Ready for You (4 page)

Why was she here? She was being punished, that was it, wasn’t it. Seeing everything she wanted but couldn’t have. Her bites became smaller and smaller as chewing and swallowing took too much effort. She sipped her water, but that didn’t help. She had to get out of there. She could barely hear anymore, their voices muted by the whirlwind in her ears. Without a word, she rose and took her plate to the kitchen, cursing that sunny June day she first saw Rocco Buffone.

Chapter Four

Rocco glanced back, hoping for a glimpse of Chiara’s tanned, shapely legs, her pretty little feet in those sexy strappy heels.
Just the brown wicker chair legs.
Where was she?

“Hi, Daddy,” his daughter said as he turned to the view of the back yard, green from his father’s careful watering. He rose and hugged his girl before he introduced her to Chiara’s sister, who then looked around for her sister.

“I’ll find her,” he offered when Isabella stood up to look for Chiara.

His kids sat with Isabella, all three ate and talked as he walked into the house. He put his plate in the sink, where his sister in law started the dishes.

“Have you seen Chiara?”

“Who?”

“She came with her sister, she’s wearing dark pink,” he said.

“Oh, she came in with her plate a few minutes ago.”

“Thanks,” he said before he made a round of the downstairs rooms. He knocked on the bathroom door.

“Sorry, I’ll be out in a minute.”

“Chiara?” he said at the door. Water pattered in the sink then stopped. He stood a few moments before the door opened as if she expected to find something sinister waiting on the other side. Shit, she’d been crying, her eyes hadn’t been at all red earlier. He swallowed and backed up. “Your sister’s looking for you.”

“Will you tell her I had to go?” she whispered. She choked on her words, even in such a hushed voice.

“Isn’t there someone you could talk to? I know what it’s like…” he trailed off.

She covered her mouth with her hand but that didn’t stop the tears from falling, dropping down her cheeks and fingers. His stomach knotted. He wrapped an arm around her shoulders, her bare, smooth shoulders, and she leaned into him. He led her into the garage and shut the door. Huddled together, she faced him, her hair by his chin, her smooth, shiny, fruity scented hair. He tilted his head back and exhaled before he hugged her. She wrapped her arms around his waist, buried her cheek into his chest, and sobbed.

He had her where he wanted her, but not how he wanted her. He closed his eyes and tried to ignore the fact that only three light layers of fabric separated him from her soft, full breasts which brushed against him. He caressed the small of her back. His hand fit in its gentle sway with the ease and comfort of the custom-made baseball glove Ray’d given him for Christmas years ago. After too short a time, she drew in a shaky breath and quieted.

“I’m sorry,” she said.

“It’s okay.”

“No, it’s not.” She pushed away and turned.

“Do you want to talk?”

She shook her head. “I should freshen up again.”

He opened the door for her and watched as she went back into the bathroom. He clicked shut the door and strode outside.

His three nephews pounced on him the minute he stepped onto the porch.

“Come on, Uncle Roc, you promised us a game,” the oldest said while his brothers nodded and pulled his arms.

He recruited his son, daughter, and older brother Ray and they threw around the ball before the boys took turns at bat. He missed this, the grass springy underfoot, positioned in the outfield, watching and waiting for the next ball to come his way, the rush when you threw to catch a man out. A pop of bright pink caught his eye and he changed his sightline slightly. The yard wasn’t very large, so he could see her clearly as she held his baby niece in her arms. She smiled and focused her eyes on Ava, bouncing almost imperceptibly while she spoke, maybe singing softly. Beautiful, she was beautiful.

He took his hands off his knees and crossed his arms. He felt like a roving outfielder who suddenly feels called to be a catcher, behind home plate in a steady partnership with the pitcher. Then again, the pitchers changed every game, or more. He’d always liked variety. He shook his head and completely missed the ball which thudded on the ground near him.

“Gotta keep your mind in the game,” Ray said as he bent to retrieve the ball. Rocco shrugged and jogged toward the porch, all the while with one eye on Chiara, who laughed. Dammit, why couldn’t she have seen him play back in the day?

