“There they are,” Melanie said when they entered the kitchen. “We’d almost given up on you.”
“We took a walk,” Julia said. “Up to the summit.”
“How lovely,” Melanie said.
A large earthenware bowl of pasta sat next to a mixed green salad on a large antique wooden table in the dining room. Bread and wine balanced out the feast. For the first time Sara noticed the ice pick that stood erect in the center of the table next to a vase full of flowers. It appeared to have a permanent mooring there, next to an assortment of signatures carved into the wood.
“Former owners of the table and their family members,” Max said, answering Sara’s unasked question. “We’ve continued the tradition. All our family and friends sign it. Before you leave, I hope you’ll do us the honor.”
Somehow leaving her mark on an old table in Italy touched her deeply. Tears threatened to wash over every name, the flow as unending as the fountain outside. Sara took a sip of water to prevent the outpour. One of the newest carvings was Julia’s. Sara instantly wanted to add her name next to Julia’s and encircle it with a primitive heart: S.S. + J.D. She shook the thought away.
Sara offered a sentence or two through the rest of the meal but didn’t feel like talking. After all those years of holding herself together she was finally losing it. Exhilaration and terror mingled with the bread and wine. The ground was dissolving underneath her. She was between worlds. Instead of a near-death experience, she was having a near-life one. At that moment death seemed easier. Life was too messy and unpredictable.
Sara faked a headache and returned to the safety of her room. The door locked, she curled up on the bed, gripping her knees, wanting to cut off the oxygen to the emotion. You’re losing it, the critical voice in her head reminded her.
Shut up! Sara thought, and for once the voice seemed to listen.
Pull yourself together, she coached herself. A week from now you’ll be home. Back to normal life. For now, just go with it.
Sara breathed deeply, taking her own advice. After a few minutes she got up in search of something normal to do. Post cards, she thought. She had bought dozens of postcards and not sent a single one. She sat at the small antique desk next to the window to write, hoping this ordinary, mundane action would center her in her ordinary, mundane life.
The late afternoon sun peaked through the lace curtains billowing softly in the wind. She wrote a post card to each of her children and to her friend Maggie at school. Multiple renditions of: The Tuscan countryside is beautiful. Wish you were here. The characteristically trite message was nothing compared to the reality of the experience. She debated whether to send one to Grady and decided against it. She didn’t wish he was here in the least.
Julia entered the room next to Sara’s. Every creak in the floors of the old farmhouse revealed her presence. The windows opened. Then the faint squeak of her bed told Sara she was resting. Funny, she had never thought of Julia as needing rest. Her vitality was steady, unquestionable, and as unending as the fountain outside. Yet she had to expand the version of Julia she had kept locked in her memory all these years. Desire had never been part of it.
Sara stacked the post cards neatly on the corner of the desk and returned to the bed to rest. The box springs responded to her every movement. Was Julia listening to her, too? As girls, they would have jumped on a bed like this. Sara would have been cautious, as always. Unlike Julia, who would not have stopped until she had propelled herself upward and touched the ceiling or a grownup showed up at the door.
Sara closed her eyes and took inventory of her body, an action guaranteed to distract her. Besides a mild headache that had just started, her calves and thighs ached slightly from all the walking they had been doing. Before Sara’s diagnosis, she didn’t always notice the aches. But now she noticed everything. Every twinge could be an announcement of the cancer taking reign over a major organ or a lymph node.
Her composure began to unravel again as her thoughts returned to when she and Julia were at the summit. She tried to remain reasonable and understand what had happened. Somehow the beauty there, coupled with her desire to experience life fully, had led to feelings for Julia. Had Julia realized what was happening? She buried her face in her pillow to smother her embarrassment and shame.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
The next day Julia had to return unexpectedly to Florence on business. Another dealer was there for the day and wanted to see her work. Sara had insisted it was no problem. And in fact, it wasn’t. She welcomed a day to have to herself so she could recover from the intense feelings from the day before. Sara borrowed Max and Melanie’s car to drop Julia at the train station and then planned to spend the day in Siena on her own.
Sara roamed through a few shops enjoying her independence. She was proud of herself for exploring this beautiful city on her own. She wandered into another dress shop and was drawn to a display of scarves. She picked up a red silk one and caressed her face. At first she considered buying the scarf for Julia. But then she wondered if she might buy it for herself.
A young woman about Jess’ age walked over and showed Sara how to arrange the scarf to accentuate her neck. When Sara looked in the full-length mirror she hardly recognized herself. The scarf brought out the color in her cheeks and made her face look alive. She paid for the scarf, oscillating between pleasure and guilt for the purchase, and wore it out of the store. She felt conspicuous at first, as if she had a red target around her neck. But then she began to relax into this new look. A few men smiled at her and she realized she was smiling back.
On the next corner she went inside a small café and chose a table near the window. She decided to rest awhile and people-watch. She placed her purse in the chair next to her and an attractive young waiter walked toward her.
“Good afternoon, Madam. Can I get you something?” he said in broken English.
