Her Italian Millionaire (19 page)

“I am. I just found out my husband was left at the altar.”

“Your husband?” He frowned. “I thought you were divorced.”

“Oh, I am. I keep forgetting.” She paused. “How did you know?”

He picked up her hand and matched it palm to palm with his slightly callused and sun browned larger hand. There on her ring finger was a pale band of white skin. For some reason she'd left her ring on until the news of Dan's wedding. She knew now she'd been a fool to hope he'd beg her to take him back, that they'd reconcile and then go back to being a normal couple, slightly bored with each other, but familiar and comfortable, destined to spend the rest of their lives in Oakville, living adventures vicariously through Tim who was now out in the world on his own. Waiting for their retirement. Waiting for grandchildren. Waiting...

Marco wove his fingers with hers. She held her breath for a moment, then let it out slowly. It was fortunate she was sitting down, because her legs were shaking so much she would have fallen down. All he'd done was hold her hand. She licked her dry lips. He stared at her mouth. She'd better learn to deal with Italian men and her runaway hormones or she was going to have a very stressful vacation.

“You aren't wearing a ring, for one reason, though you recently did,” he said, moving his gaze from her mouth to examine her fingers. “You don't think I would have kissed a married woman, do you?”

“I think you'd kiss any woman around,” she said dryly, snatching her hand back.

“That's not true.” He looked surprised. “Why do you say that?”

“Your cousin said something.”

“My cousin always says something. You can't believe him.”

“Can I believe you?” she asked.

“Of course. You can believe the fortune teller, too.  You had a sea voyage and the man you left behind was deserted.”

“That's right. I owe you for that.” She reached for her purse. He raised his hands, palms forward. “Not now. I'll collect later. Right now I have good news. The clerk sent me to find you. He's found you a room. In a small hotel quite near here, on the street that borders the ruins. And the price includes breakfast and dinner.”

“That's exactly what I wanted! That's wonderful. Thank you.”

“Don't thank me. I'm just the messenger.”

“But how did you know, how did he know you knew me?”

He shrugged. She was getting accustomed to Marco's shrugs. He used them whenever he didn't want to answer her questions.

“Well, that solves all my problems,” she said. “I hope your problems will be solved as well very soon.”

“Oh, they will,” he said. “Very soon.” He gave her a brief smile and walked away. That was it. For a moment she was shocked by the suddenness of it. One moment he was there, the next minute he was gone. For good. No good-bye, no hand shake and definitely no kiss. This time it was final; she felt it in her bones. She felt relief and something else. Whatever it was, it couldn't have been disappointment. No, of course not. Yet she couldn't deny there was a hollow, empty feeling in the pit of her stomach. What did you expect? she asked herself, another soul-searching kiss, a farewell speech? 

When she came out of the tourism shop with the brochure for the small, charming hotel in her hand and a bag of sundries in her tote bag along with her suit case, she almost expected to see Marco there in the street, on his motorcycle. She almost expected to hear him order her to get on and insist on taking her to the hotel.

 There was a motorcycle parked in the street but it wasn't a red Motoguzzi, it was a gray Vespa. Which was fine with her. She was glad he wasn't there. She'd been trying to get away from him all day and all yesterday, too. She'd finally done it. He was gone. There were tourists on the narrow sidewalk, studying their guidebooks and speaking German and British English. But there was no Marco and no transportation.

No Marco, but there was a man selling jewelry on the street. When he saw her he stepped in front of her and snapped open his black, leather case that was strapped around his neck so she could see his display of silver rings, bracelets and necklaces.

She meant to walk around him. She meant to turn him down with a few well-chosen words in Italian, but she couldn't think of them. Instead she succumbed and let the persuasive salesman slide a silver ring with a large polished stone onto the third finger of her left hand.

“Le sta benissimo!”
he said.

“Quanto costa?”
she asked.

He mumbled some numbers. If she understood correctly, it wasn't expensive.

She held her hand up. It looked better with a ring. Not so naked. Not so deserted. It wasn't a wedding ring, nor an engagement ring; it didn't announce to the world:
I'm attached to someone
.
I belong
. It was simply a ring. A souvenir. And a cheap one. Maybe too cheap.

Anne Marie decided she didn't want it. She'd buy a nice ring somewhere else, in a shop. This one might very well turn her finger green, or this street seller might be selling contraband goods. She noticed he kept looking over his shoulder as if he was afraid of being caught doing something wrong. She took the ring off and held it out.

“No, grazie,”
she said.
“Me dispiace. No me piace. E troppo caro.”

“Signora,”
he said, backing away, refusing to take the ring.
“Che buon'affare!”

“But I don't want it,” she protested. “Please take it.”

He shook his head. She realized they were blocking the sidewalk and other tourists had stopped to watch and listen to their exchange. She felt her face turning red. She reached into her purse and pulled out a handful of euros. It was worth it to get away from this man and stop making a scene.

The peddler smiled so broadly she knew she should have bargained. Or insisted he take the ring back. Next time she'd do a better job of it. If there was a next time. Why was it so hard for Americans to bargain?.

She turned and headed for the hotel, supposedly only an eight-minute walk.

