by Jill Blake
That he could speak so freely of other women shouldn’t bother her. “It was a long time ago, Luca. Things have changed. I’ve changed.”
“So let’s get to know each other again. The new version. Leave the past behind, start fresh.”
“You’re very persistent.”
“That’s what makes me a good researcher.”
“And modest, too.”
“Now that, cara, is something I never claimed to be.” His eyes sparkled and his slow smile made something warm unfurl inside her. It had been so long since she’d felt that particular sensation that she had to stop for a moment to identify it. Desire. Sexual arousal.
He wasn’t the only man in the world, but he was the only one who’d been able to make her feel this way in a long, long time. Was it worth letting him back in? If for nothing else than to experience this feeling again, only more intensely, the way she remembered when they’d been together: limbs entwined, his tongue on her bare skin, his fingers zeroing in with uncanny precision on just the right spot…
The words left her mouth before she was even conscious of having made the decision. “All right.”
His smile was brilliant as he caught her hand and brought it to his lips. “You won’t regret this, Bella.”
Her fingers trembled. What exactly had she agreed to?
Chapter 9
She lost count of the number of times she picked up the phone to cancel, then set it down again without actually making the call or sending the text.
By Saturday morning, she was a bundle of nerves. It wasn’t until she arrived at Penn Station that she realized she’d left her bottle of propranolol in her other purse. She considered taking the next train back to Philadelphia, went so far as to find the correct track number, only to miss the departure by two minutes. It was either wait nearly another hour for the next Acela Express, or steel herself and take the escalator up to street level. From there, it was simply a matter of catching a cab to Sarabeth’s Central Park South, where she’d agreed to meet Luca for lunch.
They sat outside, beneath the green awning, with a magnificent view of the park across the street. Warmed by the sun and a couple mimosas, Isabelle finally began to relax.
Luca kept the conversation light, and before she knew it, she’d finished her vegetable frittata and agreed to a stroll in the park.
“If you’re warm, I can carry your sweater,” he offered.
And just like that, her good mood evaporated. She tugged the left sleeve lower and shook her head. “I’m fine, thanks.”
His fingers touched her back as he steered them out of the path of an oncoming roller-blader. By the time they paused to rest on a bench near the lake, he had lapsed into silence, tired, perhaps, of shouldering the conversation alone.
Despite the unseasonable heat of the day, Isabelle shivered.
Luca wrapped an arm around her shoulders. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.”
He leaned forward and captured her chin with his free hand. Their eyes met. “Something happened,” he said. “As we entered the park. Before that, you were smiling, Bella.”
She shrugged, focusing on the open collar of his shirt.
His voice dipped. “I can’t help if I don’t know what’s going on.”
“Fine.” She shook off his hold and slid away, putting half a foot of bench space between them. “You want to know? I’ll show you. Take a good look, because this is the only time you’re ever going to see it.”
She pulled up her sleeve and thrust her arm toward him, palm side up. A livid red scar ran from just above the wrist to an inch below the elbow.
The silence stretched. She saw him move, and then the warmth of his hands enveloped hers. Her fingers trembled. His thumb stroked over her palm, raising a different kind of trembling that had nothing to do with the trauma and everything to do with the gentleness of his touch.
“Does it hurt?”
“Sometimes.”
“I’m sorry.” He raised her hand to his lips and kissed the puckered flesh above her wrist, where the scar began. “But this doesn’t change anything, Bella. Unless you let it.”
Wrong, she thought. This changes everything. But she was tired of explaining herself, tired of going over the same territory. She tried to tug her hand back, but he wouldn’t let go. They sat like that for some time, hands clasped, while the weekend pedestrian traffic flowed around them.
Eventually, he said, “What happened to him? The man who did this.”
She took a deep breath. “He’s dead.”
He nodded. “Good.”
She raised a brow at the grim satisfaction in his voice. “If I’d said otherwise, what would you have done? Put out a hit on him?”
“Cara,” he said, his tone mild, “just because I’m from the south of Italy, doesn’t mean I’m connected.”
“I was kidding.”
His expression didn’t change. “Me too.”
“What?” She sat up straighter.
He shook his head. “Relax, Bella.”
She blinked. She’d have to get used to his sense of humor again. The thought gave her pause. Up until now, she hadn’t considered this outing as the prelude to anything longer term. She’d gotten so good at living in the moment that even the possibility of something beyond today was difficult to fathom.
“How long since it happened?”
“A year,” she said. “In two weeks, it’ll be a year.”
“You’re angry.” His thumb resumed its gentle stroking. “About what happened, or the fact that I’m asking about it?”
She frowned. “You give yourself too much credit.”
“Ah. Not about me, then.” He paused. “You can’t change the past, Bella, but you can let go of the anger and move on with your life.”
Christ, not another lecture. She didn’t need this from him. She’d heard enough from family and friends. The only people who didn’t offer exhortations to buck up and think positive were her therapist and Jake.