Two things concerned her immediately. First, how did he know she was American? And second, was a woman in her 40s already a madam? The word sounded matronly. Grady’s mother was a madam. Not Sara. Then she entertained the gruesome thought that he was about the same age as her sons.
“I’ll have a cappuccino,” she said. Sara looked briefly into his dark, Mediterranean eyes and was reminded of the statue of David by Michelangelo that she had seen in Florence. His features were smooth, classic, and other-worldly. A spark of attraction erased some of her confusion from the day before. She smiled her relief.
He bowed slightly, as if the smile was for him, and left to get her order. Behind the counter the clatter of cups and saucers competed with the assertion of the espresso machine. Minutes later, the young waiter returned carrying a cappuccino and two shortbread cookies on a small saucer. She started to tell him he had made a mistake with the cookies but he stopped her and said, “A gift, Madam.”
Sara thanked him and smiled. The young man returned a brief smile before lowering his eyes and leaving again. Was he flirting with her? She found this hard to believe. No one had flirted with her since her first child was born.
An older gentleman sat at an adjacent table and tipped his hat to her before placing it on the table. It was odd to get this much attention. Maybe this is what it’s like to be Julia, she thought. Everyone turned to look at Julia. As much now as they had in high school. Despite Julia’s assertions, that kind of beauty had never been one of Sara’s assets. In high school she was thought of as “cute.”
Sara glanced across the café. Across the room the young waiter served a couple with their new baby. As soon as he finished with them he came over to fill her water glass.
“Is everything satisfactory, Madam?”
“Perfect,” Sara said. She smiled, feeling oddly romantic. Was she really fantasizing over a waiter half her age? She reveled in the thought that she was normal after all. She could now dismiss the feelings for Julia as too much Tuscan sun.
Sara smiled her relief and took in the experience of Siena. Flowers were everywhere—in parks, in fr
ont of buildings, adorning window boxes. The café smelled of fresh bread, pastries and espresso. If the waiter wasn’t enough to make her salivate, the aromas coming from the kitchen were. The town’s buildings were actually the color of sienna, with green shutters on every building. Colorful flags representing the different neighborhoods adorned every street.
The light seemed different in Tuscany. Brighter, more alive. A group of students with sketch pads were set up on the corner to capture the architecture in their drawings. The clatter of dishes echoed in the back room of the café. Sara looked around for the young waiter who was nowhere in sight. Music floated in from the street corner. Even accordion music sounded romantic here. The musician played a tarantella, then Hello Dolly, perhaps to attract tips from American tourists.
The feeling in Europe was totally different from what Sara had experienced in the States. In America there was still the sense of the frontier. A town was considered historic if it had been in existence for a hundred years. In Italy, buildings had been standing for many centuries. Layers of history dwelled on every city block. Walls surrounded the city, with tracts of farmland inside, so that when medieval enemies attacked, the city could be self-sufficient.
The young waiter returned again and this time brought Sara a bowl of fresh strawberries. “Are you sure you won’t get in trouble with your boss for this?” she asked, motioning toward the strawberries.
He leaned closer and smiled. “I am the owner,” he said. He winked at her and bowed again.
Sara’s face reddened to the color of the strawberries. The waiter hesitated before walking away and then turned to look directly at her. “I take a break soon. Would you take a walk with me?”
“Pardon?” Sara asked.
He started to repeat himself but she stopped him. “I’m sorry, I heard you. I just didn’t expect you to say that.” His expression turned from hopeful to confused. “Have I insulted you, Madam?”
“No, you’ve flattered me, actually. It’s just that I’m married.”
He shrugged, as if this were a minor detail. “I was just suggesting a walk,” he said. “My name is Antonio.” He extended his hand for her to shake. It was warm and slightly sweaty.
A moment of awkwardness followed. What harm would a walk do? she thought. She agreed and Antonio smiled and excused himself. When he returned his apron was gone and he was wearing a white shirt with an open-necked collar that revealed a chest full of dark hair. Nestled within the forest of hair was a gold medallion of the Virgin Mary. Sara averted her eyes so she wouldn’t stare. She couldn’t seem to get away from the holy virgin these days. But she was certain she was the only virgin between them.
Antonio held the door open for her as they walked out into the streets of Siena. They immediately settled into a stroll that would have gotten them plowed down by other pedestrians if they were in the States.
“What brings you to Italy?” he asked.
“I’m visiting an old friend,” Sara said.
“Man or woman?”
“A woman. We were girls together.”
“Why is your friend not here with you?”
“She had to go into Florence today for business.”
“Pity,” he said. “Is she as beautiful as you?”
Sara smiled and touched the scarf around her neck. Even if it was just a line she loved it. They continued to walk, avoiding the occasional bicycle. When they reached Il Campo, the city square, they stopped. It was a sunny day, in the low 70s. A sea of people had washed up on the sandy stonework. Tourists mingled with locals, who ate their lunch and soaked in the sun.
“It’s beautiful here,” she said, a line she had found herself saying or thinking frequently while in Italy.
He nodded, as if proud of his home. “I have lived here my entire life,” he said.
“Do you ever think about living somewhere else?” she asked.
