That Month in Tuscany (Take Me There)

by Inglath Cooper

  “Let me just call Ty,” I say. “I can smooth this out.”

  He glances at me and says, “How?”

  “By telling him I’ll come home.”

  And even as the words come out, I feel this incredible weight of sadness settle around me. “It’s what I need to do anyway. At some point, I’ll have to face the music. It might as well be now.”

  He looks at me, one hand on the steering wheel. “That might be, but not like this.”

  I start to argue, but I can’t seem to force the words past my lips. The thought of leaving this incredible place, of never seeing Ren again makes me feel as if I can’t get a full breath. I know I should argue and do exactly what I just suggested, but I don’t want to. And so I press my lips together and stare out the window at the Italian countryside rolling by.

  Several minutes pass before Ren’s phone rings. He picks it up, swipes the screen. “Hey.” He listens for a few moments and then says, “Can you text me the address? Okay,” he adds. “Thanks, Stuart. I’ll be in touch.”

  He ends the call and glances at me. “There’s a place a couple of hours away from where we are now. My,” he hesitates, “manager says we won’t be found there.”

  “Ah,” I say, nodding as if I understand a world where I could make a single phone call and have someone arrange an out-of-the-way place in another country where I could have complete privacy.

  “You’re good with it?” he asks.

  I nod. Even though every part of me is questioning whether we should just go back and fix this mess before it gets completely out of control. His phone dings, indicating the text has arrived. He opens it, glances at the address and then asks me to type it into his GPS. I do, even though my fingers are shaking, and I wonder how this can possibly be a good idea.

  We arrive at the turnoff almost two hours later. Sophia stands with her tiny front paws on my window ledge looking out, her little tail wagging. Ren looks at her with a half-smile.

  “At least one of us is happy about this.”

  We follow the gravel road for at least a mile. It’s narrow and winding and covered in places with small brown pea gravel, bare in others.

  The road dips and turns, and suddenly a very large Tuscan villa comes into view.

  “What is the name of the hotel?” I ask.

  Without looking at me, Ren says, “It’s actually a private home. It’s been available for rent. Stuart says it’s for sale. So actually, there’s no one here.”

  My hesitation must be transparent because he instantly says, “Bad idea?”

  For so many reasons I think, and then quickly regain traction with, “It’s beautiful,” I say.

  “I’ll put you on one end and me on the other,” he offers, as if he has read my thoughts.

  From any stance of common sense, it is the only plan I should even think of agreeing to. Why then the wave of disappointment?

  The villa sits in a scoop of valley, gentle hills rolling out from each side. It is old and extremely well-kept. The walls are that beautiful Tuscan gold color, the roof terra-cotta tile. Enormous Italian cypress trees grace the front and corners of the villa.

  “It looks like a place where a Medici might have lived,” I say. “How did your manager find this in such a short amount of time?”

  “That’s what he does. He takes care of things, and he’s really good at it.”

  “Apparently,” I say.

  “And two,” Ren says, “he had the added motivation of wanting to keep me out of trouble. I suspect he knew that’s where I was headed.

  “Is that a regular occurrence?” I ask.

  “Not nearly as often as it used to be,” he says, a half-smile on his ridiculously beautiful mouth. He pulls the Fiat to a stop in the circular driveway, stopping just short of the museum-size front door.

  “The caretaker is supposed to meet us here,” he says.

  We get out of the car, Sophia wide-eyed in my arms. I think she’s as awed by the place as I am. Just then a man with graying hair and a welcoming smile appears from one side of the villa.

  “Buon giorno!” he says lifting a hand in welcome. “You are Signore Sawyer?”

  “Yes,” Ren says, stepping forward to shake the man’s hand.

  “I am Antonio. I will be happy to escort you in and show you the place.”

  “Thank you. That would be great,” Ren says.

