Ready for You (9 page)

“Sure,” she said. She led Chiara into the living area. Isabella hung on Rocco’s arm. He was smiling and charming her parents. Sabrina got them a couple of iced teas from the dining room sideboard.

“I thought your sister was coming with her boyfriend,” she said.

“They had a fight.”

“I know how that goes,” Sabrina said.

Chiara glanced at her, her cute features twisted in a grimace. “Guy trouble?”

“Not lately, but my last boyfriend and I ended things in a bad way, you know? But I’ll meet new people in college, right?”

“Definitely.
You’ll have a blast.”

“You never said which school you went to.”

“USD, it’s the Catholic college up on the hill by Mission Bay.”

“It’s beautiful. My friend Maddy’s going. I wanted to go too, but my grades weren’t good enough, and it’s expensive.”

“You could always transfer, if you get your grades up. In my day, it wasn’t so competitive. Sixteen years ago.” Chiara ran a finger along her frosted glass.

“Really?
I thought…I mean
,
you’re old enough to be my mom?” Sabrina sounded surprised.

“I’ll be thirty-five in November.”
Old enough, if she’d been as dumb as her mom, having a baby at seventeen.
Then again, a girl with Rocco, a beautiful, smart daughter…and, for all their fighting, Chiara knew her parents were still in love. Look at how they held hands, the way her dad glanced at her mom, a spark in his eye, or her mom smoothing his still black hair for him when a stray strand fell out of place. Chiara’s heart fell. No, it imploded.

“I’m sorry,” Sabrina said. “I didn’t mean to offend you.”

“You didn’t. I am that old.” She smiled. “And anyone would be proud to have a daughter like you.”

“Wish you could talk to my mom.”

“Is she here?”

“No, she and Grandma haven’t always been friends, if you know what I mean.” Chiara nodded and Sabrina laughed. “Grandma’s funny that way. With one hand, she tries to push my dad to settle down and with the other she ticks off all the reasons every woman isn’t good enough for him.
Though your sister might fit her standards.
An Italian American doctor.
Education and family are very important to Grandma.”

Chiara’s insides shriveled and curled inward, like she did after a bout of hysterics or a crying jag.
“My parents too.”

Mr. Buffone called everyone to the tables and Chiara sat near her parents while somehow Isabella managed to score the seat next to Rocco at the family table. Chiara fidgeted in her place at the second table, also covered in a large white damask cloth, but it was a folding table. The open floor plan allowed for such a gathering and Chiara suspected the Buffones always had people over, much as it had been at her own house growing up. Phil never wanted anyone over unless they called first and he liked formal, orderly parties, not the free for all get-togethers of Chiara’s youth. Besides, their house wasn’t really big enough for entertaining. Suzy’s was. She’d seen it when Suzy hosted an office party last year; one of those
nineteen-nineties
two story monstrosities, the modern tract home for the wealthy set.

“I’m surprised Phil let you out of the house in that dress,” her mom whispered as Chiara took a bite of mixed greens salad. Her mom didn’t mean that in the “rip the dress off you” way Isabella had. Chiara chewed her food then took a sip of iced tea.

“He and the boys are out,” she said, knowing some response was safer than none.

“When was the last time you two went out?”

“Phil and I spend plenty of time together.”

“Humph. You know your father and I are happy to watch the boys if you want to get out.”

“Thanks.” Chiara glanced at Isabella and Rocco who had their heads almost touching as they laughed. Chiara faked a smile.

“It’s Isabella you should be worried about. She and Matt had another fight.”

“She looks happy enough. Rocco is a charming man and he comes from such a nice family.”

That totally backfired. Chiara half listened as her mom talked about the Buffones, which somehow led to her favorite topic, Santo and his girls. Why had she driven over with Isabella? At this rate, she should cut her losses and call a cab rather than see Isabella drop her off and follow Rocco home. Chiara pushed her plate away an inch, unable to eat any more.

“Chiara, you’ll waste away to nothing…unless, are you feeling well? Should I be congratulating you?” Chiara’s mom asked.

Now she did feel sick.
Another baby with Phil?
That would be a huge mistake. But she glimpsed little Ava in Faith’s arms and the swell of longing she had buried scrabbled to the surface.

“No, I’m fine,” Chiara hissed. “Excuse me.” She picked up her plate and went into the kitchen. She washed a few dishes before Brad, Faith’s husband, came in with another man-- Chiara couldn’t remember his name.

“My mom in there will scold me something fierce if she saw you in here doing our work. Thanks, though, but why not go enjoy? I think she’s going to open her gifts soon,” Brad said.

