Breathing Room

by Susan Elizabeth Phillips

  “Is that what you think I’m doing? Judging you?”

  He tossed down the cigarette. “It wasn’t my fault that she killed herself, damn it! I did everything I could.”

  “Did you?”

  “You think I should have stuck around?” He ground out the butt. “Should I have handed her the needle when she wanted to shoot up? Scored some blow for her? I told you I had drug problems when I was a kid. I can’t be around that shit.”

  She remembered the joking reference he’d made to snorting cocaine, but he wasn’t joking now.

  “I cleaned up when I was in my early twenties, but it still scares the hell out of me to think how close I came to screwing up my life. Since then I’ve made sure I stay as far away from it as I can.” He shook his head. “What happened to her was such a goddamn waste.”

  Her heart ached for him. “And if you’d only stuck around, you might have been able to save her?”

  He turned on her, his expression furious. “That’s bullshit. Nobody could save her.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Do you think I was the only one who tried? Her family was there. A lot of her friends. But all she cared about was her next fix.”

  “Maybe there was something you could have said? Something you could have done?”

  “She was a junkie, damn it! At some point she had to help herself.”

  “And she wouldn’t do that, would she?”

  He stubbed his toe into the dirt.

  Isabel rose. “You couldn’t do it for her, Ren, but you wanted to. And you’ve been going crazy ever since she died trying to figure out what you could have said or done that would have made a difference.”

  He stuffed his hands in his pockets and gazed off into the distance. “There wasn’t anything.”

  “Are you absolutely certain?”

  His long sigh came from someplace deep inside. “Yeah, I am.”

  She moved next to him and rubbed the small of his back. “Keep reminding yourself.”

  He gazed down at her, the furrows between his eyebrows smoothing. “I really am going to have to write you a check, aren’t I?”

  “Consider it barter for the cooking lesson.”

  His lips curved ever so slightly. “Just don’t pray for me, okay? Freaks me out.”

  “You don’t think you deserve a few prayers?”

  “Not when I’m trying to remember what the person who’s praying for me looks like naked.”

  Something hot leaped between them. He lifted his hand and took his time tucking a lock of hair behind her ear. “It’s just my luck. I stay on my good behavior for months, but then, when I’m finally ready to raise some hell, I get marooned on a desert island with a nun.”

  “Is that the way you think of me?”

  He toyed with her earlobe. “I’m trying, but it’s not working.”

  “Good.”

  “God, Isabel, you send out more mixed signals than a bad radio.” He dropped his hand in frustration.

  She licked her lips. “It’s . . . because I’m conflicted.”

  “You’re not conflicted at all. You want this just as much as I do, but you haven’t figured out how to work it into whatever your current life plan is, so you’re dragging your heels. The same heels, by the way, that I’d like to feel propped on my shoulders.”

  Her mouth went dry.

  “You’re driving me nuts!” he exclaimed.

  “And you think you’re not doing the same to me?”

  “The first good news I’ve had all day. So why are we standing around?”

  He reached out, but she jumped back. “I—I need to get my bearings. We need to get our bearings. To sit down and talk first.”

  “Exactly what I don’t want.” Now he was the one who stepped back. “Damn it, I’m not getting interrupted again, and the minute I put my hands on you, someone’s guaranteed to show up at the farmhouse. How about you grab that picnic lunch, because I need a distraction in a big way.”

  “I thought my picnic was too girly for you.”

  “Hunger’s put me in touch with my feminine side. Sexual frustration, on the other hand, has put me in touch with my killer instincts. Tell me you didn’t forget the wine.”

  “It’s a stakeout, you pansy, not a cocktail party. Go use those binoculars while I put out the food.”

  For once he didn’t argue, and while he kept watch, she unpacked her purchases from the morning. She’d bought sandwiches with wafer-thin slices of prosciutto set between rounds of freshly baked focaccia. The salad was made of ripe tomatoes, fresh basil, and farro, a barleylike grain that frequently appeared in Tuscan cuisine. She set it all on a shady section of wall that provided a view of the farmhouse, then added a bottle of mineral water and the remaining pears.

