Letters to the Baumgarters (7 page)

“I can order for us,” he offered, and so when Gianni returned, I let him
do just that, sitting back and enjoying the exchange between the two men.

Both of them clearly loved food and talking about it. Gianni spent
fifteen minutes telling us about changes on the menu, letting us know what he
got fresh at the market just that morning. When they got into discussing wine,
I excused myself to go to the bathroom. I knew I had to be a mess—there was
only so much I could do without a mirror.

I surveyed the damage as best I could in the little mirror over the sink,
adjusting my dress at the top where my bra strap was still showing, touching up
my makeup, running a comb through my hair. Satisfied that it was good enough,
in spite of the flush still in my cheeks, I returned to the table to find
Gianni and Nico sharing a complimentary glass of port from a fifteen-year-old
bottle, laughing about something as if they were old friends.

“Salute!”
Gianni offered me a glass, smiling as he raised his own
and gave a popular Italian toast.
“Possa tu vivere cento anni!”

“Salute!”
Nico agreed, and we clinked glasses. The port was smooth
and reminded me of cherries.

“I’m not sure I want to live a hundred years though,” I commented as
Gianni went off to get our antipasti.

“And why not?” Nico raised an eyebrow. “Isn’t life good to you, bella?”

“Sometimes yes.” I shrugged one shoulder, glancing over at one of the
other couples. They were older, in their fifties, but they still smiled at each
other and touched hands, offering each other bites of their food. It was a
lovely sight and made my heart hurt. “Sometimes no.”

“So tell me.” He leaned closer, those dark eyes inquiring. “What has
broken your heart?”

I shook my head, glad Gianni had returned with our antipasti—
cappesante,
canestri, carote e lemongrass
—a delicious appetizer of scallops in cocoa
butter and carrots puree with thyme and lemongrass. Gianni served as waiter and
cook, describing each dish in loving detail.

“Delizioso!”
Nico pronounced. I just moaned in response, closing
my eyes in pleasure. Gianni went to serve another table, leaving us to fight
over the rest of our antipasti, and we did—down to the last buttery bit.

“You are so sexy.”

I smiled, dabbing my mouth with the napkin and lamenting the butter I
lost on it. If it wouldn’t have been impolite, I would have licked my finger.
“Eating here is like having a food orgasm.”

“Several,” he agreed. “That was just the antipasti. We have primi,
secondi, and dessert left to go.”

“Dessert!” I groaned in anticipation. “You spoil me.”

“You deserve to be spoiled.”

“No.” I took a sip of port and looked out the window where the sun was
setting, melting into the water, turning it to liquid gold. “We humans aren’t
entitled to anything you know. Life is just a gift, not a promise.”

“Agreed.” He cocked his head at me. “And you’re a gift to me.”

“No,” I countered again, but he leaned in to quell my protest and I let
him, as if one kiss could wipe the slate clean and I could start over, right
here, right now. For a moment, with his soft lips against mine, breathing in
the musky, male scent of him, I thought it might be possible.

“Young love.” Gianni put our primi course on the table. I blushed but
Nico laughed, taking a bite of the
fettucini con ragout
and praising the
chef’s skill and presentation. Gianni beamed and went on to tell him about his
technique, an artist talking about his work, while I took a heavenly bite of my
own primi course, a perfectly cooked risotto with two types of clams.

Our secondi course was impossibly better than our primi. Nico’s was a
John Dory with a fava bean puree and turnip tops in chili pepper. He had
ordered the
calamaro ripieno de patate
for me, knowing my love of
seafood—squid stuffed with potatoes, prawns and scampi. Both were fresh,
delicious, and meticulously and beautifully plated. The entire meal was an
artful, luxurious experience, and I didn’t think it could get any better—until
Gianni brought dessert.

Nico ordered pistachio flan, which was fabulous, but for me there was a
white chocolate and basil iced mousse and a sorbet made with green apple and
wild fennel. I shared it reluctantly—I’d never tasted anything like it. Gianni
received high praise from us both for the night and he asked us to come back,
although I had a feeling we wouldn’t be for a long while, considering the bill.
I glimpsed it when Gianni brought it out along with a complimentary plate of
cookies and chocolates and knew just how much Nico had spent on our extravagant
dinner.

