Tiramisu After Midnight

by Mark David Campbell

  Book now, while you still can.

  “Man! Are you a cretino!” Enrico gasped. “How could you let a woman like that escape?”

  “It wasn’t my fault, you know.” Fabrizio sulked.

  “You made love to the woman, then let her best friend give you a blow job the next day. How is that not your fault?”

  “Wait, we’ve got another review.”

  “Let me see.” Enrico pushed his brother out of the way and read.

  It’s not posh or elegant. All the same Lago B&B has stolen my heart.

  Enrico smiled.

  “Now, I’ll bet you’re glad I let him give me a blow job,” Fabrizio said.

  “Why would I be glad he blew you!”

  “Because he’s thinking, I’ve had a taste of Fabrizio’s big salami, and I’m sure Enrico’s is almost as good!”

  “Ahhh!” Enrico pounced on top of his brother, throwing him onto the floor and batting him with his open hands.

  “Well it’s true,” Fabrizio taunted as he shoved the pillow in Enrico’s face. “You’ll never be as good a lover as me.”

  Just then the computer made a bing sound.

  “Wait, wait,” Fabrizio said as he wriggled out from under his brother and pushed himself up to where he could reach the keyboard. “We’ve got a booking! A couple from Germany for five days. They’ll be here next week.”

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  OWEN SNIFFED. Why did all community center rooms smell the same? It was as if there was a deodorizer specifically scented to smell like chlorine, dust, and dirty feet. A woman at the front of the room with a nasal voice was going on about how she used to hide bottles of gin in her garage. Substance Dependency Support Group. Why was he here? It’s not like he was a real cokehead. He had just gotten a little carried away, that’s all. That nosebleed he got the night of Pride didn’t really count. He was the kid in school who always got nosebleeds. It was just… well, when the blood started trickling down his lip, it really scared him. But it wasn’t like he was addicted or anything. Then he recalled his father taking another cigarette out of his pack, sticking it in his mouth, lighting it and saying he could quit smoking whenever he wanted to. If that were true, his father wouldn’t still be smoking, would he? Besides, Maggie had made such a big deal of it, it was the only way to get her off his back.

  Owen gazed out at the drizzle streaking down the window. It didn’t really seem fair. Canada made all that cool air and blew it south across the lake where it picked up as much moisture as it could, then dumped it on Syracuse, Rochester, and Buffalo. Summer in Upstate New York had definitely come to an end. He wondered if it was still warm in Italy, but then he thought about the time difference. It would be the middle of the night over there. An image of Enrico lying in bed, naked with the sheet loosely covering his backside, flashed through his mind.

  Suddenly someone said his name and Owen looked up. It was his turn. He might as well get it over with. He stood up, walked to the front of the room. A bleached-blond woman in a purple sweatshirt, an enormous man with a tattoo on his neck, a bored-looking young woman chewing gum, and a collection of other people slumped on stackable chairs looked back at him.

  This didn’t feel at all like when he’d given the valedictorian speech in high school. Owen’s palms were wet. He cleared his throat. “Hello, my name is Owen.”

  “Welcome, Owen,” the group said in unison. Owen cringed as he remembered the welcoming they always used to do at his mother’s church, those pious faces with their forced smiles and limp handshakes.

  “And I have a problem with coke,” he continued.

  “We hear you, Owen,” the woman in the purple sweatshirt called out as if she were at a bible reunion.

  “Actually, I was never a heavy user,” Owen quickly added.

  “Excuses, Owen,” the mountain of a man yelled out.

  “Judgmental, Owen. It’s not a competition. We’re all dependent on something here,” sneered the woman chewing gum.

  Owen took a deep breath. “Let me start again. I’m a cokehead and I haven’t snorted for forty-two days.”

  The woman in the purple sweatshirt called out again, “Good for you, Owen.” The group clapped.

  After the meeting, as Owen was pouring himself a cup of coffee at the back of the room, a heavy hand patted him on the shoulder, causing him to spill some of his coffee.

