I head upstairs to tell Vanni the news, hoping he’ll be excited.
Luckily he seems to want the escape.
“Maria will take you to the fair,” I tell him. “She said so. Maybe you can go for a boat ride. You might even be able to see your Nonna and Nonno on Elba. A ferry ride, that would be fun.”
Vanni knows that only one of those things is likely to happen since Maria also works, but he seems happy enough to have someone his own age to play with.
I sigh, and as he starts to pack for a few nights away, I close the door, feeling the guilt throb deeply in my heart. This never gets any fucking easier. I know it was Maria’s idea to pick him up, but I still feel bad that I need this time and space to work on my art.
The sound of a door creaking open brings my attention across the hall to Grace peering at me with those big eyes of hers.
My god, she’s a stunning creature.
“Everything all right?” she asks quietly.
I nod, rubbing my hand along my jaw, the stubble scratching my skin. My frustrated artist beard is starting to come in, which is what happens when all my energy goes into getting a project off the ground. “It’s fine.” I pause, noting that she’s wearing a pair of glasses. She looks unbelievably sexy in them. “Sorry, we disturbed you, didn’t we?”
She shakes her head and takes her glasses off. “Not really. I was taking a break. On Twitter.” She adds that last part sheepishly. “What’s going on?”
“Vanni is going to go stay with his aunt for a couple days,” I tell her.
Her forehead creases. “Oh. Why?”
“Maria’s daughter is as bored as he is. He needs to be with someone his own age right now,” I say, not wanting to get into the tribulations of being a single father who doesn’t have enough time for his son. As if I don’t feel awful about it already. “They both get along well, and Vanni wants to go.” I glance at my watch. “He’s leaving in an hour, then I’ll start lunch, if you’re interested.”
Her eyes gleam and she gives me an enthusiastic nod. “Wouldn’t miss it for the world.”
Her words, plus the look on her face, makes something twitch in my chest. I’ve been feeling that more and more around her these last few days. My eyes are often drawn to her, especially when she’s not looking, taking in every inch of her face, her neck, her hair, down to the swell of her full breasts, the dip of her waist. There’s a pulse in my palms, an itch in my fingers. I want to touch her skin, feel her curves, let my hands glide over every soft part. This isn’t completely sexual, though naturally it’s that, too. It’s not easy to ignore that my dick feels a certain way about her, that even her scent gets me hard.
But it’s more than that. I have this thrumming urge to turn her into art.
Perhaps she’s your muse. Perhaps she’s what you have to create.
I bury that voice and abruptly turn away from her, heading down the hall and down the stairs, not letting myself glance back at her. This is the second time I’ve had to leave her awkwardly, as if the distance between us is the only way to get that voice to shut up.
But of course, it talks about her when she’s not there.
It’s not long before Maria pulls into the driveway and Vanni and I head out there to meet her.
“Thank you so much,” I tell her as Maria leans out of her window. I kiss her on both cheeks, and she glares at me. “What?”
“You’re lucky I live so close,” she says, while I give my niece, Sofia, a wave as she sits in the passenger seat. I’d embrace her too but she, like Vanni, is at the age where they want as much physical distance from their relatives as possible.
“I’m lucky that you’re so good to me,” I tell her. “Veronica, Giada, they don’t care.”
“Hmmphf,” she glowers, but there’s a lightness in her eyes. “Perhaps I should have moved to Rome, too.”
“Bah,” I say, waving my hand. “You are a Tuscan girl.”
Vanni opens the back door, throws his backpack on the seat, and gets in without saying goodbye or even looking at me.
“Drive,” he tells my sister.
She is having none of it.
“Vanni,” Maria says, eyeing him in the rearview mirror, throwing up her hands. “First you come in my car without saying hello, then you expect me to drive away without you saying goodbye to your father?”
Vanni rolls down his window and says, “Ciao,” and then rolls it back up.
Maria and I exchange a look that says kids.