“Your turn,” Faith called as he walked up the steps. He stood next to Chiara. A deep calm settled in him, quickly displaced by sharp yearning when she brushed against his arms as she passed him the baby. Ava grasped his finger and he smiled at her.

“She looks just like you,” he said to Faith. He glanced at Chiara, who frowned and bit her lip when she caught him looking at her.

“You’d know,” Faith said.

“He’d know? What about me?” his mother said.

“Of course, Mom,” his sister said.

“Time to go to Daddy, lil’ girl,” he said as the odor of new baby poop made
itself
known. Brad took her and laughed. “I can take a hint,” he said.

“Don’t change diapers?” Chiara asked Rocco. Her mouth set, arms crossed--she riled him.

“I’ve changed more than my share, actually.
Probably more than you.”

“Do you have children?” his mom asked her.

“Yes, two boys, five and six.”

“I think Chiara’s got you beat,” Isabella said. “Phil wouldn’t change a diaper if he could avoid it, which he did.” She laughed while Chiara’s frown seemed etched into her face. He looked away.

“Phil?”

“My husband.”

“Oh,” his mom said. He thought so. She’d had plans, now ruined. So were his. “How long have you been married?”

“Eight years.”

“My poor sister, married to a neatnik and germaphobe. And she used to be called dirty girl.” Chiara shot her sister a look that made him want to either walk away or see what fantastic fight would result. Isabella’s laughter stopped.

“He’s not that bad,” Chiara said. “He’s a good father.”

“Why were you called dirty girl?” he asked before anyone else could speak.

“My brother Santo called me that because I liked to play in the garden or tag along after him and Tomaso to the park or ball field.”

“And you didn’t take a bath for a week when we went to Italy that time,” Isabella said.

“I was only ten.”

“And when we were teenagers--”

“I think everyone’s heard enough about me. We should be going. Phil and the boys will be back soon. Thank you very much for inviting us,” she said as she shook everyone’s hands. He wanted to hear more. Maybe he could find out sometime. Get a few glasses of wine in Isabella and she was talkative. Faith walked them into the house. He blew out a breath and rubbed the back of his neck.

“Are you okay, Dad?” his daughter asked.

“Fine, sweetheart.”
He wished for a hot tub about now except his muscles only tightened further, like a tension wire at its breaking point, imagining Chiara in the bubbling, steaming pool with him.

“Why can’t you find a nice woman like Chiara?” she said. He raised an eyebrow at her. His mom laughed and hugged her around the waist.

“That’s my girl. I couldn’t agree more. Isabella’s nice too, and a doctor.”

“She has a boyfriend,” Sabrina said.

“She’s not my type,” he said.

“What about Chiara?” He crossed his arms and gave her his best disapproving fatherly look. She giggled. “I’m going away to school and you’ll be forty soon. You need someone--”

“My love life is no one’s business but mine and don’t forget it. I have enough women in my life, don’t I?”

“Can’t have too much of a good thing.”

“Another daughter
like
you, okay.”

“You can’t get one without…” He gave her the look again. “A baby sister would be sweet. Then I can get a baby fix without having one myself.” She grinned.

“I know you better than that. Besides, your mother has been dating what’s his name--”

“John.”

“Right, for a while.
Let her have another one.”

“She’s forty, Dad. And John has two kids as well. Mom doesn’t want five.”

“You’ve got Ava for a baby fix.”

“Never mind him, Sabrina. If he wants to end up like his uncle, that’s his choice.”

“Thanks,” he said. “That won’t work either, Mom. Uncle Rob’s happy.”

“Nonsense.
Come on, there’s no talking to him now.” The two went inside.