  Owen looked up at a tower of flesh standing in front of him.

  “Hey, how’s it going?” the mountain of a man said as if they were old friends.

  Owen furrowed his brow. How could he forget someone like that?

  “Big Eddy! You know, the door guy from the disco night at Skate-O-Rama?” He reached out and took Owen’s hand, which disappeared inside his beefy grip.

  Suddenly it dawned on Owen. “Sergeant Eddy! Two tours in Iraq, right?” Owen felt his tense muscles loosen.

  “Yes, sir, that’s me.” Big Eddy was beaming.

  Owen didn’t know what else to say, so he just kept nodding and smiling.

  Big Eddy broke the silence. “It’s one step at a time, huh?”

  That was exactly the platitude Owen expected to hear. But Owen didn’t feel like he had made a step at all. He felt more like he was sinking in wet concrete.

  “By the way, I never got the chance to thank you,” Big Eddy said.

  “Thank me? For what?” Owen squinted.

  “When I walked in off the street and asked you for a job. You took one look at me and said you’re hired.”

  “Oh, it was nothing.” The last thing Owen wanted was for Big Eddy to feel indebted to him.

  “Nothing? Are you kidding me?” Eddy’s face was like steel.

  Every muscle in Owen’s body went tense again.

  “After the army, you were the only person to ever take a chance on me. I asked myself, what the hell did that little fairy boy see in a big loser like me?”

  “We needed a doorman, that’s all,” Owen said.

  “Do you believe in karma?”

  “No, not really,” Owen said, not wanting to challenge or offend a man as big as Big Eddy.

  “Don’t matter. Now it’s my turn to return the favor.” Big Eddy smiled, showing a missing front tooth. “You got a sponsor, yet?”

  “No. I’m okay on my own.” Owen took a sip of his coffee.

  “You wouldn’t be here if that was true. Get out your phone, copy my number, and give me yours?”

  Owen did as Big Eddy instructed hoping that this would appease him and he would either go away or let him go.

  “There. You just got yourself a sponsor. You call me. Day or night. It don’t matter. You hear me?”

  “Yes.” Owen nodded, “I hear you. Um, thanks, Big Eddy, but I have to go now. My Italian night class is about to begin.” Owen threw his paper cup in the bin and hurried toward the door.

  “Day or night, you little motherfucker,” Big Eddy called after Owen as he rushed out the door and down the hall.

  He darted into the classroom and claimed an empty desk in the back. He sank low in his chair and punched in Lago B&B. At the front the teacher was explaining something about the reflexive form of the verb piacé—to please—but he wasn’t really listening. The Lago B&B website popped up and he scrolled down and gazed at the photos, just like he had done numerous times before.

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  “WE HAVE a registered letter,” Fabrizio said as he shook off the umbrella and put it in the stand by the door.

  “Well, open it and see who it’s from,” Enrico said.

  Fabrizio ripped open the envelope, pulled out the letter, and unfolded it. “It’s from Francesca’s lawyer.”

  “It’s probably just a copy of that document Francesca and Pietro wanted us to sign,” Enrico said.

  Fabrizio mumbled as he read the letter to himself. “It says that Francesca’s apartment was given to her before our grandmother died, so it’s not included in the inheritance.”

  Enrico shrugged. “See I told
you, it’s just a formal separation of the properties.”

  “Wait a minute!” Fabrizio held up his finger. “It also says that she is entitled to one-third the market value of our house!” Fabrizio put his finger on the line of text.

  “There must be some kind of mistake. Let me see that.” Enrico took the letter and read it.

  “And that we either pay her or the property will be sold and the money divided into three parts,” Fabrizio continued reading over Enrico’s shoulder.

  “One-third? But that’s got to be about five hundred thousand euro!” Enrico waved his hands erratically.

  “Does it say anything about the money our grandmother left us in the trust fund?” Fabrizio leaned over his brother’s shoulder and scanned the page.

  “Nothing,” Enrico said. He handed the letter back to Fabrizio. “There’s got to be some kind of mistake. I’ll call her.” Enrico took out his phone and dialed. “The phone is ringing, but she doesn’t answer.”

