Ready for You (3 page)

“I didn’t think you had.”
Liar
.
Shit,
and he had to go to church tomorrow for his niece’s christening. “Were you trying?” Her face went as red as…
okay, get your mind off it
.

“I’m going. Thanks for the night out.” She hesitated, fingering that sweet spot right above her cleavage.

“Is your brother’s
name
Santo?”

“Yes, why?”

“You weren’t lying. We went to high school together. We weren’t exactly friends…”
Can’t stay friends with a guy who bangs your girlfriend.

“Thanks,” she said. He held her gaze, sparkling but almost scared. He caressed her arm, her skin warm and smooth, her scent all heat and sex. He leaned in, but she ducked into her car and slammed the door.

“Wait,” he said. She wouldn’t look at him. He stepped away to let her car back out. She sped off. He ran his hands over his hair. No luck tonight. Or maybe he had gotten lucky, just not the way he’d hoped. He rolled his shoulders back, stretched, and strode to his truck.

Chapter Three

Chiara gripped the steering wheel so hard all the way home her hands started to numb. Her house stood, empty and dark, save the light shining on it from the car’s headlights.
Phil’s car.
What kind of person drove a Prius and used an air freshener in it? The citrusy, sweet smell made her throat itch. She breathed deeply as she walked up to the front door. She thought about smelling her hand, just to see if any of Rocco’s powerfully natural scent lingered. Instead, she went into the bathroom, washed her hands and face, and stared at herself in the mirror. She gripped the counter and smirked at her reflection. She wouldn’t cry. She didn’t deserve her own sympathy or anyone else’s. Time to drown her troubles in wine and chocolate.

The morning after, but not in bed with a hot guy.
She would have regretted that anyway-- just as well the bed stretched next to her, empty. She opened one eye. Light high beamed in through the crack in the bedroom curtains. She squeezed her eyes shut.

“So! Are you still in bed?” The front door slammed. Why had she given her sister a key? And why did Isabella insist on using those old nicknames: So and La, from the song in “The Sound of Music”?
Because her little sister liked to annoy her.

“Yes, La.”
Chiara held her head as she sat up. She should not have had that wine last night. And the chocolates--her stomach plunged. Her sister, Isabella, bounced in, a bagel bag in hand, which she shook at her with a
grin.

“You don’t look so good.” Isabella set the bag on the dresser, sat next to her, and placed a cool, slender hand on her forehead. “No fever. Did you drink last night? Ohh, while the Phil’s away,
So
goes to play?” She waggled her eyebrows. Chiara groaned back onto her bed. “Were you? Oh my God! Who? What?
Where?”

“Shut up. Why are you here?”

“So nasty.
Where’s the CD? I’ll put it on.”

“Nooo,” Chiara wailed. Isabella patted the bed and went out. The thump of the CD case echoed in before Julie Andrews’ high voice sang out “Do, Re, Mi, Fa, So, La…” and Isabella joined in, off key as always. Chiara flattened a pillow over her head. Why had “The Sound of Music” been her favorite? Isabella would never let her forget it. Though she was five years younger, Isabella had a prodigious memory. “Turn it off,” Chiara shouted, her mouth sticking out from the bottom of the pillow.

“Happy now?”
Isabella’s voice boomed in the blessed quiet. “Now, I need a favor.”

“Figures.”
Chiara propped herself up.

“Matt had to go up to San Francisco, a problem at his shop, and I need a date for a christening party.”

“A christening party?
Go by yourself.”

“No, you know I can’t stand going to these things alone. It’ll be sooo much more fun with you.”

“Who is it? Not one of your friends?”

“No, the woman I’ve been covering for. And I need to go. I’m hoping she and her partners will ask me to join the practice. You’ll probably make a better impression than Matt, anyway. She comes from a crazy Italian family like ours. You know how they love women like you.” The woman most people thought she was: a proper, respectable housewife and mother.

“Shut up.”

“Then you wouldn’t have to drive to Oakland for the boys to see me, their office is right here…” she said in a sing song.

“It’s a deal, if you toast me a plain bagel and get me a glass of juice. Did you get light veggie cream cheese?” Chiara eased herself out of bed and padded toward the bathroom for a couple of Tylenol.

“Of course.
Find something nice to wear, but no black. It’s a daytime thing and you don’t need to hide that body, you know.” Isabella winked before going to the kitchen.

Chiara studied herself in her boy shorts and tank in the closet mirror, still not used the person she saw. Huh, not bad for the thirty-five-year-old mother of two. She went on tiptoe and circled around, admiring the relatively new firmness and definition of her curves, where before there had been just jiggle and flab. Still a little cellulite, a few old stretch marks, her breasts not as uplifted as they were pre babies…she sagged and dropped to her heels. Thank goodness things didn’t go anywhere with Rocco, though he must be forty if he’d been in her brother Santo’s class. A guy like him could probably get some sexy young things. She trudged into the bathroom.

“Is this all you’ve got?” Isabella said half an hour later as they surveyed the outfits laid on the bed.

“I’ve been a stay at home mom for almost seven years and I gave most of my old clothes away when I lost the weight last year. I only have this one suit, if you want me to look dressy.”

Isabella frowned. “Too bad you can’t borrow something of mine.”

“Yeah, right,” Chiara said. It was her sister who ended up looking like Julie Andrews, tall and slender, a dancer’s body, while Chiara inclined toward dumpy. Isabella rifled through the closet and pulled out a cap sleeve
A
line fuchsia dress.

“What about this?”

“I thought you wanted me to make a good impression.”

“This isn’t Phil’s family and you look good in bright colors,” Isabella said.

“It’s from last year.”