  They both seemed to realize that they couldn’t endure any more verbal foreplay, so they talked about food and books while they ate—everything but sex. Ren was intelligent, amusing, and better informed than she on a variety of subjects.

  She’d just reached for one of the pears when he grabbed his binoculars. “Looks like the party’s finally started.”

  She found her opera glasses and watched as the garden and olive grove gradually filled with people. Massimo and Giancarlo appeared first, along with a man she recognized as Giancarlo’s brother Bernardo, who was the local poliziotto, or policeman. Anna took her place at the top of the wall with Marta and several other middle-aged women. All of them began to direct the activity of the younger people as they arrived. Isabel recognized the pretty redhead she’d bought flowers from yesterday, the good-looking young man who worked in the Foto shop, and the butcher.

  “Look who else is putting in an appearance.”

  She turned her opera glasses in the direction of Ren’s binoculars and saw Vittorio enter the garden with Giulia. They joined a group that had begun taking apart the wall, stone by stone. “I shouldn’t be disappointed in them,” she said, “but I am.”

  “Yeah, me, too.”

  Marta shooed one of the younger men away from her roses.

  “I wonder what they’re looking for? And why did they have to wait until I moved in to try to find it?”

  “Maybe they didn’t know it was lost until then.” He set aside the binoculars and began stuffing their trash into the bags. “I think it’s time to play a little hardball.”

  “You’re not allowed to use anything with a blade or trigger.”

  “Only as a last resort.”

  He kept his hand on her arm to steady her as they made their way down the trail to the car. It took only a moment to toss everything inside and set off. He pushed the Panda hard. “We’re making a sneak attack,” he said as he circled Casalleone instead of taking the most direct route through town. “Everybody in Italy has a cell phone, and I don’t want anyone at the farmhouse tipped off that we’re heading back.”

  They abandoned the car on a side road not far from the villa and approached through the woods. He picked a leaf from her hair as they stepped out into the olive grove and walked toward the house.

  Anna was the first to spot them. She set down the water pitchers she’d been carrying. Someone turned off a radio that had been playing pop music. Gradually the buzz of conversation stopped, and the crowd shifted. Giulia stepped to Vittorio’s side and slipped her hand into his. Bernardo, dressed in his poliziotto uniform, stood beside his brother Giancarlo.

  Ren stopped at the edge of the grove, surveyed the mess, then surveyed the crowd. He’d never looked more like a natural-born killer, and everyone got the message.

  Isabel stepped back so he had plenty of room to work.

  He took his time, letting his actor’s eyes move from one face to the next, playing the bad guy as only he knew how. When the silence grew unbearable, he finally spoke. In Italian.

  She should have realized that this conversation wouldn’t be in English, but she hadn’t thought about it, and she was so frustrated she wanted to scream.

  When he stopped, they all bega
n to respond. It was like watching an army of hyperactive symphony conductors. Gestures toward the heavens, the earth, toward heads and breastbones. Loud outbursts, shrugs, eye-rolling. She hated not knowing what they were saying.

  “English,” she hissed, but he was too busy sandblasting Anna to pay attention. The housekeeper moved to the front of the crowd, where she responded to him with all the drama of a diva performing a tragic aria.

  He finally cut her off and said something to the crowd. When he was done, they began to disperse, muttering to one another.

  “What are they saying?” she demanded.

  “More nonsense about the well.”

  “Find their weak point.”

  “I already have.” He stepped farther into the garden. “Giulia, Vittorio, you’re not going anywhere.”

  14

  Vittorio and Giulia glanced uncomfortably at each other, then moved reluctantly back into the garden. Anna and Marta disappeared, leaving only the four of them. Ren bore in for the kill.

  “I want to know what’s happening on my property. And don’t insult me with any more crap about water problems.”

  Vittorio looked so uneasy that Isabel almost felt sorry for him. “It’s very complicated,” he said.

  “Simplify it so we can understand,” Ren drawled.

  Vittorio and Giulia gazed at each other. A trace of stubbornness appeared in her jaw. “We have to tell them, Vittorio.”

