view.”

  Cosimo. I wasn’t alone after all.

  But was I alone with him?

  I spun around slowly to find him standing in the open doorway behind me. This time, he hadn’t startled me. It was as though I’d almost expected him.

  “Allow me,” he said, gallantly taking the carafe and mug with my stolen fruit from me. “Where would you like to sit?”

  Without waiting for an answer, he skirted around me and crossed to a table and two chairs at one end of the patio.

  “This is the best seat in the house. I suggest here. Unless….” He paused before setting my things down, tilting his head in question, awaiting my request.

  “That’s great. Perfect.” I was suddenly shy in the daylight and looked away from him and his otherworldly beauty. Who was I kidding? This man, who looked like Italian nobility, standing on the vine-draped terrace of the family villa where he lived, was so completely out of my league. I felt like a little girl in a lingerie shop. I had no idea what I was doing there, or even what all the beautiful things were, and I was completely ill-equipped even if I did know what to do with it all. But the lace and beads and shiny fabric were all so pretty and I just wanted to run my fingers over everything, to hold the textures against my cheeks, and to breathe in the sensual fragrance of the air around me….

  Cosimo returned to my side, empty-handed. “Pick up your feet, Ani.” Hm. Not mi passerotta. Ani. Okay.

  He rolled me up close to the table, pulled out one of the chairs, and smiled invitingly. “May I join you for a cup of coffee and cinnamon bread, Miss Tomlin?” He indicated the chair again, and I realized he was holding the seat for me to sit in. In this small way, he seemed to be telling me he didn’t think of me as an invalid. I was grateful, even though I’d gone from “my plump little sparrow” to “Ani” to “Miss Tomlin” in less than twelve hours. “You sit here and I will return shortly.”

  And sit there I did, my broken leg in its clunky brace propped up on my office chair, and stared at my yellow mug with the pomegranate bursting out of it, the bright blue coffee carafe flanking it, and thought how silly, how childish, I must look to a man like Cosimo.

  But the colorful trio on the white-painted iron table against the backdrop of breathtaking valley beyond did make a lovely picture, and I smiled in spite of myself.

  “What a lovely picture you make, passerotta.” That smooth voice flowed over my like warm honey.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  I smiled as though Cosimo had just crowned me his queen for the day.

  “There is nothing better than to come outside on a morning like this to find a beautiful bird sitting on my patio waiting for me.” He approached the table casually, a large tray in hand. On it was another coffee cup, a bottle of San Pellegrino in an ice bucket and two champagne flutes. Two plates, napkins, forks, and one small, lidded stoneware crock that looked as old as the wisteria over our heads. I picked up the carafe and my own cup to make room for the tray, which he slid deftly onto the table.

  He didn’t sit down, but came to stand in front of me, forcing me to look up to see his face. For a minute, he said nothing. Just as I was beginning to feel like squirming, he crouched down in front of me and took both my hands. He turned them over, studying my palms, his thumb gently brushing across the top of the scratches still healing on my right one, before lifting his eyes to my face.

  “Ani. Last night, when I came to your room, I know I frightened you. I made you uncomfortable, and for that, I can only hope to make it up to you. But you must know that you have made me feel uncomfortable in my own home as well.”

  “I’m sorry? I what? What did I—” All I’d done was wash the smell of sickness off me last night before scuttling back to the privacy of my own room. I hadn’t planned on seeing him, or anyone for that matter. Had I done something to send mixed messages to him in the shadows of my bedroom? Lord have mercy, did I say something in my sleep? Good grief! He was the one who stole into my room! And practically scared me off my chair.

  “Please. Let me finish. I am trying, yet again, to apologize, and I seem to be making a disaster of it again.” He squeezed my hand gently, his eyes beseeching. I nodded, pressing my lips together.

  “There have been some storm cl
ouds in my life lately, but you came into my clinic and brought the sunshine with you, Anica Tomlin. I meant what I said to you last night in your room. I could not stay away. I had to see you again.” His eyes did not waver and I couldn’t look away. “When I found you had become ill, I did not want to leave your side, not because I was worried for you, but because my heart would not allow me to leave you to the care of someone else. I came home every night to check on you. It is as my sister said. I am a doctor, yes, but I am a man first. You, passerotta, have me enraptured.” He reached up and cupped my cheek, his long fingers lacing into the hair behind my ear. “And when I came upon you out here with your eyes alight in the morning sun just now, so beautiful, I thought perhaps my heart would burst with happiness to see you.”

  Was he joking? Playing me? Did people actually talk this way in this day and age? And mean it?

  “You make me feel uncomfortable because I cannot think clearly when I am near you.”

  Well, that made two of us. I dropped my gaze to my lap, unable to bear the look in his any longer. I felt light, like I was hovering just above the ground.

  “Ani?” He dipped his head a little, trying to read my face, his thumb caressing my cheekbone. What did he want me to say to that?

  There was a tiny alarm going off somewhere in the back of my mind. Warning. Warning. Warning. It was persuasive speeches and gentle caresses that had blinded me to Jacob’s true colors. Were Cosimo’s words practiced seduction or was he just as flustered in my presence as I was in his? And if so, what about me had turned his head so completely? I was nothing special. My hair curled a little too zealously just below my shoulders. I wasn’t overweight, but I was no health nut, either. I suppose, if I was honest, I might even qualify as being plump. At least certain body parts that I didn’t have to look at. I had funny quirks and unglamorous habits, like chewing on the cuticles around my thumbs, which made me look like I was actually sucking my thumb from the right angle, and not painting my toenails because the little toenail on my right foot had been damaged in a childhood bike accident and was only about a millimeter wide. It looked like a racing stripe when I did put polish on it. Tish had dubbed it Toe-Hawk.