by Beck, Jamie
He was about to put his iPad in its case when another message came through.
I’ll make you meatloaf to welcome you home. After all that fancy European food, you’ll be craving a home-cooked meal. Mustn’t forget your roots just because you’re becoming successful.
For reasons he couldn’t understand, she often cast his ambition in a negative light. It made no sense to him, but when it came to his mom and her habits, some things were better left alone.
P.S. Tell your sister I said hello. I’m sure you’ll hear from her before I do even though you’re in Europe and she’s less than five miles away.
He hadn’t the time or inclination to engage in that conversation, especially not now. He set a reminder to text his sister later, then turned off his iPad as a woman about his age breezed into the conference room. She wore loose slacks and a snug top, her hair tied in a thick braid down her back.
“Ciao!” She smiled at Peyton before setting her notebook, a tabbed copy of the memoir, and her phone on the table and sticking out her hand. “I’m Francesca. Thanks for meeting with me to discuss your book. You look wonderful today. Much different from that.” She chuckled, pointing at the cover.
Peyton didn’t cringe, but he might have. Remarkably, he didn’t pick up the book and thwack Francesca on the head.
“Well, I couldn’t look much worse, could I?” Peyton’s bright laughter echoed off the glass surfaces in the room. A compensating deflection, he suspected. Yet another of the many tricks she employed to hide her real feelings.
Given the topic at hand, he couldn’t blame her for building the arsenal, but it made her tough to know.
Francesca waved off Peyton’s joke, took her seat, turned on the voice recorder of her phone, and opened her notebook. Without any hesitation, she asked, “So tell me, what would your—come si dice—great-grandfather say about this memoir? Would he be proud?”
Peyton darted a quick glance at Mitch. He held his breath, having no idea what she might say. Closing his eyes, he prayed she wouldn’t say anything that could be turned against her or the work.
“The truth? Duck—that’s what my brother and I called him—died when I was six, so I didn’t know him well enough to answer that. However, he was a gentle man who enjoyed all forms of art. Ironically, according to my dad, he never cared much about critical reviews. He ‘wrote what he had to say’ regardless of what someone else might think, so in that way, I suppose we’re alike. Still, I’d like to think he’d be proud of Logan and me . . . not only for this book, but for everything we’ve created to date.”
Mitch heaved a relieved sigh and made a note to ask her about the odd moniker.
“Duck?” Francesca turned to Valeria and asked something in Italian. They conversed a few seconds, and then Valeria asked Peyton, “You said ‘duck,’ like the waterfowl, correct?”
“Yes. It’s a nickname. He used to speak to us in a Donald Duck voice.”
Valeria relayed that information to Francesca, who scribbled something in her notebook.
Francesca tapped her pen on the table. “Were there any disagreements between your brother and you during this collaboration, and if so, who won?”
Peyton’s face blanked for a moment before she quipped, “If Logan were here, he’d say he won because this project was his brainchild. But he and I don’t disagree about much—or often—so this was a true collaboration, devoid of drama. Well, he wasn’t a big fan of the tattoo . . .”
“You mean, after the reconstruction surgery?” Francesca circled the area of her nipple with her finger, and Mitch looked away until the heat in his face and elsewhere faded.
“No, he understood why I wanted those.” Peyton didn’t look at him while she spoke, although she wasn’t blushing, either. He supposed after having so many doctors and needles and knives poking at her body, she’d learned to detach when discussing it. “But I also got another tat—an infant angel holding a cross—right here.” She pointed in the vicinity of her right ovary. “Chemo sometimes causes early menopause, so . . . I don’t know. I was feeling a bit morbid at the time, I suppose. He said I’d regret it. Maybe he was right. Don’t print that, though. I never like him to know when he’s right.” She laughed again, but its brittle quality hurt Mitch’s heart.
A bunch of inappropriate, irrelevant questions crowded his thoughts. The idea of this intelligent, vibrant woman in menopause by thirty-two saddened him. Not that he knew if it had happened, or if it was permanent. Perhaps she never even wanted children, although the tattoo suggested she did. The real question was why any of it mattered to him. He went a little numb as he projected ahead to how often he’d be listening to Peyton recount her ordeal in specific detail.