  “Leave a message,” Fabrizio said. “She’ll call back.”

  “Why don’t I try calling Pietro?” Enrico said and dialed.

  “Pronto,” Pietro responded.

  “Hi, Pietro. It’s Enrico.” Enrico tried to control the nervous jitter in his voice. “How are you?”

  “Fine, thank you.” Pietro’s voice was professional and cold.

  “Just a second. Fabrizio is here with me, so I’m putting you on speakerphone.” Enrico touched his screen, then held out the phone. “Listen, we just received a letter from Francesca’s lawyer.” Enrico paused, not knowing what else to say.

  Pietro made a forced chuckle. “Oh, it’s nothing to be alarmed about. Just a formality, I assure you.”

  “But it says we owe Francesca for one-third of the house,” Fabrizio piped in.

  “You know the way legal language is,” Pietro said with a flat paternalistic tone.

  “And what about the money Grandmother left us?” Fabrizio added.

  Enrico shook his head back and forth and waved his hand.

  “You’ll have to talk with Francesca about that,” Pietro said.

  “Is she there?” Enrico said. “Can you put her on?”

  Pause.

  “She’s meditating right now. You know all this business about her grandmother and her mother has been very upsetting for her.” Pietro cleared his throat loudly into the phone. “Don’t worry, you’ll be contacted.” And he hung up the phone.

  Enrico looked at his phone and wrinkled up his face like he had just eaten a bad peanut.

  “What does that mean, ‘We’ll be contacted’?” Fabrizio said, cupping his hands and bobbing them.

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  IMMERSED IN her first-level chef’s course, Maggie had hardly noticed autumn’s frosty greeting. In fact, other than her cooking course, she had trouble concentrating on anything. She placed the old recipe book Fabrizio had given her on the coffee table, got up from the sofa, and went into the kitchen, where Owen had tossed the mail on the table. In among the flyers and bills was a small letter with a handwritten address and an Italian stamp. Owen hadn’t said anything. He mustn’t have bothered to check. She made a growl in the back of her throat. Ever since they had gotten back from Italy, that boy’s head had been in the clouds. Clutching it, she tossed the rest of the mail on the table and returned to the sofa where she examined the letter, turning it over. Some writing was scrawled on the back of the envelope. I carry this letter inside my shirt to the post and that is the reason why it is all wrinkled.

  Maggie shook her head. She knew who the letter was from. Her hand was shaking as she tore it open, pulled out a single folded page, unfolded it, and read.

  Dear Miss Maggie,

  I am Fabrizio. The reason I send to you this letter is because everybody knows the internet is a bullshit. In fact, Tata tells me I am an idiot and so does my brother. I want to tell you how sorry I am for what I did and how much I miss you.

  Please don’t hate me.

  Sincerely Fabrizio

  Maggie held the letter to her nose, closed her eyes, and sniffed; the faint odor of his perspiration mixed with cologne went straight to her brain and transported her back to that night when he came to her room and they made love. She clutched the letter to her breasts.

  An hour later Owen walked into the living room and looked at Maggie still sitting on the sofa, staring into space. “Ever since we got back from Italy your head’s been in the clouds, girl.”

  “Me!”

  “Yeah, you. You’re not still angry over what happened on the boat, are you?”

  “No.” Maggie sat upright and casually tucked the letter into her recipe book. “As Tata said, when a man does something stupid, it usually involves his dick.” She paused. “It’s just….” Maggie sucked air in through her teeth.

  “Talk to me.”

  “I know, I’m acting like a silly schoolgirl, but….” Maggie covered her face with her hands.

  “But what?”

  “But I can’t get Fabrizio out of my mind!”

  Owen flopped down on the sofa beside her and put his arm over her shoulder. “I can’t stop thinking about Enrico, either.”

  “Man! Are we pathetic or what? Our first vacation ever and we both fall in love with two guys who run a B&B somewhere on a lake in northern Italy.”