  Antonio opens the door for us, then steps aside and lets us precede him into the foyer of the house. All words leave me. The walls are fresco scenes of Italian life in times past. There’s one of the sea on our right, and to our left a sprawling vineyard. A travertine staircase winds from this floor to the next. The ceilings are fifteen feet by my best guess, and it’s hard to believe this is a private residence.

  “We will cover the basics, no?” says Antonio.

  Ren nods. “Sure. After you.”

  We follow him down a long hall to the kitchen area.

  “The most important, yes?” says Antonio.

  I smile and say, “It would be for me, if I could cook the way you cook in Italy.”

  “Ah, it is practice and the right ingredients,” Antonio says modestly. “Fresh, of course, and local.”

  The kitchen is a charming mixture of the past and the present. Stone counter tops and terra-cotta tile flooring are smoothly worn with centuries of use. In direct contrast, a gleaming Viking stove that might be featured in a five-star restaurant takes up half of one wall. Copper pots hang from a rack above, some big enough to feed dozens. A wine refrigerator sits next to a stainless-steel Viking refrigerator, again big enough to be used in the most professional of restaurants. He leads us out of the kitchen onto an expansive terrace with stone walls and a covered summer kitchen. A pool stretches out from the right corner, turquoise and inviting.

  “Is very nice this time of year,” Antonio says, pointing at it. “And not to worry, your privacy is complete.”

  Heat strikes my cheeks as soon as the words have left his mouth, and I cannot bring myself to look at Ren. Sophia is begging to be put down so I set her on the stone floor, a handy excuse to avoid Ren’s amused gaze. Sophia yips and trots off ahead of us, inspecting as she goes.

  “I will show you upstairs now,” Antonio says.

  We follow him back through the kitchen and down the corridor to the stairs at the front of the villa. At the top, Sophia races by us, stopping to see which way Antonio will go. When he turns right, she zips ahead again down the long hallway, the walls of which feature paintings of scenic Tuscan hills and vineyards and olive groves.

  We pass at least six doors that I assume are bedrooms, finally arriving at one where Antonio stops. He turns the knob and opens the door to the bedroom, which is actually a suite of rooms. A living area to the left is complete with a large screen TV and four comfy red sofas.

  Farther in, glass-pane doors open to a bedroom, the center of which holds a giant king-size bed with an oversized carved walnut headboard. Sophia attempts a leap but manages to hit only halfway up. She lands on her backside with a thud. Ren immediately scoops her up and soothes her bruised ego before depositing her on the bed.

  “Is there anything else I can do for you, Signor Sawyer?”

  “No, thank you, Antonio.”

  “Very good then, my number is on the desk in the foyer. If you need anything, do not hesitate to call.”

  Ren hands him a folded bill and says, “Thank you very much.”

  Antonio leaves the room, and it is only then that I fully realize it has been assumed this room is for the two of us. I look at Ren. He is looking at me.

  “Awkward,” I say.

  “Don’t worry,” he says. “I can sleep anywhere.”

  “No, you take this room. I’ll find another.”

  “Stay,” he says. “I’ll go get the luggage. You’re here, I’m elsewhere.”

  I want to argue but I can tell by the look on his face that it will do absolutely no good.

  He leaves the room, and I stand there f
or a moment feeling like Alice in Wonderland. I flop back first onto the bed, arms and legs splayed, staring at the ceiling.

  What am I doing here? I know Ty, and if last night left him angry enough to go to the Italian police and file a complaint, I can only imagine what he will do if he finds out that I have fled the scene with Ren and am hiding out in an Italian villa. It’s not like that, but I guess it would appear like that. My hope is to simply give him time to cool off and change his mind about trying to have the last word. Ren appears in the doorway then with my suitcase, laptop and camera bag.

  “Did someone call for a porter?” he says.

  I vault off the bed, walk over and take two of the bags from him.

  He puts my suitcase in the closet, then turns to look at me.

  “The pool looked inviting. Are you up for it?”