She gives a wave and reverses back onto the road, and then they’re gone. Even though it’s just for a few days, my heart is in knots over it.
I find myself wandering over to the pool, wondering if I should have another swim. I do laps for an hour first thing in the morning, and not only does it burn calories, but it puts me in a Zen-like state, letting me concentrate on the coming day.
Instead I step into the rose garden, inspecting the flowers, wishing I had a pair of shears on me to do some deadheading and snip some blooms. I’m thinking that perhaps a bouquet of them would be nice in Grace’s room, when she appears from behind the building, slowly walking over to me. She’s wearing a short white dress, and with the sun beaming down on her, she looks like an angel.
“Ah,” I tell her, straightening up. “I was thinking about you and then you appear.” I make a motion with my hands. “Poof. Like magic.”
She gives me a veiled glance, stopping at the entrance to the garden. “You were thinking about me?”
Her tone is quiet, curious, shy. Sometimes I get the impression that she doesn’t know what to think of me. Even though we’ve been living in the same house for nearly a week, she still regards me with a bit of distance, and I’m not just talking physical, though I have noticed that when I touch her, she tends to stiffen. I’m not sure if she’s uncomfortable with me, or just people touching her in general.
I hope it’s the latter, though she’ll have to get used to it being here in Italy.
I step toward her and pause by a tall, flowering bush. “I was thinking these roses would be perfect for your room. Here. Come smell them.”
She gnaws on her bottom lip for a moment, looking incredibly sexy, then comes over. I hold the stem (this variety doesn’t have many thorns) and direct the open bloom toward her. She dips her head, closing her eyes and taking a big whiff.
“Mmmm,” she says appreciatively. “Like … tea. Apples and tea.”
“This rose is your namesake.”
She straightens up and blinks at me. “It is?”
“Grace,” I tell her. “It’s called Grace. And it couldn’t be more fitting.” I run my fingers along the silky petals, reveling in the feel. Each flower has close to eighty of them, giving it the appearance of a dahlia. “See how many layers it has? Like you.” I pause, licking my lips. “And probably just as soft.”
I knew those last words would send a flush across her cheeks, her pale skin giving way to apricot, matching the color of the petals.
She averts her eyes, studying the rose with forced concentration, and I know the compliment was a bit too much for her.
Take it easy on her, I remind myself. She is the client of your ex-wife. She’s here because of her. The last thing you need is for Jana to call you up screaming because you drove her author away.
“Allora,” I say, pressing my palms together. “Are you taking a break?”
She nods, frowning. “I was hoping to say goodbye to Vanni before he left.”
That makes my heart grow warm. I’ve gotten so used to it just being the two of us. “I’m sorry. He wasn’t really in the mood. It was quick.”
A wash of sympathy comes across her face. “It must be tough. You know, trying to balance everything.”
“It is,” I say, putting my hand at the back of my neck, trying to gather my feelings, which often feel too complicated to put into words. I’m not sure why Grace would even understand them when she’s not a parent herself, yet there’s something inside her that tells me she
would. When I look at her sometimes, I see part of myself in her.
“If I had a kid, there’s no way I’d be able to write,” she says. “I’m so amazed you’ve been able to do what you can.”
“It helps that Vanni is very independent.”
“You never had a nanny?”
I shake my head adamantly. “No. I know I can afford one—my parents tell me all the time to get one. But that’s not the way I want to raise him. I would rather put my art to the side and raise him myself, if I must, than have someone else do it. He’s worth more than everything.”
She’s silent for a moment, taking a step toward me to touch the next rose. I should move backward, but I don’t. I find myself breathing in, the orange scent of her shampoo mingling with the roses. My dick jumps to attention and I have to will it to back down.
“If you don’t mind me asking,” Grace begins, shooting me a wary look, “and please tell me if it’s none of my business. I know it’s none of my business…”
“What is it?”
“Why doesn’t Jana have custody?”