Chiara shrugged with a smile and slowly walked into the living room, where she stood pressed against the doorway. Dinner was winding down and Mrs. Buffone’s youngest grandson brought her presents to her. Chiara watched the proceedings, trying to quell the hurt and yearning aching in every limb, but she didn’t succeed.

Everyone began to mingle again. Isabella and Rocco whispered together. Why was she so mad at Isabella? Her sister didn’t know what she and Rocco had shared, or what Chiara fooled herself into believing they did. He was the dog, coming onto her sister when he’d pursued her.
Unless he was trying to punish her for being here.
It was working. Isabella and Rocco went down the hall, toward the garage, Chiara deduced, since they carried empty wine bottles. She should confront him. Why should she suffer in silence?

She treaded down the hall as quietly as she could. Opening the garage door, her head burst in pain and heat. In the dim, cool space Isabella, her hands on a grinning Rocco, stood near her. Chiara let the door bump shut behind her and pounced on her sister. She grabbed her hair, difficult to do with Isabella’s bobbed, fine hair, and jerked her back.

“Hey!” Isabella half whined half choked out. Chiara shoved her and turned on Rocco.

“You,” she spit out as he frowned at her. She threw at punch at his face, but he blocked her. She recovered and jabbed her fist with all her might into his stomach. He oofed forward slightly. Light weight training really paid off.

“You’ve been cheating on Phil?” Isabella asked.

“It’s not like that,” Chiara said. Her breathing came in little puffs. Rocco straightened himself and dropped his arms to his sides, still frowning.

“What’s it like then?”

“Like?
Nothing.
A meaningless flirtation.”
Rocco’s ample brows creased together at her words.

“Uh-huh. That’s why you went all crazy
bitch
on me?”

“You know me.”

“I thought I did. I’ll just take this wine in,” Isabella said, picking up some bottles from a shelf by the door and leaving.

Rocco nodded, never taking his eyes off Chiara. She spun away from him, but he grabbed her arm.

“You want me to lay you horizontal this time?” she said. She trembled with anger and intense attraction.

“Damn right, but no need to be so rough about it,” he said. He took a step toward her.

“You men, always whining and moaning about that.”

Their breath mingled between them, hot and sharp.

He pulled her into him. Their bodies fit together somehow, like the odd alchemy of a baseball in the right pitcher’s hand. Where one threw a slow ball, the other sped a ninety-five mile hour fastball straight over the heart of home plate. She smiled at him and he received her signal. He kissed her. Within moments, their hands circled through hair, over chests, around rears, down thighs. She giggled, a low, joyful sound and he half smiled at her.

She parted her lips and went in for more. His breathing quickened and he picked her up, still standing, until her legs pressed against the cool metal of the washing machine on the back wall.

A low sound stole out of her throat when he moved a hand under the light folds of fabric covering her breasts. She nipped his lip as he fingered her through her bra until her nipples became unbearably hard. She moaned and his other hand eased up her thigh and into her panties. She swelled and surged, already on the verge. When his fingers found her clit, he circled and rubbed. His other hand still worked on her breast and, in an agony of pleasure, he teased down her neck with his tongue, finally finding her sweet spot, that sensitive little hollow at the base of her throat. She held onto his hair and moaned again, one second on fire and the next mellowing in warmth and release. He chuckled and kissed his way back to her mouth, letting his hands linger.

“Who’s moaning, my dirty girl?” he said. Another spasm pulsed through her at his tone. And his words: she was his.

“My turn,” she said.

She undid his belt and button, shaky with excitement. Her hand slid under, not even waiting for the other hand to get his zipper down. His hairs tickled her fingers and his heat made her smile.

The door to the house opened, letting in a shaft of light and Shawn. Chiara froze and pressed herself into Rocco, unable to watch the shock and dismay unfold on the young man’s face. Rocco straightened and moved his hands before he took hers. She still trembled and she blinked in frustration. Turning slightly, he fastened his button and belt. Chiara let her hands lie on his chest as he faced his son.

Chapter Eleven

Rocco swallowed.
Of all people, Shawn.
Could have been worse, but not much.
He wanted to close his eyes and only feel Chiara. He forced himself to look at his son’s face, a patchwork of hurt, disappointment, anger, and disgust.

“We’re about to have cake,” Shawn said, his voice an echo of his expression.

“You won’t--” He didn’t want Chiara hurt, which she would be if Shawn told anyone what he saw.

“Not a word,” Shawn said. And he was gone.

“Shit,” Rocco whispered. He should have apologized, tried to explain. But he couldn’t even explain this to himself. He turned his back on Chiara. She put her hand there, her warm, arousing hand. He exhaled.

“He won’t say anything.” Her voice sounded sure, calm.