  I do have a swimsuit, but the thought of putting it on and actually wearing it in front of Ren is enough to make me plead a headache and a need for an afternoon nap. “Oh, I don’t know, I’m really not much of—”

  “Come on,” he says. “It’ll be fun. I’m sure they have extra suits here if you need one.”

  “I have one. As well as a coverup,” I add under my breath.

  “What was that?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Okay, well, I’ll see you downstairs in fifteen minutes?”

  “Sure.”

  Sophia dive-bombs off the bed and follows him from the room, her tail a cotton-ball blur. I watch them go and then close the door behind them.

  I honestly do not think I can make myself put on that bathing suit and actually wear it in front of him. I picture Gretchen Macher as she had looked on the cover of Sports Illustrated last year, another by-product of my Google searching. And I nearly wilt at my own mental comparison. Ah well, that’s what coverups are for, and mine will be staying on.

  36

  Ren

  SOPHIA AND I beat Lizzy to the pool. I will actually be surprised if she comes at all, considering that her reluctance to agree could not have been more obvious. I throw a towel across a chair at one end of the pool, stretch out face down, running my hand through the warm blue water. I hear her sandals on the stone floor and look up. She looks as if she would rather be anywhere else in the world. With the benefit of my sunglasses I start to say something, but then my gaze snags on her long tan legs, and I take advantage of my sunglasses to admire them a moment or two longer. I rise up on my elbows and say, “Hey, you came.”

  “I did,” she says.

  I get up and pull a chair next to mine. She sits down, coverup securely in place. I look over at her, raise an eyebrow, “Aren’t you a little warm in that?”

  “No, actually, I was just thinking it’s a bit chilly out here.”

  I pick up my phone, tap the weather app and show her the screen. 83 degrees.

  “Oh, well, maybe I’ll warm up in a bit.”

  “You can’t swim in a coverup.”

  “Who says I’m swimming?”

  “I do,” I say. I stand, reach for her hand and pull her up from the chair. “Either take it off, or you’re going in with it.”

  “You wouldn’t dare.”

  “Five seconds. Four, three, two—” When she shows no signs of removing it, I pick her up, walk to the deep end of the pool. She’s beating at my chest and kicking. Sophia is now running after us and barking.

  “Last chance,” I say, sticking one foot over the edge of the pool.

  “Ren!”

  I step off, and we both slice through the water. I hold onto her all the way down and all the way back up. When we cut through the surface, she’s sputtering, and to my surprise, I’m smiling.

  “I can NOT believe you did that!”

  “I did give you fair warning.”

  The coverup now clings to her curves, and I have no idea why she doesn’t want to be seen in a bathing suit. She pushes off my chest and starts to swim away. I reach out and grab her foot and reel her back in. I snag an arm around her waist and get us both to a point where I can stand, all the while not letting her go. There is no denying my awareness of her. I can see it on her face, the way it makes her lips go slightly slack and deepens the color of her eyes.

  “What are we doing, Lizzy?” I ask, my voice barely audible.

  She stares up at me for several long heartbeats before saying, “Being foolish?”

  I shake my head. “I don’t feel foolish.” I reach out and trace my finger along the edge of her jaw.

  “What do you feel, then?”

  “Like I found something I never knew I was looking for, and now that I know it exists, the thought of letting it go, feels like a great big hole in the center of me.”

  She starts to say something, presses her lips together and then begins again. “This isn’t real, Ren. People like you and me don’t do things like this.”

  “Like what?”

  “Step outside of their real lives and be something else.”

  “Do you think we’re not being ourselves?”

  “No, I don’t think we are.”

  “I think you’re wrong about that. I think maybe we’ve both figured out that there’s another way to live.”

  “But there isn’t,” she says. She puts her palms against my chest and tries to push away.

  “There is,” I say. “I think you’ve shown me that.”

  She shakes her head. “Don’t Ren, don’t. This is . . . don’t. You can’t do this.”