He turned to the yard, where Ray and the boys helped his dad set up a mesh net over the pear tree to keep the birds from eating the future fruit. He leaned against the pillar and shook his head. What was wrong with him? The sky was cloudless and clear, the yard green with grass and the harvest of summer, tomatoes, eggplant, beans, and herbs, a satisfying meal filled his stomach, his family were all healthy and happy, the scent of the lemon tree drifted over…Chiara. He had to get his mind off her. Not a day had gone by since he’d first noticed her a week ago that he didn’t think about her. She wasn’t the most beautiful women he’d ever met, or the sexiest, but when she looked at him with her deep brown flashing eyes, or sashayed by, or brushed back her hair, he believed she was both, and more.

“Dad,” his son said as the screen door twanged shut. “You’ve been quiet today.”

“Do I usually talk that much?”

“You do like to shoot the shit.”

“You’re lucky your grandma didn’t hear that.”

“She and Sabrina are plotting in the living room.”

“What now?”

“You, again.”

“I’d hoped we’d settled that.”

“Not until you settle.”

Rocco grimaced. “I thought my buying a house nearby would satisfy.”

“No, all the more reason for them.
When do you move in?”

“Next weekend.”

“Need help?” Shawn said.

“Yeah.”
More help than anyone could give.

“Maybe Grandma and Sabrina are right.”

“Not you too.”

“You haven’t been yourself lately.” Had he been that obvious? He really did need to do something, more like someone.

“Taking on a wife and having a baby at my age is going to help? I’ve got enough responsibility as it is. You and your sister worry too much. You should both go and enjoy college, okay?”

“We will. I’ll tell Sabrina you’re sad ‘
cause
you’ll miss us.”

“Go on,” he said, shoving his son playfully.

He would, though. With Shawn at UCLA and Sabrina at SDSU, he’d wondered why he bought a house in Fairvale. He should have moved down south, made a fresh start. But he had his job, his dad relied on him. And, much as he wanted to forget Chiara, the thought of being four hundred miles away from her sent a chill through him. He rubbed his arm and pulled open the door. It slammed against the house before swinging shut behind him.

Chapter Five

“You’ve gotten too much like Phil,” Isabella said after a silent ten minute drive home.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Talking again? Good.”

“Do you enjoy embarrassing me?” Chiara tightened her vise grip on her purse.

“Don’t be so sensitive.”

“If you were trying to make a good impression, teasing me wasn’t helping.”

Isabella parked in the driveway and turned off the car. “I was trying to lighten the mood. I’m sorry I said that about Phil.”

“It wasn’t that, I…” Chiara slumped forward and put her face in her hands, hoping to stop anymore tears. Isabella placed a hand on her back. Chiara took a deep breath.

“Are things that bad? I know you went to couples counseling, was it last year? I thought things were better.”

“Yes.” Chiara didn’t want to tell anyone she and Phil were separated—not yet. She could handle it all herself. “A few months ago, I sat in church, praying, and all that went through my head was you should leave your husband. But I thought that was crazy, God wouldn’t tell me to divorce my husband, right? It was just me, but the feeling was so strong, I had to go into the ladies room and lock myself in a stall and cry. Thank goodness the boys were in Sunday school and my eyes don’t stay red long.”

“Is that how you want to live your life? Numb?”

“The boys are more important than my feelings.”

“No,
them
having a happy mother is more important than martyring yourself to your idea of motherhood.”

“Screw you. What do you know? You don’t have children.” Chiara stopped squeezing her purse and swung open the door.

“I work with them and I know. They’ll know you and Phil aren’t happy, if they don’t already.”

“We’ve managed to fool everyone else, haven’t we,” Chiara said before she slammed the car door.

“We don’t live with you and you hardly ever see the family anymore.” Isabella hauled her torso out the window.

“Because I don’t need you all dumping on me.
Don’t ask me for any more favors.”

Chiara ran up the front steps, dropped her keys, swore, and picked them up, fumbling to unlock the door. Isabella’s car started and drove away. Chiara went inside and hung her purse on the hook. Phil and the boys would be home in a few hours. She had to get herself together.