“Maybe.”
Or maybe he meant he didn’t want to hear another word from him.
“Won’t stop him from thinking.”

“Do you want me to talk to him?”

“No. You don’t…he has every reason to think the worst about me. Years of trying to prove myself blown by one mistake.”

Chiara dropped her hand. “It’s my fault, I--”

“Why did you come here? I told you to bring…” He couldn’t say it. In their kisses, in touching her, he believed she was his, no one else’s. It was a lie. “Where are they?”

“Phil took the boys to swim at Suzy’s. Her nephew--”

He faced her and
laughed,
a quick, derisive chuckle. Chiara rubbed her arms, her brow creased. He was a fool. “Your parents were right. You are dirty. A filthy, vengeful--”

“Don’t or I’ll--”

Hit him? Rip his heart out?
Already done.
He went to the door. “Fuck you.” The knob was cold.

“You wish.” She
stood,
one hand on her hip, her expression almost fierce.

“You don’t get it,” he said. Did she even care? Had she used him like he’d done to so many women before?

“’Right you are, Don Sutton.’”

He grimaced.
An obscure baseball announcer reference to top it all off.
She was perfect for him.

Perfection was an illusion.

He opened the door, blinked in the light, and strode down the hall.
The door clack-clicked shut with the finality of the reverberating crack of a fly ball off the bat, the last out of the last game of the season.

Making a quick stop in the bathroom, he washed his hands. Images of Chiara, willing and wet, pressed against him, her scent making his head throb, beat in his brain. His hand trembled, the hand that felt her strong contractions when she came for him. He splashed cold water on his face and went into the kitchen. He coughed, his throat gone dry.

“About time,” Ray said. “We’re going to do cake now. No sneaking off again.”

Rocco wanted a drink, but his brother squeezed his shoulder and walked him into the dining room. Chiara stood in the far corner, almost hidden behind several other guests. Her eyes, deep pools of hurt and confusion, sliced through him. He could take her upstairs so they could talk. Maybe she was going to tell him it was over with her husband. Maybe what he’d felt when he held her wasn’t a lie. He took a step toward her but she looked away.

He frowned and focused on his mom. She smiled, as did his Sabrina. Shawn glared at him before they sang “Happy Birthday.” Rocco couldn’t eat any cake. Neither did Chiara, though her mom chided her. As soon as he could, he grabbed some empty plates and cups and went back to the kitchen.

“Come on,” a low female voice urged. His son had been steadily bringing in plates for the last ten minutes. Rocco tried to let the hot water and suds cleanse his mind or at least help him zone out, but it didn’t work. He glanced over, already knowing Chiara was in the room. A tiny hint of her scent had made him stand taller.

Her sister leaned on the counter next to him, her hand gripped around Chiara’s wrist. “This one won’t tell me squat, so I’m asking you.” She studied him. He began washing again. “Well, Chiara, should I call my lawyer friend for you? I may be your sister and I may not like Phil, but I can’t stand by for this.”

“Nothing’s going on,” Chiara whispered. So she wasn’t done with the husband. He scrubbed the same plate over and over.

“Yeah, right.
Well, big man, what’s up? Are you some kind of user? Why were you flirting with me if you’ve got something going with my sister? I wouldn’t have thought you as low as all that.”

“Will you stop,” Chiara said her voice low and harsh. She pulled herself free. “You’re making a big deal out of nothing.” Her eyes met his, again hurt, maybe angry. He stopped and dried his hands. “I’ll be outside.” She walked out and the back door squeaked open and shut.

“I’m waiting,” Isabella said.

“I don’t need to answer you. You’re not my sister. I have enough interfering women in my life, thanks.”

“No need to be an asshole, unless that’s just how you roll.”

Shawn walked in.
Great.
“He giving you trouble?”

“Just not answering my questions,” she said.

“I have a few of my own,” Shawn said.

“Why don’t you ask him what’s going on with my--”

“I already know,” Shawn said. How was that possible? Rocco didn’t even know.

“Care to enlighten me?” she said.

“I need to talk to him first,” Shawn said with a sideways nod at Rocco.

“I’ll be in the living room,” she said.

Shawn set a few more plates by the sink. Rocco leaned against the counter. A half empty wine bottle sat on the table in front of the window. Just a small glass would take the edge off. Shawn opened the fridge and Rocco took the chance. As he lifted the bottle to his lips, he stopped.

“What the fuck?” Shawn said. The bottle tapped onto the table and Rocco placed his hands on either side of it. “Have you stopped going to meetings? Have you been drinking?”

“No, I haven’t. But, yes, no meetings in a while. I’m fine, sober four years. I just--”

“Save it. That’s why we’re called ‘recovering’ not ‘recovered.’ It’s the rest of your life. What’s going on? Suddenly got a conscience? Or have you lost it again?”

