Breathing Room

by Susan Elizabeth Phillips

  Ren hadn’t misrepresented his abilities as a chef. The chicken was perfect, juicy and flavorful, and the roasted vegetables held subtle undertones of rosemary and marjoram. As they ate, the chandelier swayed gently from the tree limb above them, and the flames flickered happily. Crickets sang, the wine flowed, and the stories grew more outrageous. It was all very relaxed, very merry, very Italian. “Pure bliss.” Isabel sighed, as she bit into the last of the meaty porcini.

  “Our funghi are the best in the world,” Giulia said. “You must come and hunt the porcini with me, Isabel. I have secret places.”

  Isabel wondered if Giulia’s invitation was genuine or another gambit to get her away from the house, but she was too relaxed to care.

  Vittorio chucked Giulia under the chin. “Everyone in Tuscany has secret places to find porcini. But it’s true. Giulia’s nonna was one of the most famous fungarola in the area—what you would call a mushroom hunter—and she passed on everything she knew to her granddaughter.”

  “We will all go, yes?” Giulia said. “Very early in the morning. It is best after we’ve had a little rain. We will put on our old boots and take our baskets and find the best porcini in all of Tuscany.”

  Ren brought out a tall, narrow bottle of golden vinsanto, the local dessert wine, along with the plate of pears and a wedge of cheese. One of the candles in the tree chandelier sputtered out, and an owl made a soft whoo nearby. The meal had passed the two-hour mark, but it was Tuscany, and no one seemed in a rush to finish. Isabel took a sip of vinsanto and sighed again. “The food has been too delicious for words.”

  “Ren’s cooking is much better than Vittorio’s,” Giulia teased.

  “Better than yours, too,” her husband responded, mischief in his smile.

  “But not as good as Vittorio’s mamma’s.”

  “Ah, my mamma’s.” Vittorio kissed his fingers.

  “It is a miracle, Isabel, that Vittorio is not one of the mammoni.” At Isabel’s puzzled expression, Giulia explained, “These are the . . . How do we say this in English?”

  Ren smiled. “The mama’s boys.”

  Vittorio laughed. “All Italian men are mama’s boys.”

  “So true,” Giulia replied. “By tradition, Italian men live with their parents until they marry. Their mamas cook for them, do their laundry, run their errands, treat them like little kings. Then the men don’t want to get married because they know younger women like me won’t cater to them like their mammas.”

  “Ah, but you do other things.” Vittorio traced her bare shoulder with his finger.

  Isabel’s own shoulder tingled, and Ren gave her a slow smile that made her blood rush. She’d seen that smile on the screen, usually just before he led some unsuspecting woman to her death. Still . . . not the worst way to go.

  Giulia leaned against Vittorio. “Fewer Italian men get married all the time. This is why we have such a low birthrate in Italy, one of the lowest in the world.”

  “Is that true?” Isabel asked.

  Ren nodded. “The Italian population could decrease by half every forty years if the trend doesn’t change.”

  “But it’s a Catholic country. Doesn’t that automatically mean lots of children?”

  “Most Italians don’t even go to mass,” Vittorio replied. “My American guests are always shocked to learn that only a small percentage of our population truly practices Catholicism.”

  The headlights of a car coming down the lane interrupted their conversation. Isabel glanced at her watch. It was after eleven, a little late for visitors. Ren rose. “I’ll see who it is.”

  A few minutes later he came into the garden with Tracy Briggs, who gave Isabel a tired wave. “Hey, there.”

  “Sit down before you collapse,” Ren growled. “I’ll get you something to eat.”

  While Ren went inside, Isabel performed the introductions. Tracy wore another expensive but rumpled maternity dress and the same run-down sandals she’d had on yesterday. Despite that, she looked gorgeous.

  “How was the sight-seeing?” Isabel asked.

  “Lovely. No kids.”

  Ren emerged holding a plate piled with leftovers. He slapped it in front of her, then filled a glass with water. “Eat and go home.”

  Vittorio looked shocked.

  “We used to be married,” Tracy explained as the last of the candles sputtered out overhead. “Ren has leftover hostility.”