“His name comes up a lot in your book. More than your parents’, friends’, or other men’s.” Francesca leaned closer. “The two of you seemed to shut out everyone else while you went through this experience. Was that intentional? And if so, why?”
Mitch didn’t hear Peyton’s answer, thanks to a memory that surfaced against his will. He’d been sitting by his father’s hospital bed, which hospice had put in the living room, reading aloud from one of his parents’ longtime favorite books, All I Really Need to Know I Learned in Kindergarten. Those final days had been marked by his dad’s frequent unresponsiveness, labored breathing, fevers, and dysphagia. Mitch would steal glances at him in between paragraphs, or touch his dad’s hand, hoping for a twitch or, better yet, a squeeze. Lauren asleep on the sofa, his mom working the dinner shift . . .
He pressed his fingertips to his temple. Fifteen more days of this . . . When his phone buzzed, he took it as a sign. With a quick glance at Peyton and a reassuring nod, he left the conference room to handle some business that wouldn’t make him cry in public.
Chapter Five
Peyton babbled another answer she could only hope made sense at this late point in the day. By the eighth reviewer, she barely heard the questions anymore. Her mind skipped around, reminding her of the brain fog she’d experienced during chemo. She went on blind faith of the translator’s accuracy. Her own fluency with Italian was limited to the common phrases used at restaurants and hotels.
Tightness gripped her shoulders and neck. A dull ache pulsed behind her left eye.
She glanced at the clock on the wall. Only four? This had to end. Now. Couldn’t Mitch see the strain behind her stupid plastic smile? No, of course not. Like throughout much of the day—if he was even in the room—he was typing on his phone.
She stared at him until he felt her gaze, and then she tugged on her ear.
With a sharp nod of acknowledgment, he put his phone away and interrupted. “Excuse me, Signorina Barbosa, but it’s been a long day and you’ve been questioning Peyton for forty-five minutes. Let’s make this the stopping point.”
Everyone looked at Peyton for confirmation. Nodding, she rubbed her throat. Yes, it hurt that much from all the talking. Another combination of an apology and a thank-you tumbled from her lips while she stood and brought an end to the grueling experience.
As the Globejotter, she’d worked alone in the privacy of hotel rooms. Interactions with locals had been on her terms, when the mood struck. Her self-imposed exile during cancer treatment and recovery hadn’t helped her be more social, either. Today proved something that would shock people who’d considered her an attention seeker since childhood. She did not enjoy being the center of attention. Not like this.
Could she mastermind covering the high school principal’s car in tinfoil or jump onstage with some band to get a laugh or surprise folks? Sure. But having every thought and experience analyzed, picked at, and evaluated by journalists made her blister with discomfort worse than those damn mouth ulcers caused by chemo. There was no way around the truth of it—this job plain sucked.
Throughout treatment, she’d assumed that, if she survived, things would one day return to normal . . . or a new normal that would somehow be magically better than the old one because of the wisdom and gratitude she’d
earned through her experience. Instead, her new life had become a series of deadlines and meetings and sales goals and oversharing. Only now did it occur to her that she might never get her life back—the old life. The one she used to fill with carefree laughter and joy and adventure.
Meanwhile, in the back of her mind, the constant worry about her upcoming checkup—the one that could send her right back to square one—ticked like a bomb.
Although she’d promised God she wouldn’t be selfish if he spared her, a growing part of her craved self-protection and self-care. Surely Mitch could make room for a few activities that brought pleasure and meaning unrelated to this project.
In a haze, she shook hands and mumbled more goodbyes to a roomful of people she hoped not to see again. Mitch grabbed beneath her elbow on their way out of the conference room.
“Are you okay?” He leaned close, lending his support.
She let herself enjoy the solid warmth of his body. “Please get me out of here.”