As she trudged slowly past the ruins, she was able to appreciate the Temple of Neptune with its graceful Doric columns standing in the late afternoon sunlight as it had been standing since four-fifty BC. A car slowed and a man stuck his head out the window and said something in Italian, which she interpreted as offering her a ride. As much as she longed to drag herself and her battered suitcase into the car, firmly shook her head. He drove on. Italian men weren't so bad, she mused. You just had to be firm. Let them know what you want or what you don't want. As long as you knew what you wanted, that worked fine.

When she finally reached the hotel, footsore and out of breath, she was happy to see it was just the way she'd imagined, small and unpretentious with eight rooms at most, with the restaurant attached at one end. The man at the desk told her the room wasn't ready. With a glance at her torn and dusty clothes, he suggested she take a seat in the courtyard around the pool and he would have a cool drink sent to her.

“Thank you,” she said. “I wonder, do you have a refrigerator here?”

“Un frigo? Si, signora. Perche?
Why do you ask?”

“I have a box of candy that's melting in this heat. I wonder if I might leave it in your frigo just until tomorrow.”

“Certamente,”
he said with a small bow and took the box from her hand. “It is my pleasure.

She smiled gratefully and left her luggage there in the lobby, went to the courtyard, collapsed in a deck chair and sipped a lemon granita.

Nothing had ever tasted quite so good as the sweet-sour tang of lemon mixed with ice. She stretched her legs out ahead of her, pulled out her guide book to read about the Greeks and the Romans at Paestum, and let herself relax for the first time in two days. She was there. Really there. She was alone. Not lonely - oh, no. Just alone.

The church across the ocean where her ex-husband had been stood up seemed far away. The image of it was fading as fast as the pale ring around her finger. Would there be a time when she'd scarcely remember she'd ever been married? No, Dan would always be a part of her life in some way. The memory of his betrayal was still a part of her, and it would be a long time before she'd trust any man.

Her room was on the second floor and from her small balcony she could see the Greek temples of Ceres and Hera and Neptune rising from the red-brown earth in the dusk. It would be beautiful tonight when it was flood-lighted. But she wouldn't be on the balcony tonight, she'd be at the Temple of Ceres at ten o'clock. It was too bad she couldn't also see the Greek tragedy in the amphitheatre. But she'd see the major attractions of Italy later. With or without Giovanni.

She stripped off her dirty, torn skirt and the rest of her clothes and ran the water in the large bathtub. She sank into the water, rested her head against the curved surface of the tub and closed her eyes. The cool porcelain eased the pain of her sunburned skin and the warm water soothed her aching muscles. The soap had almonds in it and the shampoo smelled like crushed petals. She wiggled her toes and stretched her legs. What bliss, to be dust-free and clean from head to toe.

As she soaked she wondered where Marco had gone. If he really was a guide, he'd be out hustling tourists to make some money. Or maybe he'd gone back to San Gervase on his motorcycle. By this time maybe he too had found a big bathtub, and he was soaking the dust off his broad-shouldered, narrow-hipped body. She imagined the water sloshing over his shoulders, down his chest... Marco would have a glass of Chianti in one hand. He'd step out of the tub to reach for a towel, but before he did, his cell phone would ring. He'd stand there dripping wet, completely naked, talking to someone. She could picture it so clearly she forced herself to take deep, steadying breaths to calm down.

 She slid further into the water and closed her eyes. The next time she opened them the water had cooled. Her neck was stiff and her skin was as wrinkled as a prune. She'd never fallen asleep in a bathtub before but then she'd never kissed a stranger before either. Or gotten drunk on the local wine or had her luggage smashed or indulged in erotic fantasies about a man she scarcely knew. She could make a long list of the firsts in her life and she'd only been in Italy for a few days. What next?

The hotel manager told her dinner was served between eight and ten, family style. She opened the canvas bag to find something to wear to dinner and to meet Giovanni.

Isabella had beautiful clothes. Anne Marie couldn't believe a girl who'd wear silk bikini panties and a lacy half bra would give them up for whatever nun's wore under their habits. All the clothes were snug, but wearable. Isabella must be a little smaller than Anne Marie. After all, she was fifteen years younger and hadn't had children. Unfortunately, the half bra was so tight that the straps rubbed against her sunburned shoulders and the hooks dug into her sensitive skin. She took it off.

She tried on a short skirt and a bright purple hand-dyed silk T-shirt with an orange flower hand-painted in the middle. She never went without a bra, she never wore purple, so with her sunburned skin and short reddish hair, and her nipples pressed against the silk fabric, she scarcely recognized the reflection in the bathroom mirror. She didn't look like herself. If anyone from Oakville saw her tonight they'd faint dead away at the sight of their very proper librarian dressed like a...a...

She'd lost her identity. Though it wasn't much of a loss, after all. Maybe she was in the market for a new one. At least for tonight. The only person she would see who mattered was Giovanni. In the pale moonlight, it was doubtful he'd notice she wasn't wearing a bra. And if he did? She gave a little shiver of apprehension. If he did, and he was as sophisticated as she imagined he would be, then he wouldn't be shocked.