  “Take all the time you want,” Isabel said. “Ren is being insensitive as usual.” Not so insensitive, however, that he didn’t make sure Tracy had plenty to eat.

  Tracy looked longingly toward the farmhouse. It’s so peaceful down here. So adult.”

  “Forget it,” he said. “I’ve already moved in, and there’s no room for you.”

  “You haven’t moved in,” Isabel said, even though she knew he had.

  “Relax,” Tracy said. “As much as I enjoyed getting away from them, I’ve been missing them like crazy for hours.”

  “Don’t let us keep you a minute longer.”

  “They’re asleep by now. No reason to hurry back.”

  Except to begin making peace with your husband, Isabel thought.

  “Tell me where you went today,” Vittorio said.

  The conversation moved on to the local sites, with only Giulia remaining silent. Isabel realized she’d been subdued ever since Tracy had appeared, almost resentful. Since Tracy had been friendly, Isabel didn’t understand it.

  “I’m tired, Vittorio,” she said abruptly. “We need to go home.”

  Isabel and Ren walked them out to their car, and by the time they got there, Giulia had recovered her good cheer enough to invite them to their house for dinner the following week. “And we will go funghi hunting soon, yes?”

  Isabel had been enjoying herself so much she’d managed to forget that Giulia and Vittorio were part of the forces trying to get her out of the house. Still, she agreed.

  As the couple drove off, Tracy headed for her own car, munching a bread crust on the way. “Time to get back.”

  “I’ll take the children for a while tomorrow if you’d like,” Isabel said. “That’ll give you and Harry a chance to talk.”

  “You can’t,” Ren said. “We have plans. And Isabel doesn’t believe in sticking her nose into other people’s business, do you, Isabel?”

  “On the contrary, I live to interfere.”

  Tracy gave her a tired smile. “Harry will be halfway to the Swiss border by lunch, Isabel. He won’t let a little thing like talking to his wife interfere with his job.”

  “Maybe you’re underestimating him.”

  “Or maybe not.” Tracy hugged her, then Ren, who gave her shoulder a comforting squeeze and helped her into her car. “I’ll give Anna and Marta a big tip for watching the kids today,” she said. “Thanks for dinner.”

  “You’re welcome. Don’t do anything stupider than usual.”

  “Not me.”

  As Tracy drove away, Isabel’s stomach took a roller-coaster dip. She wasn’t ready to be alone with Ren, not until she’d had a little more time to come to terms with the fact that she’d nearly decided to let herself become another notch on his splintery bedpost.

  “You’re getting jittery again, aren’t you?” he said as she headed for the kitchen.

  “I’m just going to clean up, that’s all.”

  “I’ll pay Marta to do it tomorrow. Stop being so nervous, for God’s sake. I’m not going to jump you.”

  “You think I’m afraid of you?” She grabbed a dish towel. “Well, think again, Mr. Irresistible, because whether or not our relationship goes any further is my decision, not yours.”

  “I don’t even get to vote?”

  “I know how you’re voting.”

  His smile sent out a sexy smoke signal. “And I’ve got a pretty good idea how you’re voting, too. Although . . .” The smile faded. “We both need to make sure we’re clear about where we’re going with this.”

  He wanted to warn her
off, as though she were too naïve to figure out that he wasn’t proposing a long-term relationship. “Save your breath. The only thing I could possibly—and I emphasize ‘possibly,’ because I’m still thinking about it—the only thing I could possibly want from you is that amazing body, so you’d better let me know right now if I’ll break your heart when I dump you afterward.”

  “God, you’re a brat.”

  She gazed up. “You’re not, God. Forgive Ren for being disrespectful.”

  “That wasn’t a prayer.”

  “Tell Her.”

  He had to know it wouldn’t take much effort on his part to make her forget she wasn’t quite ready to take that final step. One more of those well-practiced kisses would do the trick. She watched him try to make up his mind whether or not to press her, and she didn’t know whether she was glad or sorry when he headed for the stairs.