  “No,” he said. “Go to the car.”

  “You go to the car!” Giulia’s hands flew. “You and your friends haven’t been able to do this. Now it is my turn.”

  “Giulia . . .” His voice sounded a warning note, but she ignored it.

  “This—this goes back to . . . Paolo Baglio, Marta’s brother,” she said in a rush.

  “No more!” Vittorio had the helpless expression of a man who knew he was looking at disaster but couldn’t figure out how to stop it.

  Giulia pushed past him and faced Ren. “He was—he was the local . . . representative. For . . . the Family.”

  “The Mafia.” Ren sat on the wall, much too comfortable with the subject of organized crime. Vittorio turned away as if his wife’s words were too painful for him to hear.

  Giulia seemed to be trying to decide how much to tell them. “Paolo was . . . he was responsible for making sure our local businesspeople did not meet with misfortune. You know what I mean by this? That a shopkeeper’s windows were not broken at night or that the florist’s delivery truck did not disappear.”

  “Protection money,” Ren said.

  “Whatever name you wish to give it.” She twisted her hands in front of her. They were small and delicate, with a wedding band on one finger and smaller rings on the others. “We are only a country village, but everyone understood how this worked, and the businesspeople paid Paolo the first day of each month. Because of this, windows were not broken, the florist made his deliveries, and there was never any trouble.” She turned her wedding band. “Then Paolo had a heart attack and died.”

  She bit her lip. “At first everything was fine—except for Marta, who missed him very much. But right before you arrived, Isabel, some men came to town. Not nice men. Men from Naples.” Her lips pursed, as if she’d tasted something sour. “They—they found our mayor and . . . it is too horrible. But when they were done, we understood that Paolo had been very foolish. He had lied to them about how much money he had collected, and then he had hidden away millions of old-fashioned lire for himself.” She pulled in a deep breath. “They have given us a month to find the money and turn it over. And if we don’t . . .”

  Her words trailed off, and Vittorio came forward. Now that Giulia had begun, he seemed resigned to finishing the story. “Marta is certain Paolo hid the money somewhere near the house. We know he didn’t spend it, and Marta remembers that he was always working on the wall before he died.”

  “We are running out of time,” Giulia said. “We didn’t want to lie to you, but what else could we do? It is dangerous for you to be involved, and we only wanted to protect you. Do you understand now, Isabel, why we wished for you to move into town? We are very worried that the men will grow impatient and show up here. And if you should be in their way . . .” She made a sharp, cutting gesture.

  “It is very bad, this thing that has happened,” Vittorio said. “We must find the money, which means we must finish taking apart the wall as quickly as possible.”

  “Si. These man are very dangerous.”

  “Interesting.” Ren rose. “I need some time to think about this.”

  “Please don’t take too long.” Giulia beseeched him with her eyes.

  “We are very sorry we had to lie to you,” Vittorio said. “And, Isabel, I am also sorry about that ghost last night. It was Giancarlo. If I had known, I would have put a stop to it. You will still come for dinner next week, yes?”

  “And the porcinis?” Giulia said to Isabel. “The next time it rains.”

  “Of course,” Isabel replied.

  When the couple left, Isabel sighed and sat down on the wall. For a moment she let herself drink in the peace of the garden, and then she gazed at Ren. “Do you believe them?”

  “Not a word.”

  “Neither do I.” She’d started to nibble her thumbnail but caught herself in time. “One thing I do believe: There’s something hidden here.”

  “The country’s crawling with buried artifacts.” He patted the back pocket of his jeans, then seemed to realize he’d already smoked his daily cigarette. “When an artifact is found, even if it’s on private land, it becomes the property of the government. Maybe the good people of Casalleone have a bead on something so valuable they don’t want to turn it over.”

  “You think the entire town’s in on a conspiracy? Bernardo’s a cop. It doesn’t seem too likely.”

  “Cops have been known to be crooked. Do you have a better idea?” He gazed out at the hills.

  “It would have to be one heck of an artifact.” A leaf landed on the wall beside her, and she brushed it away. “We need to go along with this, I think.”