He nodded, pushing open the door. “Do you need food or just rest?”
“Rest,” she croaked, her voice dry and thin. She transferred her weight against the elevator wall, shoulders slouching.
“Okay.” He stared at her with some concern as he jabbed at the banks of buttons, although she assumed his worry was limited to how well she’d manage the rest of the tour.
They rode the elevator in silence. The faint hint of his cologne lingered all around her. Not a single stranger joined them to act as a buffer or ease her sudden sense of overexposure in the small space.
Even given his intermittent appearances during the interviews, Mitch had overheard enough to now know much, much more about her than she did about him. On those occasions when he wasn’t on his phone, she’d caught him staring at her, his gaze alert and riveted. Now she flattened her hand against her breastbone as if it could hide some part of her heart. Fool.
When the elevator doors opened, she burst through them and into the lobby, gulping in air. The idea that she’d need to repeat this scenario over and over for two weeks made her shudder. Once they got into the car, she leaned against the door and closed her eyes. Anything to escape the new confines and elude answering a single question more.
“You did well.” Mitch’s voice resonated like a cello. “So well I was able to handle some issues with upcoming tour dates as well as a few matters related to other projects, so thank you.”
She popped open one eye with a harrumph.
“I’m serious. You’re something of a natural. Authentic yet clever, able to deflect when the need arises.” He looked ahead, smiling to himself.
Despite her utter exhaustion, that little smile of his lit something deep within her—the candle Todd had snuffed when he’d left her to face a new reality on her own. If Mitch weren’t so focused on his work, that spark might draw her into the warmth of his sturdy embrace. To seek the comfort of a gentle kiss on her temple and a solid shoulder on which she could rest her head.
But even in a best-case scenario, she couldn’t imagine opening her heart again. She’d destroyed a lifelong friendship for Todd. The residual pain of his betrayal—and her mistake—remained lodged in her heart like a hornet’s nest waiting to be kicked. Even if Mitch liked her company, she had to remember she was his meal ticket. Given all that, she shouldn’t spin fantasies of heated kisses.
Fortunately, the thought of letting any man see her naked—literally or figuratively—made her cringe. Handsome and tempting as Mitch was, she was no longer as confident or bold a woman. Chemo and mutilating surgeries had killed most every sexual impulse.
“You’re scowling.” Mitch frowned.
People often scowled when they resented someone, and she sure resented him for stirring up fruitless emotions she’d learned to live without. Now she grieved anew what was so far from reach.
“I’m tired and need to be alone.” She shrugged. “No offense.”
“None taken.” He rolled his shoulders back and adjusted his legs in the tight back seat. “I warned you that dinner plans were ambitious. Let’s cancel. I’m fine eating in my room and working tonight. You can rest, soak in the tub, or do whatever else will help you recharge.”
Peyton sighed. Thirty-two and already an old lady. Her handsome companion showed no sign of regret about ditching her for the evening. How very humbling to confirm her insecurities. But right now, a hot bath and fuzzy robe sounded like nirvana. The fact that Mitch wasn’t flirting seemed like another sign from God to let it all lie. “Thanks. I think you’re right.”
“We’ll be up early to catch our flight to Barcelona. Would you like to have breakfast together again, or would you rather meet in the lobby at seven thirty to grab a cab to the airport?”
“Lobby. I don’t need another monster breakfast.”
“Okay.” When he glanced out his window then, she wondered if she’d hurt his feelings.
Mitch paid the fare and followed Peyton into the lobby, where he came to a stop. Something in his expression seemed haunted, although she couldn’t guess why. “I hope you have a pleasant, restful evening. I’ll see you in the morning.”
“Aren’t you taking the elevator, too?”
He shook his head. “I want to grab an espresso next door and take a short walk around the neighborhood to energize before I get back to work.”
A short walk. She would’ve made some quip about his workaholism, but she sensed that something more drove his need for a diversion.
Their location at the top of the Spanish Steps made this a pedestrian-friendly part of the city. Not that he’d know this.
“Do you know where to go?” she asked.