Intellectually, she knew what had happened wasn’t the end of the world. There were many people with worse traumas and injuries than hers. Soldiers, policemen, firemen. But the difference was that they knew the risks going in—their choice of career put them on the front lines, facing the possibility of death on a daily basis.
And yes, she knew there were others even worse off, who didn’t choose to put themselves in danger: innocent victims of war and famine and natural disasters, people who lost their families and suffered untold horrors that left them physically and emotionally crippled for life. But even those traumas occurred in context. Where there was war or famine, people lived with the constant threat and expectation of disaster. Where there was massive destruction, whether natural or man-made, people were not alone in their suffering, and aid poured in from around the world.
Relatively speaking, the damage Isabelle had sustained was minor. The problem was the abrupt, unexpected nature of the trauma, and the overwhelming, disproportionate effect it had on her life and career.
As a physician, she had always felt safe in her white coat and sterile gloves. The greatest personal danger she could have imagined was the threat that every doctor faced: a malpractice suit. Unpleasant? Sure. Stressful? Certainly. But in medical school and residency, they’d been told repeatedly that in today’s litigious society, a lawsuit was pretty much inevitable. Physicians weren’t gods, and technology couldn’t cure everything. So you practiced medicine to the best of your ability, and when bad things happened—well, that’s what malpractice insurance and lawyers were for.
Nothing could have prepared Isabelle for the explosion of gunfire in her own exam room. Having the sanctity of her clinic violated by a random, senseless shooting changed everything. Bad enough she’d lost her patient. Bad enough she took a bullet to the arm. The worst of it, though, was the effect the trauma had on her sense of self. After years of studying and training to become an ob/gyn, she saw herself first and foremost as a physician—and more sp
ecifically, a surgeon. When that was ripped away from her because of the damage to her arm and resulting weakness of her hand, she felt like she no longer knew who she was. She’d lost the very thing that defined her. What to do, where to go from here, she had no idea.
And that was even before the nightmares and flashbacks and panic attacks began.
She’d read detective novels where the hero got shot, and just kept going. An improvised dressing, some alcohol, a couple aspirin, and he’d be good as new. Too bad real life was nothing like that.
Too bad Luca didn’t understand.
She succeeded in freeing herself and stood up. “Thank you for lunch.”
He caught up with her as she wove her way through the throngs of people clogging West Drive. “Bella, listen—”
She stopped abruptly. “No, Luca. You listen. Three and a half years ago you couldn’t get away fast enough. Now, all of a sudden you’re back and you want to tell me how to live my life? I don’t think so.”
His face paled. “You’re right, Bella. I apologized, and I’ll apologize again. If I could go back and change things, I would. But that’s not possible. Not for you, and not for me. All I’m asking is for a chance to start over. The future is ours, to make of it what we will. What do you say, Bella?”
She resumed walking. “It’s not that easy.”
He matched his pace to hers. “I know.”
“Do you?”
They crossed a footbridge, slowing to make way for a passing horse-drawn carriage.
He waited for the clatter of wheels to die down before speaking. “I always wanted kids.”
Thrown by the abrupt change of topic, Isabelle glanced at him from the corner of her eye.
“Cristina and I had been talking about it for a while.” He paused briefly to gaze at the couples and families who littered a vast expanse of manicured green lawn. “She was away on business when I got a bill from a place called Family Planning Associates. Who knew, with a name like that, that they’d specialize in abortions?”
Isabelle stopped mid-stride and stared at him. “Are you saying your wife had an abortion without telling you?”
“Ex-wife.” He guided Isabelle out of the flow of traffic, toward the grass. “If not for the fact that she was on my health insurance, I probably wouldn’t have known.”
“That’s terrible.” She bit her lip. “I’m sorry.”
“A couple months later, after she left,” he continued, “I got another bill. You know what Essure is?”
“Yes. A form of non-surgical sterilization for women.” Isabelle hesitated. “She did that too?”
A muscle jumped in his jaw. “I found out post-factum. Nothing I could say or do to change things.”
Isabelle couldn’t imagine a woman being married to Luca and going to such extremes to avoid having his child. Of course, there were two sides to every story, but this…this just seemed cruel. She touched his arm, felt the muscles tense beneath his shirt. “I’m sorry.”
He took a deep breath, and then reached for her hand. This time she didn’t pull away. “I realize it’s not the same, Bella. But I do know something about letting go of anger and moving on.”
“You can have more children.”
“Yes.” He led them back onto the paved path. “And you have a new career.”
They walked on in silence. A faint breeze tugged at the curls that had come loose from her hairclip. The smell of roasted peanuts and soft pretzels wafted from a nearby hot dog stand. Around them, tourists clicked away on digital cameras and chattered in a dozen languages, children laughed and yelled, dogs barked.
She felt almost like her old self, the Isabelle she’d been when they’d walked the streets of Positano together, hand in hand, just like this, when she’d been so attuned to the man beside her that the color and beauty of her surroundings seemed like the blur of an impressionist painting seen from a distance.
They stopped for ice cream around five. Isabelle pulled out her phone to check the Amtrak schedule.