I’ve been asked that a lot. People tend to assume that Vanni’s mother is dead, and when I tell them the truth, I can see them hardening. They don’t understand. Sometimes I don’t either, but I’m trying.
“She did. For half a year, after we divorced. By then she had fallen in love with this other man. Her agency was just getting off the ground. She wanted to hire a nanny.” Grace makes a knowing sound. I continue. “Yes. And I didn’t like that. I didn’t like that he was with her just so someone else could take care of him. So I asked for custody and she gave it to me. He’s been with me since he was four.”
Grace’s nose wrinkles slightly, and I know she’s probably getting the wrong idea, as most people do.
“You have to understand, Grace, that she never wanted to become a mother. It wasn’t in her. I was the one who pressured her into keeping the baby. I was the one who asked to marry her. It was all me. Had I not … Vanni wouldn’t be here.”
“You don’t regret it, do you?”
“Of course not. Vanni is my world. But I know people are quick to judge Jana, especially other women. Not saying that you are, it’s just that I know Jana very well, and she’s not maternal. She loves Vanni and she gives him what she can of herself, and she tries, which is the most important thing. But I was the one who wanted her to have him. I thought, naively, perhaps, that after the baby, after marriage, we would fall in love. But it didn’t work that way.”
“I’m sorry,” she says softly.
“Don’t be. It went both ways. I never fell in love with her, she never fell in love with me. We were two people brought together by accident, really, and with my upbringing, I thought I was doing the moral thing in marrying her and being a father. I had no idea that perhaps not everyone is meant to be a parent.” I run my fingers over a rose petal. “I know that I am supposed to be a father, though. So there is that.”
“I guess this makes more sense to me now,” she says after a moment. “I couldn’t imagine how you two got together. You seem so different.”
“We couldn’t be more different,” I tell her. “Though we both have tempers, and that certainly doesn’t help. I met her one night. I was young and I had just taken over my father’s gallery. She had come in to look at the art. She was so bold and assertive. Anyway, need I go on?”
She shakes her head quickly. “No.”
Good.
“Speaking of the gallery,” I say, switching the subject. “How about we have lunch in Lucca again? Might as well since I would only be cooking for the two of us. Then I can show you the gallery.”
Her eyes dance as she looks up at me. “Can we take the Ferrari?”
“The Berlinetta Lusso?”
“Whatever that shiny black thing you’ve been driving is.”
“I thought you’d never ask.”
A joyous smile spreads across her face. “Let me just grab my purse,” she says, then runs toward the house.
I stroll toward the car, a little more spring in my step. It’s silly to feel like I’ve been able to impress her with my car, and yet I can’t deny the feeling. It’s been a long time since I’ve had anyone I’ve even wanted to impress. Every corner of my life has been wrapped up in Vanni and in art, for as long as I can remember.
It’s not long before she’s locking the door behind her with the skeleton key and running toward the car, still smiling. If I’m not mistaken, she’s added a bit of makeup to her face. She looks radiant, sexy. Of course she looked that way before too.
“Get in,” I tell her, opening the passenger side door.
She gives me a grateful smile and steps in while I close the door and go to the other side.
I buckle myself in, watching in amusement while she runs her hands over the supple leather of the camel-colored interior. “This … now this is a sexy car,” she says.
“She gets sexier.” I grin at her and start the engine. It roars to life, purring underneath me.
Then I’m slamming the car into reverse, whipping it around the gravel lot, and tearing off down the road.
Grace lets out a girlish yelp, immediately gripping her seatbelt as we burn it around a corner. I know I shouldn’t be showing off like this, but I can’t help it, especially as she’s jostled in her seat and her dress rides up, showing off her smooth legs.
I try to keep my eyes on the road, though it’s hard when there’s a gorgeous giggling girl beside me having the time of her life.
The only problem with letting a Ferrari really open up is that the drive is that much shorter. We’re at a pay parking lot outside the city walls in record time.