“I’m fine meandering.”
“Well, at the bottom of the steps is the Keats-Shelley House. Keats’s bedroom is preserved as it was when he died in 1821. Within a mile in any direction, you can be at the Trevi Fountain, the Piazza Barberini, or the Villa Borghese. And you’ll find luxury shopping all along the Via Condotti at the edge of the piazza below, if you want to pick up something for your mom, sister, or girlfriend.” Oops.
He blinked but didn’t respond to that last part—a question, really. “Thanks. Sweet dreams, Peyton.”
He retrieved his wallet from inside his leather backpack before leaving that bag with the bell captain. As he passed through the hotel doors, the late-afternoon sun lit his dark silhouette like a solar eclipse. Then, in a blink, he was gone. With her eyelids shut, she could still see his outline.
The second Peyton closed her hotel room door, she whipped off her clothes and drew a hot bath. For ten minutes, she had no regrets about her decision to spend the evening alone. To sit in silence and forget about the bloggers’ hungry eyes as they questioned her about her diagnosis, her treatment, her family, her brother, her checkups, her outlook, her love life, her future.
The future. That was something she couldn’t take for granted, but neither could she focus on it. Making plans only led to hope—a dangerous state when she’d learned that, at any time, she could be handed bad news. She hadn’t even reached a full year cancer-free. At this juncture, living day to day was a big enough challenge. Being present had been her one vow, although a new career and a need for fulfillment kept pressing on her.
She sank beneath the water, blowing bubbles with her eyes closed, wishing she could disappear. Two days in and already she dreaded keeping this pace. When she ran out of air, she burst through the surface and wiped the water from her face, heaving a sigh.
Resting her head against the back of the claw-foot tub, she stared at the marble wall. Its gray and tan veins were due to impurities like clay and silt. Those imperfections made it more beautiful, unlike hers.
That stone would outlast her lifetime and many others. How many thousands of guests visiting this city to celebrate or mourn or work had touched this wall before her? How many would follow?
Gah. If she stayed alone all evening, she’d drive herself insane.
She unplugged the drain before standing a
nd reaching for a towel. Once dressed, she texted Mitch. After all, there were few moods a good amatriciana couldn’t improve, and a little eye candy never hurt, either. And if they got to know each other better, he might loosen up, which would benefit them both.
Meet me at the restaurant, please. Unless you want to risk me missing tomorrow’s flight because I’ve run off with Fabio.
He replied before she found her room key.
Several more events coming our way. You should relax, and I should work.
Not what she’d hoped, but she never begged.
I’m going. If you change your mind, you know where to find me.
Smiling to herself at the challenge she’d laid, she closed her door and headed toward the elevator, her heart beating with anticipation. He didn’t trust her—that much she knew—so he’d probably cave and show up, if only to ensure she didn’t make good on her threat about Fabio.
The taxi left her off along the Tiber River, a block or two from the crowded, narrow piazza where the restaurant was located. One of the silver linings about ditching spiky heels in favor of more comfortable shoes was that her wedges wouldn’t get caught in the gaps of the ancient cobblestone roads. The lively chatter and busy people bustling around her lightened her mood.
As she neared the timeworn four-story golden stucco building that housed the trattoria, Mitch came into view. He stood outside the front door, glancing at his watch, of course.
She whistled, causing him to look up. For an instant, an unguarded grin split his face, making her feel taller and prettier than she had in too long. Then he reined in his emotions, grin faltering and falling to a polite smile as he clasped his hands in front of his waist and waited.
Oh well. Better to quit while I’m ahead, anyway.
The sight of Peyton caused Mitch’s lungs to expand. A bright spot of joy at the end of the short exploration that had brought about many mixed feelings.
His dad’s ghost had haunted him while Mitch strolled amid old ruins and buildings that had survived time and wars and so much more. With each step, he’d recalled the dreamer who’d gone to work for that tech start-up, hopes soaring, and who’d come to the dinner table each night to discuss all the places their family would visit once he struck it rich.