  “Do what?”

  “Pretend that this can go somewhere.”

  “Why can’t it?” I ask.

  “Because,” she says, dropping her head back and staring up at the sky.

  I hear the slightest sigh escape her lips and I know I’m not wrong about what’s between us.

  “I don’t think you have any idea how different our lives are,” she says.

  I take her hand; lead her to the shallow end of the pool. I lift her up and set her on the side, standing in front of her, one arm on either side of her hips.

  “You have no idea,” I say, “what you’ve done for me, Lizzy.”

  She’s fully focused on me, confusion clear in her eyes.

  “When I boarded that flight out of the U.S., I didn’t intend to ever return.”

  “What do you mean?” she asks carefully.

  “I mean—” I stop because the words are too hard to say.

  “What?” she asks, and I hear the concern in her voice. She puts two fingers under my chin and forces me to look at her. “Tell me.”

  “I didn’t want to live that life anymore.”

  “You wanted to quit your music?”

  I don’t answer for several moments, and then, “I wanted to quit my life.” Hearing myself say it out loud feels like a punch to the stomach.

  I see the shock settle onto her face. She starts to say something, then stops and shakes her head.

  “Why would you . . . Ren, why?”

  I get out of the pool, sit on the edge next to her, my palms braced on either side of me. I don’t say anything for a good while, and when I do, I hear the shame in my voice. “I’ve done some pretty awful things, Lizzy.”

  “Everyone makes mistakes, Ren.”

  “Yeah,” I say, and I hear the word break in half. “But does everyone cause their own brother’s death?”

  I cannot look at her. I feel her looking at me, and I can no more turn my face to hers than I can remove this lead weight from my chest. She places her left hand over my right, links our fingers together as if she feels a sudden need to anchor me.

  “You could never do that.”

  “I did,” I say.

  “What?” she asks, shaking her head.

  I’ve never told anyone else in my life what happened that weekend. But I need to now in a way that I cannot turn away from. I am fully aware that in doing so, I might open her eyes to a man she wants nothing to do with. But I need to know more than I need to breathe right now, whether this fallen version of me is a man sh
e could ever accept.

  “I loved my brother, Lizzy,” I say. “I loved him, but I killed him.”

  37

  Lizzy

  I HEAR THE WORDS and yet they make absolutely no sense to me, like letters that have been switched to make sounds I’ve never heard before.

  “But his death was an accident. I read about the bus crash.”

  He looks up at me, and I have never seen deeper regret than what I see in his blue eyes right now.

  “It should have been me,” he says. “I should have been on that bus in that seat. Colby was sitting in my seat because I wasn’t there. And our drummer was sitting in Colby’s regular seat. He was fine.

  “Ren, you can’t—”

  “I can,” he interrupts me. “I can.” His voice slices through my protest. “You remember how I told you I wasn’t a very good guy?”

  “I know you said that,” I say. “But I don’t believe it.”

  “I didn’t get on the bus that day. I was supposed to. Colby’s fiancee asked me not to. She said she had something she wanted to talk to me about. I knew on some level what she wanted. We used to date, and a couple of years after we broke up, she and Colby started dating. I should never have stayed behind that night. If I hadn’t, he would be here, and I wouldn’t.”

  “Ren, you don’t know that.”

  “I loved my brother,” he says, his voice hardly recognizable, “and if it weren’t for me—”

  “Stop,” I say softly. “Stop.” I slip my arms around his neck and pull him to me. I can feel how close he is to breaking, and I want nothing more in this world than to hold him together. I lean back and press my hand to the side of his face.

  He looks at me, and I honestly feel as if I could drown in his sorrow.

  “You didn’t mean for him to die, Ren.”

  “No,” he says. “I just wish it had been me instead of him.”

  38

  Ren

  WE SIT AT the pool for most of the afternoon. We talk very little, but somehow I don’t need that with her. Just having her next to me is enough.