They were late. Chiara ate a salad for dinner at the kitchen table alone while she read a magazine. At eight, Phil carried a sleeping Max to the boys’ room while Chiara helped Danny put on his pajamas and brush his teeth. He rattled on in his little voice about the rocks he’d found, the lizards they’d seen, the hot dogs and marshmallows roasted over the campfire. She tucked him in and kissed his forehead, he kissed her cheek. She knew soon enough he wouldn’t want to even do that.

“Enjoy your weekend?” Phil asked as they sat in the living room. The boys were asleep and she and Phil were both on their computers.

“Yes, thanks. Sounds like you all had fun.”

“Max missed you.”

“I could have gone, if you’d asked.” Chiara’s hands hovered over the keyboard.

“I know you don’t like camping.”

“I’d go for the boys.”

“But not for me.”

She turned to face him. “That’s not true. We did go that time to Yosemite.”

“And we had to leave a day early because you felt sick.”

“I was pregnant with Danny.” She rolled her eyes and faced the blank page on the screen.

“But you were well enough to go to that spa with your mother and sister.”

“For my mother’s fiftieth birthday and I’d stopped having morning sickness by then.
Why am I defending myself? Do you have something to say that’s relevant?”

“I’m never sure who you are, what your priorities are.” His tone was low, dismissive.

“I think that’s clear--our children.” Chiara bit her lip to keep from screaming at him.

“Huh,” he said, also facing his computer when she glanced at him. She shut hers down and went to make the boys’ lunches for school the next day. Phil’s computer snapped shut an hour later and his footsteps shuffled into the bathroom, she could tell by the click of the door. He had to leave for work at seven and he regimented his eight hours of sleep on a strict schedule which Chiara refused silently to follow.

She checked to make sure she had Max’s and Danny’s clothes
laid
out and their backpacks ready before shutting off the lights. A sob choked in her throat. She hurried into the laundry room, shut the door, and slid down the wall. She squeezed her eyes closed to stop from crying. If she had her cell, she’d call Rocco right now. She leaned her head back. She was losing it, believing even for a second his kind words of understanding and sympathy. She’d met enough men like him to know better.

Still, she looked for him as she passed his job site the next two days, but she couldn’t spot him. Since she didn’t have the guts to linger or ask for him, she sighed each time she walked away without so much as a glimpse, though she could view him well enough in her imagination.

She and Phil barely spoke those two days. He knew he could rattle her eventually if he kept up the silent treatment long enough, which he could indefinitely, though of course they spoke to each other around the boys. Some part of her yearned to talk to Rocco--he was one of the few people she knew who’d been divorced. No one in her family was, though her brother Santo and his wife, Bobbie, had come close. She couldn’t talk to them though. Why she felt she would be comfortable talking to Rocco was a mystery since he unsettled her in ways she’d never experienced.

She left early on Wednesday to pick up Max, whose dismissal time was over an hour earlier than Danny’s. She told herself she wanted time outside to read quietly while she waited, but she knew she could do that at home. Really she hoped to catch Rocco on lunch. Dressed in her most flattering dark rinse boot cut jeans and a cap sleeve blue top, she tried to walk slowly, in a casual manner, but she was too much so as she passed the men grouped on the small patch of lawn.

Her flip flop caught on a crack in the sidewalk and she tripped, unable to stop herself from tumbling to the pavement. She cursed under her breath and picked up the hand which had saved her from a faceplant. The buckled concrete scratched her hands and as she tried to right herself. She plopped onto her rear when a sharp pain jabbed through her left ankle.

“Are you okay?” His voice was low but had a clear edge of true concern. Dammit, he’d seen.

“Yeah, fine.” She closed her eyes and focused on the sound of the leaves whishing in the whisper of wind.

“Did you hurt your ankle?” Rocco asked.

“I think it’ll be okay, thanks.”