Rocco blew out a breath and faced his son. “I don’t know. It’s not what you think.”

“How would you know?”

“Why don’t you tell me?” Shawn seemed to have all the answers.

 “I see you kissing Chiara, who seems like a nice woman, a married woman, you with your hands all over her. I think you’re back to your old ways.”

“This,” Ray said as he walked over, “is a really bad conversation to be having in the middle of the kitchen at mom’s birthday party.”

“I agree,” Rocco said.

“Shawn, why don’t you get back out there? You’ll be leaving for school in a couple months, let me deal with this,” Ray said. Shawn nodded but not before he pointed to the wine bottle. Ray shook his head as Shawn strode out.
“Outside, little brother.”

There was no dealing with Ray when he decided to pull rank. “I think Chiara’s out there.”

“So? Maybe she needs to hear this.”

He trudged out behind Ray. Chiara paced on the porch, her hand fluttering wildly as her other held her cell to her ear. When he saw her eyes, his stomach dropped.

“Is he okay? Phil, don’t hang up! Yes, I’ll be right there.” She stopped and saw them. He stepped toward her and smoothed her arm with his hand. She searched his eyes, hers sparkled with tears.

“What is it?” he said.

“My son Max…I need to go. Where’s Isabella?” Her voice shook as she tried to hold together.

“I’ll get her,” Ray said and he went in the house.

Chiara pressed herself into his chest. He held her, whispered in her hair. “It’ll be okay. I’ll go with you if you want.”

“I shouldn’t have been here,” she whispered.

The door burst open. “So, honey, what happened,” Isabella asked. He released Chiara, who stood, wobbly.

“Max, he almost drowned, they’re at the hospital.
Valley.”

“Let’s go,” Isabella said. She led Chiara in. Concerned voices trailed out from the open door.

Rocco folded himself onto the stoop. He put his head in his hands. He should be in the car with her, holding her, comforting her. To take her pain away, he knew in that moment he would do anything for her, even if it killed him. Ray plopped next to him.

“I bet Faith will go too. She’ll call and let us know.”

Rocco nodded. “Go ahead, lay into me.” He sounded like shit. What a shocker.

“I would, but it looks like you’re beat up enough. What’s going on? Are you drinking again?”

“No. Nothing’s going on.”

“I heard Shawn. Mom really likes the Vitales, but surely you’ve had enough trouble with them to last a lifetime. I don’t get how this happened.”

“I don’t either.” He exhaled and looked out at the yard. Still the same as it had been a few weeks ago, but he wasn’t.

“You gonna get yourself to a meeting soon?”

“Yeah, okay.”

“What about Chiara?”

“I won’t see her, that’s all. We haven’t…I didn’t mean to see her again. She came here.” He gestured around with his hands, hands that had touched her soft skin, her delicate… “Shit,” he whispered.

“Daddy,” Sabrina said, her voice quavering like the door she opened. “Isn’t it terrible? Aunt Faith’s going to call the minute she knows something. She went too, she knows more people at the hospital than Isabella.”

“Good,” Ray said.

Sabrina sat next to Rocco. “You okay?” she said. “You’re remembering, huh?”

“Yeah,” he said. He still stared at the yard, but he didn’t see anything.

“It wasn’t your fault.”

He knew what Chiara felt. How she should have been with her son, not here. Maybe then she could have prevented the bad. “We still on for San Diego next month? Maddy coming too?” he said. He wouldn’t play on his daughter’s sympathy.He’d done that enough.

“Yeah, we’re excited. You sure you don’t want to invite someone?
Maybe Isabella?”

He glanced at her. Her grin made him smile.

“Absolutely not.
First, I warned you about that stuff. Second, what kind of crap father would take a woman along on a trip with his daughter? Third, she’s not my type.”

“Really?
You seemed to be getting along fine today. And she could have her own room.”

His daughter had the Buffone persistence.
“Again, no.”

“You’re going to be bored when Maddy and I go off and do our thing.”

“Within limits and how bored can I get in a couple days?”

“When are you going?” Ray asked.

“The weekend before my birthday,” Rocco said.

“You’ll be back before?” Ray said. “Can’t wait to give you some of what you gave me when I turned forty.”

“Go easy. I’ll have just spent the weekend with two teenage girls.”

“So what?
I have three boys at home. And Carlo was still a toddler in diapers then.”

“He was almost three.”

Ray raised an eyebrow and Rocco put up his hands.

“See, Dad, if you would have listened to Grandma and me, you could have a baby and trump Uncle Ray.”

Rocco chuckled. “I’ll save besting him for other areas, thanks.”