“Never,” he said. “I love it here.”
Sara couldn’t imagine what it was like to live somewhere that you loved.
They took a narrow side street and stopped to watch a cobbler repairing a shoe in his small shop. The door was open wide, letting the fresh air inside. The old man sat on a stool at a wooden table. Dozens of pairs of shoes and boots hung on wooden hooks along the wall. Antonio waved to the old man, who returned the wave.
“He’s been doing that for fifty years,” Antonio said. “Following in the footsteps of his father and grandfather.”
“I read somewhere that the average American changes jobs seven times,” Sara said.
“Is that true?” he asked.
Sara nodded.
“That is very different from here,” he said.
They began to walk again and took another turn into a more residential area.
“Would you like to see where I live?” Antonio asked. His expression was innocent enough, Sara thought, even if his intention was not.
Sara hesitated. She didn’t know who she was anymore. She was walking through Siena with a man who was a stranger only an hour before, contemplating going to his apartment. Was this somehow the anti-venom to being physically attracted to her best friend?
She was a woman in her 40s who had only slept with one person her entire life. That was practically archaic these days. Did a person like her sleep with total strangers? Of course, he hadn’t exactly asked her to do that. But why else would he ask her to see where he lived? Did he want to show her his infamous etchings?
They climbed the narrow steps to Antonio’s small fourth floor apartment. With each step she analyzed the situation. She had never been unfaithful to Grady. She had never even fantasized about being unfaithful. But what better way to pull yourself from the edge of extinction, she thought, than having a romp with a beautiful Italian man in Siena.
Antonio opened the door to his apartment and the air went out of Sara’s fantasy. Dirty dishes were stacked high in the sink. Clothes pungent with perspiration lined the floor. In contrast to the enormous mess, the most resplendent feature of the room was the bed. It was positioned directly in front of a large window and appeared to possess clean sheets, a fact she found both disturbing and heartening.
Antonio walked across the room and opened the window. Fresh air chased away her second thoughts. She stepped over a mound of dirty clothes to look outside. Life was abundant on the street below. Plants in terra-cotta pots crowded the window boxes. Pigeons had built nests in the porticoes. The smell of sautéed garlic rose from a lower apartment. With the breeze and the sounds of life outside, Sara inhaled deeply, as if she had been invited to make love to the city itself.
Antonio stepped closer. Within seconds his tongue was probing Sara’s mouth. She tried to forget about the dirty, sweaty laundry brushing up against her ankles. A faint taste of garlic traveled on his breath and Sara wondered briefly if Antonio had a girlfriend who would arrive later and cook his dinner. Or perhaps even a mother. Antonio deftly removed her scarf and tossed it on another mound of dirty white shirts on the back of a chair. Then he unbuttoned the top button of her blouse.
“Wait!” Sara said. Antonio jumped slightly, as if she had scared him. In her reinventing of herself she had forgotten the pink elephant in the room: she only had one breast. She imagined him horrified or disgusted by this fact. Or like Grady, he may just pretend the scar wasn’t there. At any rate, it was something she had not planned on.
Antonio watched her, a coy smile on his face. “Is there something bothering you?”
“I can’t,” Sara said. “My friends are waiting for me.” Sara buttoned the top of her blouse, grabbed her scarf from the back of the chair and retied it. Then she stepped over the clothes to an island at the door where she could actually see the floor.
“But we were having such a good time,” Antonio smiled.
“The walk was wonderful,” Sara said, “and you’ve been very sweet, but . . . .”
“But what?” He reached out to her, the Virgin Mary swinging briefly before nestling back into the fur of
his chest.
“I’m sorry, but I have to go,” she said.
Antonio followed Sara down the stairs and they walked without speaking to the central parking lot where Sara had left Max and Melanie’s car.
“Did I do something wrong?” he asked, as she unlocked the car.
He suddenly seemed much younger. “No,” Sara said. “It’s just not a good time.”
“I’d like to see you again,” he said. The afternoon sun revealed the perfection of his twenty-something skin.
“I know where to find you,” Sara said. Did she really say that? His dejected look prompted her to kiss him on the cheek before getting into her car. He stuck his hands in his pockets and watched her as she drove away.
Sara followed the road back to Max and Melanie’s and turned down their long dirt and gravel driveway. Her thoughts were still reeling from the events of the day when she parked and walked through the courtyard. She stopped at the Madonna in stone and smiled remembering the gold necklace dangling from Antonio’s neck. Sara placed her hand in the stone virgin’s upturned palm, as if to pay homage to the earthy deity. “Are you the one responsible for all this craziness?” Sara asked thoughtfully. But at least there were no witnesses to her most recent debacle.
Sara was already doing things in Italy that were totally out of character, as her daughter Jess would say. But how far was she willing to go with this exercise in character development?
CHAPTER TWELVE
Later that evening Sara dressed for dinner. Her usual earth-tone outfit was set off by the red scarf that she had purchased in Siena. Sara looked in the mirror and arranged it the way the young woman in the dress shop had shown her and pronounced herself ready.
Seeking Sara Summers Page 9