He lifted her into his arms as if she was no heavier than a child. Lord, he was strong. She draped an arm around his neck and tried to ignore the deep warmth that settled in her. He was tense, hard as the apple tree branch she’d used to recline on when she was a little girl. As quickly as he’d picked her up, he set her down on the grass. She smiled weakly at the other guys while he gently felt her ankle with his fingers, so warm and rough. She shut her eyes and breathed, earth and man mingled in her nostrils, the cool lawn soothed her scraped palms. For a moment she imagined herself Maryanne in “Sense and Sensibility” when she first met Willoughby.
Except Chiara liked Colonel Brandon, not Willoughby.
When she opened her eyes, Rocco studied her.

“Are you sure you’re all right?”

“Bruised pride more than anything else.”

He grinned. Damn, he was hot. “You were so distracted by my presence, you fell over, huh?”

“Actually, I hadn’t noticed you,” she lied.

“Your ankle feels fine,” he said as he eased himself next to her.

“Thanks, sorry I interrupted your lunch.”

“I was just relaxing. Maybe you should join me, give your ankle a rest.”

“I guess. I don’t have to pick up Max for a while yet.” She plucked at the dying grass.

“School over soon?”

“Tomorrow.”
She blew out a low breath.

“Big summer plans?”

“Different camps into July, swim lessons,
then
a trip to San Diego for Danny’s seventh birthday. What about you?”

“I bought a house.
Moving in this Saturday.”

“Congratulations.
Where?”
When she glanced at him, her throat constricted. Even sitting next to him threatened to open something in her she didn’t want to know was there.

“Near here, 1750 Esmond.”

“That’s a great house. We looked at it before we bought ours six years ago. Phil’s not much of a handy man, though. He wanted something we could move right into but he really hated the yard. Not enough sun for his garden.” She was more nervous than she thought, rambling on that way, and about Phil. She plucked at the grass again.

“Yeah, it needs a bit of work, but I’ll get it the way I want it eventually.”

“Do you usually get what you want?”

“Not exactly, no.” He rubbed his knee. “I better get back to it.” He stood, turned, and held out his hand. She slid hers into his wide palm, moist from the mid day heat. He pulled her up effortlessly, but so fast and strong, she nearly collided with him. She placed her hands on his chest to stop the momentum. Their eyes met briefly but it was long enough for her to see the suggestive look on his face and for her insides to burn and throb with the idea of him. She looked away and fluttered her hand in a wave. She stepped onto the sidewalk, ignoring the dull ache in her ankle.

“Thanks,” she said.

“Glad you’re okay.” She sure as hell wasn’t okay. “Enjoy your summer,” he said.
Her
back slumped a bit.

“You too,” she said without turning around. She wouldn’t see him again. He didn’t want to see her again.

“Hey,” he said. An invisible cord drew her upright while a smile played on her lips. She turned. He waved her purse at her. She blushed but traipsed the few steps to grab it. “If you’re ever in my neighborhood, my door is always open.” Somehow she kept herself upright, or she would have puddled at his feet. She nodded and waved again, feeling as she did when she used to skip up her childhood street, bouncy and giggly.

He wanted to see her. She was sure of it. Otherwise he wouldn’t have said that, or told her his address, either. He must know she lived in his neighborhood, so she was always around. But as she walked home with her boys, she knew she couldn’t see him. It would be a rebound—hell, she hadn’t even filed the divorce papers.

Besides, it would hurt the boys. And Phil--he’d tried to be a good husband and he was a good father. And everyone would judge her—her family would think she was a cheater. All because she was a horny middle aged woman tired of trying to fix her marriage and unsatisfied in bed. So she hadn’t had sex in over six months. Was sex worth destroying her family, even sex as great as she suspected it would be with Rocco? No. Her sex life would have to wait until she divorced Phil…if she ever did.

That night, she showered before bed. Phil and the boys were already asleep. As she washed her hair, she closed her eyes and Rocco’s image shimmered before her, like a desert mirage. She could almost feel his hands on her and soon she had to satisfy herself somehow. Yet there was no sweet release, only her tears mingling with the shower spray as she slid to the bathtub bottom, where she sat, her knees pulled up, sobbing silently into her hands.