The evening was cool but we walked the streets anyway, holding hands and
watching the sun set over Venice. It was probably the most romantic scene I’d
ever stepped into—it could have been written in the pages of a book—and Nico’s
hand in mine made it perfection. If I’d learned anything in the past few years,
it was to enjoy the moments, and this was one I knew I’d remember long after
I’d departed Italy.

“I don’t think I’ve ever had a meal quite like that,” I admitted.

Nico smiled. “If you thought that was good, you should let me cook for
you.”

“I’d like that.” I swung his hand, pondering. “Of course, that could
prove a little difficult. There’s no kitchen in my flat.”

“We could use mine.”

I hesitated before saying, “It’s really your mother’s, isn’t it?”

“I live there too.”

“Nico…” I sighed. “Do you ever want a place of your own?”

He didn’t look at me. “It’s complicated.”

“I just wonder about a man who’s twenty-five and still living at home
with his mother.” I knew immediately I shouldn’t have said it, but it was
exactly what I was thinking. And I think he knew it anyway.

“She needs me,” he said simply.

“You could still help her, financially I mean, if you had a place of your
own.”

“But then I’d be paying rent somewhere, wouldn’t I?”

“I suppose.”

We turned a corner and I knew then where we were headed. My stomach
fluttered and my limbs felt tingly. I wanted him—I always wanted him. It had
become a constant.

“I think we feel differently about family in Italy than you do in
America,” Nico said.

I frowned. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Perhaps we care more.” The silence that followed his statement was
telling to both of us. “That didn’t sound right.”

“Americans aren’t all selfish and narcissistic you know,” I reminded him
stiffly.

“I didn’t mean that.”

“Yes you did.”

He pulled me close, sliding his arms around my waist and bending his head
to kiss me. I turned a little, deflecting, and he kissed my cheek, my ear, my
neck, sending a white hot pulse through my veins.

“Come upstairs,” he whispered, pressing his hand to the small of my back,
letting me feel how much he wanted me.

“No.” I shrugged out of his arms. “I don’t want to get in your mother’s
way.”

“Bella…” He reached for me again.

“Stop calling me that!” I backed away from him, hugging my arms across my
chest. “Just… please stop calling me that.”

“I don’t understand you.” He lifted his hands, helpless.

“That makes two of us.”

He took another step toward me. “Please come up?”

I shook my head, feeling tears welling and fighting them. “I think maybe
we need to spend some time apart.”

“You’re not making sense.”

“I think I’m making perfect sense.” I glanced up, seeing the square of
light above where his mother was peering out, looking for us. “I can’t be with
a man who puts his family before me. I can’t do that. Not again.”

“Again?”

I turned away, blinking fast. I couldn’t bear to explain. “It’s a very
long story, and I’m too tired to tell it tonight.”

“You keep too many secrets.” His hands squeezed my shoulders. “It’s like
a weight around your neck.”

“You’re probably right.” I sighed, touching the charm at the end of the
necklace Cara Lucia had given me. The eye of Beatrice, watching over me. “But
they’re mine to keep.”

He murmured his words into my ear. “Sometimes you hold things so close to
your heart that they crumble in your hands.”

“Too late.” I smiled. “The whole thing’s already collapsed.”

“We’re talking in riddles.”

I turned to face him, suddenly clear. “I think we just need to stop
talking…for a while.”

“Do you really mean this?”

“Yes.” I nodded, telling myself I did mean it, that this was the right
thing to do. I probably should have done it long ago. Beatrice would have been
better letting him go, I reminded myself. Better for everyone.

He put his arms around my waist, bending his head to mine, reading my
mind. “I won’t let you go.”

“You don’t have a choice.” I tried to disengage myself but he held me
tight.

“Give me one.”

I stopped struggling, meeting his gaze. “What do you mean?”

“Say you’ll stay here in Italy.” The urgency in his words made everything
in me go silent. He was all seriousness, his eyes searching mine. “Stay with
me. Give me a choice to make.”

“Oh Nico…” I closed my eyes against the hope I saw on his face, filled
with a pain I couldn’t fight or control. “I’m sorry.”