“I should head back,” she said. “I can still make the 6:05 train from Penn Station if I hurry.”
Luca studied the timetable over her shoulder. “It’ll be dark by the time you get into 30th Street.”
She tucked the iPhone back in her bag. “It’s well lit, and it’s a quick walk home.”
“I’ll drive you.”
“No need. I came here on my own, I can get back the same way.”
“You’re not walking home in the dark alone.”
“Fine, I’ll take the Blue Line from 30th Street. Or grab a cab.”
“I’ll drive you,” he repeated.
“All the way to Philadelphia, and then you’ll turn around and go back to Princeton? You’re kidding me. You’ll be in the car till midnight.”
“Not quite that long.” He flashed a smile. “You could invite me in.”
“I’m not sleeping with you.”
“You wound me, cara, if you think that is my main motivation.” He reclaimed her hand as they exited the park on Columbus Circle. “This way. I’m parked a few blocks down.”
She gave up arguing. If he wanted to play the gentleman, fine. It wouldn’t change the way she felt about him, which was…
She faltered. How did she feel about him? Their date hadn’t gone the way she’d expected. In a few hours’ time, she’d learned more about Luca than she had during their entire ten days together in Italy. For the first time, she thought she understood—or could at least empathize—with his point of view. What his ex-wife had done was enough to make any man leery of relationships. After Italy, he’d no doubt latched on to the first excuse he could find to break off his affair with Isabelle. The fact that Isabelle had a demanding career, just like his ex-wife, was probably a godsend: what better pretext to convince himself that their relationship was doomed to fail, and that he should be the one to cut it short?
And yet, here he was, three and a half years later, pursuing Isabelle despite whatever roadblocks she was determined to throw in his path. The question was why. A change of heart? A perverse desire to have what was no longer his to take? Or had he truly matured, come to terms with the past, and let go of the anger and bitterness over his failed marriage? He’d implied as much. Could she believe him? Could she trust him not to change his mind and back away the moment things got a little uncomfortable?
But more importantly, was she herself willing to invite Luca back into her life?
She didn’t know.
Two hours later, as they pulled onto her tree-lined street in Rittenhouse Square, she was no closer to an answer. But she did know that she wasn’t ready to see him turn around and drive away just yet.
She punched in the garage door code so Luca could park next to her Prius, then led him into the house. Dropping her keys and purse on the entrance hall table, she proceeded through the living room and into the kitchen, flipping on lights along the way.
He followed more slowly, taking in the twelve-foot ceilings with elegant crown molding, gleaming oak floors, walls lined with glass-encased bookcases full of well-thumbed novels and old medical texts. She hadn’t changed much since the days when the place had belonged to her brother Marc. Until last year, she simply hadn’t had the time, and then…well, home improvement and redecorating had been low on her list of priorities.
Luca stopped to examine a series of framed portraits on the mantel above the fireplace. “Your family?”
“Yes.” She poured a couple glasses of ice water and offered him one. Strange to realize that this was the first time he’d seen her home. She’d known him intimately, could still recall the salty taste of his skin when they’d swum naked in Amalfi, the wiry texture of his chest hair abrading her nipples, the clenching of her muscles around him as he thrust slowly inside her. And yet in many ways they were still strangers.
“You’re probably hungry,” she said, heading back to the kitchen.
“Are you offering to feed me?” He paused in the archway that separated the
rooms.
She made a non-committal sound and opened the freezer, eyeing the selection of microwave dinners.
“You’re joking, Bella.” Luca set his glass on the granite countertop and moved closer. “That’s like eating cardboard. I can’t believe that after experiencing Italy, you would even think to come back to this.”
“Well, it’s either that, or—” she opened the fridge, “some yogurt and an apple.”
He peeked over her shoulder into the nearly empty Sub-Zero. “You don’t cook?”
She shrugged. She knew what he was thinking, had heard it all before. But after years of eating on the run in med school and residency, she’d learned not to be picky. Sure, she enjoyed good food. But preparing it? She’d never had the time, patience, or inclination.
He started opening cabinets.
“What are you doing?” she said, surprise warring with amusement.
He found the pantry and rifled through its contents. “For someone who doesn’t cook, you have a very well-appointed kitchen.”
“My brother outfitted it when he lived here. Cooking was something he did for fun.” She smiled, recalling the countless times she’d dropped by to raid Marc’s fridge. He was an excellent cook, claimed the process relaxed him. Good thing, too, since his wife Kate didn’t know a garlic press from a nutcracker. But ever since they’d relocated to a larger place in the ’burbs that could accommodate their growing family, and Izzy had moved into the townhouse herself, the fridge and cabinets were pretty bare.
Luca shook his head and muttered something under his breath. “Where’s the nearest market?”
“A couple blocks down, on Spruce.”
“Come on.” He ushered her out. “We’re going shopping.”
###
She watched in silent appreciation as Luca whipped up a gourmet feast from the ingredients he’d carefully selected and purchased. They’d stopped at a liquor store on the way back as well, picking up a bottle of Allegrini Valpolicella.
