Italy to Die For (21 page)

Chapter 34

One More Rub

Ow-w and double ow-w, my brain woke up with the most god-awful headache and El’s words fanning my face.

“Margo … Margo …
please. Say something, anything.”

Putting
my words together took more time than it should have, which I blame on being confined to a hospital bed and not having the energy to wave my hands. After some effort I mumbled, “How about this: get out of my face.”

Hearing those words
made me think they came from a mouth other than mine. Slowly, ever so slowly, I forced one eye to open and then the other. I blinked, and blinked again. First objects that came into focus were El’s dark eyes, brimming with tears and smeared with mascara.

“Waterproof, how many time
s have I told you.”

“Thank god, you’re back,” she said.

“How long have I been gone?”

“Six hours, you’re in Sant’ Andrea Ospedale at La Spezia.”

“No way, how’d I get there … here.”

“By ambulance, the doctor in Monterosso insisted but only
as a precautionary measure.”

“
Which still doesn’t explain why I’m here.” Rubbing my forehead didn’t help so I stopped.

“Don’t you remember the accident … the gypsies?”

Okay, one more rub for good measure. “It’s coming back to me, that noisy bar and Fonso.”

“Right, we’ll talk about that later. As for now, t
he hospital already did a head scan which came back negative.”

“Negative, does that mean
bye-bye or hello, world?”

“Hello, world sounds about right.”

“Good. Let’s get out of here.” I started to sit up, had second thoughts, and lay down again. “Maybe tomorrow.”

“That’s what the doctor said.”

“And then what?”

“Lorenzo has invited us to return to his villa here in La Spezia.”

“Whatever works for you, works for me.” Did I actually say that?

“The villa works best,” El
said. “Besides, Lorenzo brought all of our things back from Monterosso.”

“Whatever.”
I could’ve argued the point but didn’t have the energy to spit out my words. Besides, this knot on the back of my head was giving me fits. Sleep, that’s what I needed. Sleep.

***

The next morning I felt one-hundred per cent better and couldn’t wait to leave the hospital, even though my brain was still kind of foggy. By ten o’clock all the paper work was in order. Me too, four fingers drumming the utility tray, one foot tapping the floor. The door swung open and in walked El and Lorenzo—mustn’t forget Lorenzo. They were starting to look like a couple and El’s cheeks had the rosy effect of morning sex that I knew all too well.

“All set?” she
asked.

“One more meal and I might decide to stay here.”

“You mean the food’s that good.”

“Please, we may be in Italy
but this is still a hospital. There’s only so much
la cucina
ospedale
can do with an Italian breakfast consisting of coffee, juice, and packaged bread.”

“W
ait until we get to Lorenzo’s villa,” El said. “The food will be to die for … oops. Forget what I just said.”

“About what,” I said and when El’s face dropped, I added, “just kidding. Right, Lorenzo.
”

His ears flushed pink, a
t his age, how charming.

***

Lorenzo’s villa was charming too, considering how little I’d seen of it during my previous overnighter, one that ended almost before it began with me taking off for the lure of Cinque Terre. Let me be honest, to escape the humiliation of Firenze. So much had happened since then—goofballs Franz and Max on the boat, that idiot Trevor Connor in Monterosso, Nicco Rizzi (sigh), the murder-for-hire gypsies, and best of all, Jonathan from Iowa who came into my  life on a whim and went out … but when and to where. How weird was that. One minute we were about to take a train and boat to Portofino; the next minute: poof. Just like that, our plan had disappeared, along with Jonathan. Minus me, two bright yellow dandelions gone to seed, their fluffy orbs bursting into the air before floating into nothingness. In a matter of three days I’d been dumped not once but twice. Me, Margo Savino, dumpstress extraordinaire, how could I have been so screwed. Two lower-than-low classic dumps, yes, two.

This
morning, more like late forenoon, time had slowed down and given me a perfect excuse to do nothing, just as the doctor had ordered. After settling into a lounge chair on the terrace, I drank in the warm sun without applying sunscreen. And yes, my floppy straw hat was upstairs where it would just have to stay. I didn’t feel like moving so much as my little finger, especially with El beside me, sans the sunscreen too but still wringing her hands over the past twenty-four hours.