“So?” I ask her as we get out of the car. “What did you think?”
She laughs, a sound that makes me feel like I’m floating. “I think you’re a menace to society.”
Now it’s my time to laugh. “Maybe. But still sexy, right?”
“You? Or the car?”
“Why not both?” I shrug.
She doesn’t answer, but from the coy turn of her lips, I take it she means both.
This time I decide to take her to a different, quieter part of Lucca for lunch. We find a spot on Piazza Napoleone under the shade of a giant chestnut tree, and instead of wine, I insist she has an Aperol Spritz.
“Like all the Instagrammer influencers have,” she says as the waiter plunks the orange drinks down. “Always wanted to try it but … since I usually drink wine alone at home, that’s never happened.”
“Not much for the bar life?”
Her face scrunches. “No. I’m a proud hermit.”
She raises the glass to her lips, and I keep my eyes glued to her, watching for her expression as she takes her first sip.
She starts smiling, then laughing, hiding her smile with the drink.
“Tastes funny?” I ask.
“No, tastes great. You’re making me laugh, watching me like that. Stop it.” She giggles and waves her hand in my face.
“I’m sorry. It’s just that your facial expressions give me life.”
She rolls her eyes and shakes her head. “Believe me, I heard that a lot growing up. No surprise that I’m a terrible liar.”
“As am I,” I tell her. “I don’t think it’s such a bad thing.” I raise my glass. “So here is to that. Here is to being terrible liars. Cin cin.”
She composes herself and sits up primly, clinking her glass against mine. “Cin cin. To terrible liars.”
Our eyes stay locked while we sip.
Going out for lunch was a great idea. Not just to give myself a break from cooking, but to see Grace’s very expressive face as she takes in Lucca. Even when we’re sitting in a comfortable silence together, her eyes are watching everyone as they walk past, always observing. I guess that’s what makes her a good writer, knowing how people behave, the way they talk, the way they act. She doesn’t gawk either, she’s very subtle. I know she studies me sometimes in that same way.
I ha
ve to wonder what she thinks, what she sees.
I hope, whatever it is, that she likes it.
After lunch we take our time strolling through the streets, getting gelato and peering in shop windows.
I have to say, I know it’s not a date but it feels like one. Or, perhaps it just feels good to be with someone that I want to be around, someone I’m increasingly intrigued by.
“Claudio,” a familiar voice calls out.
I turn around to see an old friend, Marika Nespoli, waving at me from a café table, sitting alone, shopping bags piled on a seat.
“Marika,” I greet her as I walk over.
She gets out of her seat, and I grab her lightly by the shoulders, kissing both her cheeks.
“It’s been a long time,” I say to her.
“It has,” she says, wiggling her fingers at me. A diamond ring on her left hand catches my eye.
“Congratulations,” I tell her. “I assume Daniele is the lucky man.”
“He is,” she says, beaming.
I realize that Grace has been standing a few feet away, watching curiously and not understanding a word, so I gesture for her to come over. “Marika, this is Grace,” I say, switching from Italian to English. “She’s an author.”
“An author,” Marika says, her English fluent enough. “That is cool. What do you write?”
Grace seems to shrink before my eyes, getting a painfully shy look on her face. “It’s just fiction.”
I step back and put my arm around her, giving her a squeeze. “Stop being so bashful, Grace. Just fiction? You’re a New York Times bestselling novelist.” I look to Marika. “Us artists are so humble, aren’t we?”
“You’re not,” Marika says with a laugh.
I let go of Grace’s shoulders, wishing I could have kept hold of her for longer. If it gave Marika the impression that we were together, I wouldn’t have minded.
“So, what is your author name?” Marika asks.
“Grace … Grace Harper.”
Interesting.
“I’ll have to look it up on my Amazon,” Marika says. She smiles at me and says in Italian, “She is very beautiful. You’re a lucky man, Claudio.”
One Hot Italian Summer Page 9