  Tracy used the banister to haul herself upstairs. She felt like a cow, but then she always felt like a cow by her seventh month—a big, healthy Elsie cow with round eyes, a shiny nose, and a daisy chain around her neck. She loved being pregnant, even with her head hanging over the toilet, her ankles swollen, and the sight of her feet nothing but a memory. Until now she’d never worried much about the stretch marks that had spread like lightning bolts across her belly or her big, leaky breasts, because Harry had pronounced them beautiful. He’d said pregnancy made her smell like sex. Obviously he didn’t find her sexy now.

  She walked down the long corridor toward her room. The heavy moldings, frescoed ceilings, and Murano glass fixtures weren’t her style, but they suited the dark elegance of her ex-husband. Considering the way she’d barged in on him, he wasn’t being as much of a prick as she’d expected, which proved that you could never predict exactly how people would behave, even the ones you knew the best.

  She opened the door to her bedroom, then stopped just inside as light from the hallway fell on her bed. Harry lay on his back in the middle of her mattress, the raspy sounds coming from his mouth not exactly snores, but not exactly not-snores either.

  He was still here. She hadn’t been completely certain he’d stick around for the rest of the day. She allowed herself a moment of hope, but it didn’t last long. Only his sense of obligation had kept him from leaving right away. He’d drive off first thing in the morning.

  In looks, Harry was ordinary compared with Ren. His face was too long, his jaw too stubborn, and his light brown hair beginning to thin on top. The creases at the corners of his eyes hadn’t been there the night of that dreary cocktail party twelve years ago when she’d accidentally on purpose tipped a glass of wine into his lap.

  The moment she’d seen him, she’d made up her mind to get his clothes off, but he hadn’t made it easy. As he’d later explained, men like him weren’t used to having beautiful women hitting on them. But she’d known what she wanted, and she’d wanted Harry Briggs. His quiet intelligence and steady outlook had been the perfect antidote to her wild, aimless life.

  Now Connor lay across his chest, the fingers of one chubby hand caught in the neck of his father’s undershirt. Brittany was pressed against his other side, the final remnant of her tattered blankie draped over his arm. Steffie had curled into a tight, insect-fighting ball near his legs. Only Jeremy was missing, and she suspected that it had taken a supreme act of will to keep him in his room instead of cuddled up with his father and the “brats.”

  For twelve years Harry had been the calm to her fire, putting up with all the drama and emotional excess that made up who she was. Despite their love for each other, it hadn’t been an easy match. Her untidiness drove him crazy, and she hated the way he withdrew when she tried to get him to express his feelings. She’d always been secretly afraid he’d eventually leave her for someone more like himself.

  Connor stirred and rolled farther up on his father’s chest. Harry instinctively drew him closer. How many nights had they spent with kids in their bed? She never turned them away. It hadn’t seemed logical that the most secure people in a family, the parents, were permitted to find comfort together at night but the smallest and most vulnerable were expected to sleep alone. After Brittany was born, they’d moved their king-size mattress to the floor so they didn’t have to worry about babies falling out at night and hurting themselves.

  Her friends had been incredulous. “How can you ever have sex?” But the doors in their house had solid locks, and she and Harry had always managed to find a way. Always, that was, until this last pregnancy, when he’d finally gotten fed up with her.

  He stirred and opened his eyes. They were unfocused until they settled on her. For a moment she thought she saw a flicker of that familiar, steadfast love, but then his expression went blank, and she saw nothing at all.

  She turned away and went off to find an empty bed.

  In a small stone house on the outskirts of Casalleone, Vittorio Chiara pulled his wife closer to his side. Giulia liked to sleep with her fingers in his hair, and that’s where they were now, woven through the long strands. But she wasn’t asleep. His chest was damp beneath her cheek, so he knew she’d been crying, and her silent tears broke his heart.

  “Isabel will be gone by November,” he whispered. “We’ll do the best we can until then.”

  “What if she doesn’t leave? For all we know, he might sell the house to her.”

  “Don’t borrow trouble, cara.”

  “I know you’re right, but . . .”