  “It’s ridiculous,” Owen said. “We hardly even know them.”

  “We’re like those desperate lonely people who go on vacation and think they fall in love on the beach only to find their fantasy washing out to sea with low tide.”

  “We really don’t know anything about them,” Owen said. “Maybe they’re mass murderers or something.”

  “Are you kidding me?” Maggie threw Owen an incredulous glare. “Those two are the sweetest guys on the fucking planet!” She slid forward and got up. Even if Fabrizio did act like an idiot, she thought as she went to the kitchen. A few minutes later she came back with two glasses of prosecco and handed one to Owen.

  “I read on the internet that it only takes four minutes to fall in love,” Owen said as he took the glass.

  “Well, as Fabrizio says, the internet is a bullshit.” Maggie sat down next to him.

  “I remember that first time I saw Jessy back in fifth grade.” Owen stared at his glass. “I was in love with him at first sight.”

  Maggie patted Owen’s knee. She didn’t add that the first day when Jessy and Owen paraded into homeroom, while all eyes were trained on Jessy, it was Owen who had held her gaze and captured her heart.

  She took a sip of wine. “You know, my mom and dad got engaged over the phone. They met for the first time at the airport. And look at them. Thirty years later they’re still like a couple of teenagers in love.”

  Owen also took a sip. “Um, nice.” He put his glass on the coffee table. “Think about all the people who married soldiers they hardly even knew and came here and they could barely speak American?”

  Maggie sighed. “Whatever happened to the happily-ever-afters?” She took a drink.

  “I don’t know, maybe the internet killed romance.” Owen leaned over and picked up his glass.

  “What do you mean?” Maggie said.

  Owen was just about to take a drink, but he paused. “We don’t trust anyone anymore. We want a no-risk, money-back guarantee on our happiness!” He took a large swig.

  Maggie rolled her eyes. “Well, I had to go all the way to Italy to realize that I’ve been stuck in liminality ever since high school?”

  “What’s liminality?”

  “Ah, it’s a word Tata used to describe when you can’t move forward because you’re neither here nor there. You get trapped somewhere in between.”

  “Ha! I guess that makes me the world expert on liminality.”

  Maggie just shrugged. She didn’t need to explain to Owen that it was him who had trapped her.

  “When you made love to Fabrizio, did you still feel like you were stuck in liminality?”

  With that the
tears came rolling down Maggie’s cheeks. Why could Owen always see what was in her heart? She sniffled loudly and wiped her face with her sleeve. “It was like I’d found a door I’d missed,” Maggie whispered. “When I stepped through it, Fabrizio was standing there on the other side waiting for me.” She leaned over and buried her face in Owen’s neck. “What am I going to do?”

  Owen cradled her. “I’ll tell you what we’re going to do,” Owen said tenderly. “We’re going to stop pining like lovesick puppies over guys we can never have and get out there and meet somebody who we can.”

  Chapter Forty

  “WHAT ARE those men doing with that telescope and those measuring tapes?” Tata said as she stood on the terrace staring out into the garden.

  “They’re land surveyors. Francesca sent them to do a property estimate,” Fabrizio said.

  “A property estimate? What business is it of hers how much your property is worth? She’s got that two-million-euro apartment in downtown Milan.”

  “There’s something you should read.” Enrico went into the house and came back with the registered letter and handed it to Tata.

  “Read it for me. I don’t have my glasses.”

  Tata held her expression flat as Enrico read the letter. When he finished, she took the letter from Enrico’s hand, calmly pulled her reading glasses from the pocket in her apron, and examined it. “Mmmm” was all she said, but her heart was pounding.

  “Well, our first step is to go through all those old documents and letters and see if we can find your grandmother’s will,” she said as if it were nothing more important or urgent than a misplaced umbrella or a lost photograph. “I’ll take a look. Nothing to worry about, I’m sure.”

  As soon as Enrico left and went back into the house, Tata growled, “If that Milanese putana wants war, this Sicilian strega is going to give it to her.” She strode back into her kitchen.