Wanting to get El’
s mind off herself, the big sister in me asked a simple question. “Should I leave another message for Jonathan?”

“That would make ten if you did. I hate saying this but it’s over.”

“Yeah, before it even got started. You’d think he would’ve called.”

“He didn’t; get over it.”

“Mom always did like you best.”

“Not true and you know it.”

Right, but
it
always gets a rise out of El. I, on the other hand, was working my way up to a basket case. “For all we know Jonathan could be laying in a hospital, unconscious and without his passport or I.D., worse yet in a coma.”

“
How many times must I tell you: Lorenzo checked the hospitals—no Jonathan Ballister.”

“What about Jonathan from Iowa?”

“Shut up,” El said. She would’ve said more but switched to her sweet self with a pleasant, “Ah-h, look who’s here.”

Zia Octavia, one thing
was for sure: although the old gal wasn’t good ol’ Mom, it was obvious that she liked El better than me. That, however, didn’t stop me from wiggling my butt out of the chaise lounge and following her and El into the dining room. Zia gestured to the far end of the table and with a second gesture put El and me across from each other, leaving space for Lorenzo to my left and El’s right. He came in carrying the first course: three plates of melon wrapped in prosciutto which he placed at each setting. In a well-practiced motion of one, two, three he filled our goblets with wine, took off his apron, and sat down.

After a three-way click and a three-way cin-cin, we sipped our wine and ate our mel
on, the first decent food my mouth had received since breakfast the day before at Lorenzo’s apartment in Monterosso. Only twenty-eight hours ago and yet it seemed eons longer.

“Yo
u’re feeling better?” he asked me.

“Almost back to n
ormal, other than this knot,” I said with a rub to the back of my head.

“Rubbing it won’t help,” El said.

“Not you, but it makes me feel better.”

“
Elena … Margo, please. The table is no place to argue.”

“
Who’s arguing? Why, where we come from … never mind, my apologies.” I blew Lorenzo a fingertip kiss and wondered at what point he’d hop up and hurry back to his chef duties. “About the next course …” I started to say only to be interrupted by commotion in the kitchen—an ear-piercing shriek, a pot or multiple pots crashing to the floor and rattling pictures on the walls surrounding our table.

Glory
be, holy cow, and what the shit. Who should come running out, none other than the mysterious garden lady wearing her usual summer white gauze … hair a bit on the wild side … face a bit out of sorts … but oh so movie-star beautiful. On her heels was Zia Octavia, waving a wood spoon and sputtering an apology warped by anger and frustration. I glanced across the table. The pained expression on El’s face said more than any words could have and had I been a genuine woos, would’ve been enough to make me weep on her behalf.

Chapter 35

Not Enough Leftover

I didn’t have to look at Margo to know what she must’ve been thinking: poor El, got herself mixed up with the wrong man, a married man at that, one with a deranged wife still in the picture regardless of what he otherwise might’ve claimed.

As for
Lorenzo, the red-rimmed ears were no longer an issue since the blood had drained from them and his face. He jumped up, knocking over his chair in the process. Two long strides brought him to the woman I now knew as his wife. He put his arms around her in the way he’d put them around me, smoothed down her hair with one hand just as he’d done with mine. And when he spoke to her it was in a soothing voice filled with so much love I realized there’d never be enough left over for me.

It didn’t take long for Anita
who wasn’t dead to wiggle out of the arms of Lorenzo who wasn’t a widower. In a matter of seconds she whirled around and pushed Zia, almost knocking her over. Zia raised her spoon, thought better, and lowered it. What followed was a heated exchange as only the Italians can do, and one I hadn’t expected from Lorenzo who always seemed so reserved. At least from my perspective which covered less than a week … pass the bucket of common sense, please.

Margo squeezed her e
yes tight as if the absurdity of this whole scene was more than she could bear. Was I ever mistaken; the old Margo soon emerged, whispering as much as she could translate from their conversation without missing what new words were being said.