  “I agree. I also intend to be around when they’re tearing that wall apart.”

  “So do I.” One of the cats came up and rubbed against her legs. She reached down to pet it.

  “I need to get the car, and then I have to go up to the villa for a while, God protect me.”

  “Good. I have work to do, and you distract me.”

  “The crisis book?”

  “Yes. And don’t you dare say a word.”

  “Not me. So I distract you, do I?”

  She tucked her thumbnail into her fist. “I mean it, Ren. Don’t bother turning all that smolder on me, because this isn’t going any further until we talk.”

  He sighed and looked resigned. “We can have dinner tonight in San Gimignano. And we’ll talk.”

  “Thank you.”

  His lips curved in a cocky smile. “But the minute you’re done talking, I get to put my hands anywhere I want. And wear something sexy. Preferably low-cut and definitely without underwear.”

  “You high school boys crack me up. Any other requests?”

  “No, I think that about uncovers it.” He whistled as he walked away, looking more like a gorgeous goof-off than Hollywood’s favorite psychopath.

  She took a quick bath, then grabbed a pad of paper and jotted down a few ideas for her book, but her brain wasn’t working, so she set the pad aside and made her way up to the villa to see how Tracy was doing.

  “Just peachy.” Ren’s ex-wife lay on the chaise by the pool, her eyes closed. “Harry and the kids hate me, and the new baby is giving me gas.”

  Isabel had spotted the children climbing out of Harry’s car in the drive, their faces smeared with gelato. “If Harry hated you, I don’t think he’d still be here.”

  Tracy raised the back of the chaise and put on her sunglasses. “It’s only because he feels guilty about the kids. He’ll leave tomorrow.”

  “Have the
two of you tried to talk?”

  “I mainly talked, and he acted condescending.”

  “Why don’t you try again? Tonight, after the children are asleep. Pour him a glass of wine and ask him to list three things you could do for him that would make him happy.”

  “That’s easy. Raise my IQ twenty points, get organized instead of pregnant, and change my entire personality.”

  Isabel laughed. “Feeling a little sorry for ourself, are we?”

  Tracy squinted at her over the top of her sunglasses. “You’re one weird shrink.”

  “I know. Think about it, okay? Ask the question, and make it sincere. No sarcasm.”

  “No sarcasm? You just lost me. So tell me about you and Ren.”

  Isabel slouched back in the chair. “I’d rather not.”

  “The good doc can dish it out, but she can’t take it. Nice to see I’m not the only screwed-up female sitting around this pool.”

  “Definitely not. And what can I say other than noting the obvious—I’ve lost my mind.”

  “He does that to women.”

  “I am way out of my league.”

  “On the other hand, you have a low tolerance for bullshit, so you know exactly what you’re getting into. That gives you a distinct advantage over his other women.”

  “I suppose.”

  “Mommyyyy!” Connor shot around the corner, his fat blue shorts bobbing from side to side as he ran.

  “Hey, big guy!” Tracy rose, scooped him up, and covered his gelato-stained cheeks with kisses. He peered at Isabel over her shoulder and grinned, showing sparkly little teeth.

  Something constricted around Isabel’s heart. Tracy’s life might be in disarray, but it still had its rewards.

  Ren grabbed the FedEx envelope he’d been waiting for from the console in the villa’s entrance hall and beat a hasty retreat to the master bedroom. He locked the door against small intruders and settled into a chair by the window. As he gazed down at the midnight blue cover with night kill typed across it in unassuming letters, he felt a sense of anticipation he hadn’t experienced in years. Howard had finally finished the script.

  He knew from their initial discussions that Howard’s intention was to challenge audiences with the film’s fundamental question: Was Kaspar Street simply a psychopath, or, more disturbing, was he the inevitable by-product of a society that took violence for granted? Even Saint Isabel would have to approve of that message. He smiled as he remembered the way she’d looked less than an hour ago, with the sun shining in her hair and those beautiful eyes drinking him in. He loved the way she smelled, like spice, sex, and human goodness. But he couldn’t think about her now, not when his entire career was about to open up. He settled back and began to read.