“Dani…” He said my name, soft, but he let me go.

And I walked home alone against the backdrop of a beautiful, blazing
Venetian sunset, crying the whole way, feeling as if my life was fading away
with the light, like an inferno in the sky.

Chapter Four

Dear Carrie and Doc,

You aren’t going to believe who’s showed up on my doorstep. I can
barely believe it myself. Mason! That’s right, I found my ex-husband sitting on
my stoop, waiting for me after class, with just a suitcase and an
English-Italian translation dictionary in his hands. I think I was too much in
shock to do anything else but invite him inside.

And I swear to God, it’s really not my fault he spent the night. He
bought a one-way ticket and he didn’t even book a room! What was I supposed to
do, send him out onto the streets alone? He doesn’t know a word of Italian—you
should hear his accent, or lack thereof. Eek! But nothing happened. Well,
mostly nothing.

Okay, okay, I admit, we, uh… we reconciled a little bit. Part of it
was the wine. That was my fault. And, you guys, he brought me Ho-Hos! (No
jokes, I mean it!) It’s one of those weird, occasional indulgences of mine that
I really miss. He knows me so well. It’s hard to say no to a man who does
something like that—not to mention the whole International flight to see me
thing. But I think it was mostly the wine.

Of course, now this complicates things with Nico a bit. To say the
least. I’m not sure what to say to him, if anything. And Mason says he wants to
stay for a while, but I don’t know what that means exactly. “Let’s just see
where things go,” is what he said. I should have been mad at him, to tell you
the truth. I should have slammed the door in his face and told him to go home.
I mean, that’s what I should have done, right? Isn’t that what you would want
me to do?

But I just couldn’t. So now he’s here, and I’m not quite sure what to
do about that…

* * * *

“Dani?” Mason’s voice beckoned me back from the siren-call of Ho-Ho’s in
my little kitchen. I licked the chocolate off my fingers, tucking my letter to
the Baumgartners away, and padded back into the bedroom, still nude. “What time
is it?”

“Midnight.” I sat on the edge of the bed, the little lamp on the night
stand illuminating his sleepy face, eyes still half-closed—but his gaze was on
my body, already hungry. Still hungry. “You’re still on American time.”

“Come back to bed.” His hand moved, warm, over my hip, still familiar,
even though it had been so long. I couldn’t believe how easily I had fallen
into bed with him, how easily I was falling... Maybe that thing about absence
making the heart growing fonder really was true. Not that I had ever really
stopped loving Mason. I’d divorced him knowing I would probably continue to
love him for the rest of my life—but love didn’t always solve everything.

“What are you doing here?” I murmured the question, running my hand
through the soft, sandy bristle of his short-cut hair, so different from Nico’s
thick, dark curls. Thinking of Nico made my stomach lurch with guilt. I didn’t
want to think about what my actions tonight might be doing to him, to our
budding relationship. It hurt my head—and my heart—too much.

“This.” He reached for me and I went to him, relieved, without any more
thought at all.

I couldn’t believe how quickly we had plunged into this, how easy it
felt, being in his arms. Sex had always been something we were good at, from
the very beginning. At least until Isabella. Then, things had started falling
apart and we just couldn’t put it all back together again. That was probably
why we’d ended up here, in bed, on his first night in Italy. We were good here.
It was outside of bed that was the problem.

“I want you.” His breath was hot in my ear, his hands large and warm,
moving over my back, drawing me near.

“Again?” I teased, reaching down to check, and sure enough, finding him
half-hard, beginning to fill my hand.

“Always.” He kissed me, his mouth sliding deliciously across mine.
Everything about him was familiar and new at the same time, and I reveled in
it—the hard press of his chest, the solid weight of his hips as we rolled on
the bed, the well-defined muscles of his arms and shoulders and back under my
hands.

“I want to taste you.”

I moaned in anticipation as he kissed his way down my breasts.

We’d been quick the first time, too quick, tearing at each other’s
clothes on the way to the bed, our lust too intense for niceties like foreplay.
Seeing Mason sitting on the front stoop waiting for me had broken something
open in my chest. A part of me that had been stuck and frozen solid was
beginning to melt.