“Zia forgot to lock the kitchen door
for which she could now throw herself off the terrace … Anita came looking for milk … for the
gatti
… you know, the cats … Lorenzo told Anita she must rest … he wants to take her … home. Anita says this is her home. No, no … Zia told her she belongs next door. Anita told Lorenzo she loves him more than life and that she’d rather die than live one more day without him.”

Anita
paused, giving Margo a chance to catch her breath and me to accidently knock over my goblet, which didn’t contain much wine but got a rise from Anita. The poor woman jerked her head in our direction and opened her eyes even wider than they already were. Letting out a long wailing scream, she raised her fists and started pounding Lorenzo’s chest.

It didn’t take rocket science to figure out Margo was enjoying this way more than I was. Still I let her carry on
the translation.

“Oops. Anita
hates us … we are
le puttane
Americane
… you know, the American whores.”

“Not me.”

“Excuse me? I didn’t sleep with her husband.”

“I didn’t know he was married … not at first.
And don’t get me started on Bernardo Cozzani.”

“Sh
-h,” Margo said.

One shush was all it took, as if Margo had snapped her fingers. Just like that Anita snapped, putting an end to her tirade. She went limp and fell into Lorenzo’s waiting
arms. He swept her up like the proverbial hero of a romance novel, and with Zia leading the way, carried Anita into the kitchen and from there I heard the door leading outside open and close.

“Phew,
” Margo said. “I’m exhausted. Did you ever—”

“No, I didn’t so just shut up about it, will you.”

“Hey, this is Big Sis you’re telling to shut up. Don’t forget: I’m on your side.”

“Then do me a favor and just shut up. I don’t think I can take one more hour of this.”

“Good, neither can I,” Margo said.  How ‘bout we pack up and leave. It’s not as if anything is holding us here.”

“Oh, shoot. There is
one thing. I forgot to tell you. Dante Novaro wants another interview with us … more like with you since he hasn’t heard your version of yesterday. He’s coming here to the villa this afternoon, around two o’clock.”

“This may sound crass but after one slice of melon and prosciutto, I’m not exactly filled to the gills,” Margo said. “Do you think Lorenzo’s coming back to finish up our meal?”

“Your guess is as good as mine.”

“I say we go into the kitchen, grab two plates, and help ourselves to whatever’s on the stove.

***

Nothing but nothing could’ve compared to
watching my first love carry away his first love, the love of his life. One thing was for sure: whatever meal Lorenzo had prepared that day I’d lost my appetite for eating but it must’ve been more than decent because Margo went back for seconds that she carried to our room. While she raved about the food and packed her clothes, I forced myself to make a return visit to Lorenzo’s room to gather up the few items I’d left there the night before. And what an awesome night it had been: the discovery of subtle nuances that defined our individual personalities and what we expected from each other, the delicious taste of sex with no restrains. A night to remember, without a doubt, although I tried not to think about the many nights Lorenzo must’ve made love to his wife in that same bed. Or the many days he had to leave his business affairs in order to hurry home and calm her down.

I didn’t
realize Lorenzo had entered his bedroom until he stood behind me, the Gucci cologne teasing me, his breath soothing my neck with every word he spoke. “Margo tells me you’re leaving. Please forgive me for the unhappiness I have caused you, for ruining what should’ve been a remarkable holiday. It was never my intent to hurt or deceive you.”

I tur
ned with thoughts of slapping him across his pompous face but when I saw that face wracked with undeniable pain I kissed a row of my fingertips and brushed them across his cheek, clean-shaven since my last touch earlier that morning. As my hand slipped away, he took hold of it, held my fingertips to his lips, and held my eyes with his.

“I’m so sorry, Elena.”

“No need to apologize. Italy has been my once-in-a-lifetime experience and quite unforgettable in every way imaginable. My only regret is the holiday not ending up nice and tidy.”

“
Nice and tidy, I do not understand.”

“Someday, you will.”

He checked his watch. “Dante should be here very soon.”

“I’ll work on my
packing until then.”