“Big deal.
Put it on.” Chiara obeyed. “I know you. Where are the matching shoes?” She dug in the back and found the box.

“I can’t.” It was the first, the only, outfit she’d bought after her forty-pound weight loss. She’d been saving it for a special occasion, but after a year it was still unworn.

“Why not?
They’re cute.”

Chiara sighed but put on the strappy heels. Thank goodness she’d shaved and given herself a pedicure yesterday.

“Ready?” Isabella said.

“Now?”

“It’s a lunch thing. It’s eleven already.”

Chiara rolled her eyes but followed her sister out.

When they pulled up to the sprawling deep sky blue two story ranch house on a quiet tree lined street, she turned to Isabella.

“Who am I meeting here?”

“Faith, she’s the new mom, and her husband Brad
Little
, daughter Ava. I haven’t met the rest, but I assume his parents will be here too.”

“Whose house?”

“Her parents, Ray and Carlotta Buffone.”

Chiara gripped the armrest.
“Buffone?”

“Yeah, why?”

“I’m not feeling well. My stomach hurts.”

“You seemed fine before. I have some Tums in my purse.” Chiara shook her head and glanced at the house. Cars lined the driveway and the street. “Come on, you did lots while you had morning sickness with Max. Please,
So
, this is really important to me.”

She looked at her sister. She never could resist her sweet little face, though she knew the steely, crafty spirit beneath. “Your plan better work,” Chiara said. Isabella smiled and they walked together to the house.

The door stood open, propped with an old blue glass electrical cap. Voices echoed throughout, several different conversations happening at once, even the hall was bright with sunlight from the many windows, all with sheer curtains. Their shoes were muffled by the plush area rugs. Someone had been cooking: the smells of pungent tomato sauce and meats mingled with the mouth-watering yeasty aroma of bread and pastries. People in their good church clothes, skirts and dresses, suits and sport coats, lounged or stood talking and laughing in the open living and dining rooms; in the distance the kitchen glowed warm and even more crowded.

“Isabella, hi, glad you could make it,” a slender blond greeted them. Isabella introduced her to Faith
Little
and her husband.

“Where’s the baby?”

“Making the rounds,” Faith said, gesturing over her shoulder. An older couple cooed over a blanket wrapped bundle. Chiara clasped her hands. “Let me introduce you around.” Faith quickly pointed out everyone in the room, family friends, her husband’s parents, some other colleagues, before she led them into the kitchen.

Chiara froze in the doorway. His back was to her, a backside she could recognize too well. Faith introduced her parents and older brother, Ray Junior, and his wife. Chiara kept her eyes on each one, relaxing her back an inch in the glow of their eyes and smiles.

“Rocco, didn’t you go to high school with a Vitale?” his mother asked.

Chiara gripped her purse to her stomach and gave all her attention to Mrs. Buffone.

“Yes, Santo Vitale. Nice to meet you both,” he said. Isabella shook his hand, so she had to.
Strong, warm,
think
of something else
…he released her hand. Chiara fingered her palm. Just moist heat, no blisters as she half expected.

“I remember your
mother,
we served on several committees together. We should have you all over soon,” Mrs. Buffone said.

“I’m sure she’d like that,” Isabella said. She gave Chiara a brief sideways nod.

“Yes,” Chiara said. She sounded like a frog.

“Rocco, you take care of these lovely young women,” Mrs. Buffone said.
Why? We’re due for an earthquake, now would be good.
Faith excused herself and the others went back to their conversations and tasks.

“Would--” Rocco began.

“May I help with anything, Mrs. Buffone?” Chiara said.

“No thank you, dear, but you’re kind to offer.”

“I wouldn’t mind.”

“Perhaps you’ll help my son put those plates out? Then we can eat.”

Chiara agreed, though she now wished she hadn’t offered. Mrs. Buffone thanked her and smiled, as did Isabella. She’d get even with Isabella later. Chiara picked up a stack of plates and followed him down the hall, averting her eyes to the family pictures lining the walls.

Rocco set the plates on the far side of the dining room table, where food already filled the space. Chiara did the same, appreciating the ordered stacks of napkins and silverware. Stepping to the side, her body lifted as Rocco brushed past her.

“Pretty dress,” he said. A small smile parted his lips as he gave her a quick up and down survey.

“Thanks,” she said. She spotted Isabella and scooted away before he could say anything more.

“Lunch,” Mrs. Buffone said as she breezed into the room.

Other guests began lining up where Chiara had just stood with Rocco. She grabbed Isabella’s arm and urged her into line with her. A distraction was needed, especially when Rocco appeared a few people behind them.

“Rocco’s been checking you out,” Isabella whispered as they walked with their plates of salad and baked breaded lemon chicken to the back porch, where some of the other guests sat. Chiara tightened her hold on the edges of her plate and shook her head.

“Don’t shake your head at me. I know that look. He doesn’t know you’re married.”

“Because you didn’t tell anyone my last name,” Chiara hissed.

Isabella giggled.
“Stop being so proper.”

Chiara slunk into a wicker chair and perched her plate on her lap so she could unfold her napkin. Isabella plopped down on the stair by her feet.

“Mind if I sit here?” Rocco asked. She minded. He sat next to Isabella, his muscles shifted with the movement. Chiara twisted in her seat, almost dropping her plate. He glanced back at her when she muffled an exclamation.

“Hey Dad,” a young man said from behind them. He had a kind face and patted Rocco on the back before he sat next to him. Rocco returned the gesture. Chiara watched them while she ate, the grassy lawn encircled with vegetables, fruit trees, roses, nasturtiums, and herbs taunting her with their brightness and fragrance. Her dress clung uncomfortably to her thighs as Rocco and his son chit chatted and laughed with Isabella.