  He stroked her shoulder to quiet her. A few years ago he would have made love to her, but that wasn’t so much fun anymore. “We’ve waited a long time,” he whispered. “November isn’t far off.”

  “They’re nice people.”

  She sounded so sad he couldn’t bear it, and he said the only thing he could think of that might cheer her up. “I’ll be in Cortona on Wednesday night with those Americans I’m taking out. Can you meet me?”

  She didn’t reply for a moment, but then she nodded against his skin. “I’ll be there,” she said, sounding just as sad as he felt.

  “This time it’ll work, you’ll see.”

  Her breath skittered across his skin. “If only she’d go away.”

  Something woke Isabel up. She stirred in bed, then began to drift back off, only to hear it again, a clicking against the window. She turned on her side and listened.

  At first she heard nothing, but then it came again: the sound of pebbles being tossed against the glass. She got up and made her way across the tiles. Outside the window only the faintest sheen of moonlight illuminated the garden. And then she saw it.

  A ghost.

  It moved through the olive grove, a vaporous apparition. She thought about waking Ren, but going anywhere near his bed didn’t seem like the best idea. Better to wait until morning.

  The ghost moved behind a tree, then drifted out again. Isabel waved, shut the window, and went back to bed.

  13

  Tracy reveled in the luxury of waking up without being poked by a five-year-old or lying in a damp spot from Connor’s leaky diaper. If he didn’t potty train soon, she was putting him in Depends.

  She heard a catcall from Jeremy followed by Steffie’s shrill scream. He was teasing her again, and Brittany probably running around naked, and Connor got diarrhea if he ate too much fruit at breakfast, but instead of getting up, she buried her face in the pillow. It was still early. What if Harry hadn’t left yet? She couldn’t bear the thought of watching him drive away.

  She closed her eyes and tried to force herself back to sleep, but the baby was stomping on her bladder, so she dragged herself out of bed and made her way to the bathroom. The moment she sat on the toilet seat, the door flew open and Steffie burst in.

  “I hate Jeremy. Make him stop teasing me.”

  Brittany appeared—dressed for once, but with Tracy’s lipstick smeared over her mouth. “Mommy! Look at me!”

  “Pick me up!” Connor demanded, padding in, too.

  And then Harry was there, standing in the doorway
gazing down at her. He hadn’t made it to the shower yet, and he wore jeans with one of his sleeping T-shirts. Only Harry Briggs could have T-shirts he’d specifically designated for sleeping, old ones he considered too worn for regular daytime wear but too good to throw out. Even in his sleeping T-shirt he looked better than she did, sitting on the pot with her gown bunched at her waist.

  “Could I have a little privacy, please?”

  “I hate Jeremy. He called me a—”

  “I’ll talk to him. Now, leave. All of you.”

  Harry stepped back from the door. “Go on, kids. Anna said breakfast would be ready in a minute. Girls, take your brother.”

  The kids reluctantly filed out, and she was left with Harry, the person she least wanted standing around right now. “Everybody means you, too. Why are you still here?”

  He regarded her through his glasses. “Because my family’s here.”

  “Like you care about that.” She was never at her best in the morning, and today she felt particularly shrewish. “Get out. I have to pee.”

  “Go right ahead.” He sat on the edge of the tub and waited.

  Sooner or later pregnant women were robbed of every shred of dignity, and this was one of those times. When she was done, he handed her a precisely folded stack of toilet paper. She rumpled it just to make the point that everything in life couldn’t be as neat as he wanted. She wiped, flushed, and stood up to wash her hands, all without looking at him.

  “I suggest we talk now while the children are eating breakfast. I’d like to be on the road by noon.”

  “Why wait until noon when you can go right now?” She squeezed toothpaste onto her brush.

  “I told you yesterday. I’m not leaving without the children.”

  He couldn’t work and care for the children at the same time, they both knew that, so why was he doing this? He also knew she wouldn’t let an army of stone-hearted husbands take her kids from her. He was trying to manipulate her into going back to Zurich.

  “Okay, take them. I need a vacation.” She began brushing her teeth as if she didn’t have a care in the world.