Summer in Tuscany (25 page)

We lay, still entwined, for a long time after we had made love, just holding each other. I felt as though I had been on a long journey of the spirit, as well as the body. Ben and I had traveled together to a place only those passionate about each other can reach, and I knew it was for the last time.

My body rested against his, absorbing every inch of him: the way his skin felt, his taut bicep where his arm gripped me; his breath on my closed eyelids, the sweetness of his hip against mine.

He was half sleeping, and I raised my head to watch him, just as thunder rumbled distantly around the hills. “Why is there always a storm when we make love?” Ben murmured, his eyes still closed. “It must be all the electricity we send out.” And he laughed, still happy.

Raindrops flicked our faces, and I stuck out my tongue to catch them the way I used to when I was a kid.

“Better go,” Ben said, as thunder rumbled again. “The heat’s been building all day and we’re in for another of those summer storms.”

He pulled me to my feet and held me at arm’s length, looking at me. I ran my hands worriedly through my hair, knowing that he must see every flaw, from the appendix scar to my too small breasts and my sticking-out bottom that I had always wished were less instead of more.

“Beautiful,” he said. “Gemma Jericho, you are beautiful and you know it.”

“No I don’t,” I said, pushing him away and reaching for my shirt. “I’m just your average too tall, too skinny—apart from my butt—doctor.”

He said, “You know what? You’re right.” And we threw on our clothes and, laughing, ran hand in hand through the raindrops back to the car.

We held hands all the way back to the Villa Piacere, and I thought to myself, I really don’t have to tell him. At least not yet. I want this for a little while longer, just a bit. Until we find Donati and get Nonna her villa back anyway.

“What will you do if you get the villa?” Ben asked, reading my thoughts as we bounced up the rutted driveway.

“Sell it to you,” I said promptly, and he barked with laughter.

“The doc turns businesswoman,” he said. “But let me warn you, I’m better at it than you are.”

The Neptune fountain in front of the villa was gushing again. “I see the water’s back on,” I said with a sly grin.

“Yeah. Now let’s try for electricity.”

We ran up the steps and into the big front hall. Ben jiggled the switch, and the chandelier blossomed with light, then sank rapidly into a flickering glimmer.

“I guess you can’t have everything,” I said smugly, but I was shivering. “It’s cold in here.”

“There’s an answer to that,” he said, and in minutes we were standing under that big brass sunflower shower, skin turning pink from the hot water, dodging the pointy edges as we kissed. Then, warm and wrapped in white terry-cloth robes and Ben’s white athletic socks, we ran back downstairs to the kitchen in search of food.

A fresh-baked
ciabatta
waited on a wooden board. There was thin Parma ham and fontina cheese and fresh tomatoes, sliced and sprinkled with black pepper and olive oil and lemon juice. Ben picked out a bottle of Antinori Chianti Classico Riserva, grown in one of the famous vineyards we had driven past just a couple of days ago in our search for Donati, and we piled it all onto a huge tray, along with a slab of fresh butter that smelled sweet and creamy, the way fresh butter should. We added mustard, a bread knife, and glasses and headed for the octagonal room.

Ben put a match to the kindling already arranged in the grate, waited a minute, then added a couple of small logs. Flames licked eagerly upward, sending a glow of comfort through me. Next he lit the candles in the Venetian glass candelabra on the coffee table. Then he arranged our picnic.

The storm was passing, and a thin ray of evening sunlight filtered through the window, resting on Luchay, who stared inquiringly at us from one beady dark eye. And also on a cat stretched across the back of the brocade sofa, the one scratched so long ago by those Siamese in the wall paintings. Only this cat was black as night, with silken fur that glistened in the sun’s ray, and he had yellow eyes. I went over and touched him gently. He sniffed my hand, then gave me a lick and went back to his snooze.

“I didn’t know you had a cat,” I said.

“That’s Orfeo, my housekeeper Fiametta’s cat.” Ben poured the wine and handed me a glass. It tasted the way I thought wild berries would, but with a dry, silken edge.

“And so is Luchay,” Ben said, looking pleased with the wine.

“The parrot belongs to Fiametta?”

“Not exactly. She’s looking after him for the owner, who’s in the U.S. at the moment. It’s a long story.”

I slid off the sofa and sat cross-legged next to him on the rug, nibbling on the delicious bread and cheese, sipping my wine. “Tell me,” I demanded, “about Luchay.”

“You know, of course, that parrots can live to a great age,” Ben said. “Much longer than mere mortals, and Luchay is very, very old. The story goes that he was brought to Europe from the Amazon by a sailor, a rough, cruel man, who, when he couldn’t sell him, was about to wring his neck. The parrot was rescued by a young girl. She was alone, destitute, helpless as the baby parrot she had just risked her life to save. Her name was Poppy Mallory, and the parrot became her only friend, her only companion.

“She named him Luchay—
luce
in Italian meaning “light”—because he brought a ray of light, of hope, into her poor life. He was someone to love, to share her pain and small pleasures with. Someone to care about.

“The story, told to me by Fiametta, is that Poppy went on to win fame and fortune, and tragedy. And that as her fortunes rose, and she bought herself jewels and fine things, she also bought them for Luchay. His cage is pure gold, the rings around his legs were commissioned by Poppy from Bulgari and fashioned from real emeralds and rubies and diamonds.

“Luchay remained Poppy Mallory’s only true friend through her years of notoriety as the madam of a grand bordello in Paris and the lover of a man who, despite himself, was born to be a Mafia boss. They said that Poppy knew everybody’s secrets, but only Luchay knew hers.”

My eyes were wide as a child’s being told a bedtime story. “But what happened? Why is Luchay here at the Villa Piacere? And why is his portrait on the wall?”

“A few years ago, long after Poppy died, an advertisement appeared in the international newspapers seeking her heir. She had left a substantial estate. Answers came from around the world: everyone wanted a share of that money, legitimate or not. Among them was a young woman by the name of Aria Rinaldi, who lived in a crumbling old palazzo on a canal in Venice. Fiametta’s mother had worked for the Rinaldi family for many years. And somehow, now Luchay belonged to Aria.

“Aria loved the parrot the way Poppy had, and in many respects they were similar. They were both lonely, beautiful young women, except that Aria came from a different class. She was a young woman of breeding, but her family was poor, and she was expected to marry well to save their fortunes. When Fiametta’s mother told her about the Mallory ad and the search for the heir and her connection to it, Aria saw a way out of an arranged marriage. If she inherited the money, she would be free.”

“And did she?” I was so absorbed in his story, I had forgotten I was holding a piece of bread halfway to my mouth.

“It’s all documented in a book called
The Rich Shall Inherit
. It’s Poppy’s story, and Aria Rinaldi’s, and the story of all the other contestants for the inheritance, one of whom was a killer. And of course, it’s Luchay’s story. I’ll buy the book for you, and you can read it for yourself.”

“And how come Luchay’s portrait is on the wall?”

“Poppy lived in Italy on and off for years; Fiametta’s mother was a local woman from Bella Piacere. Poppy had met the Count Piacere, and she came to stay here at some point in her travels. The old count was more than half in love with her, they said, and he wanted to paint her portrait. When she said no, he painted Luchay instead, adding him to the family menagerie.”

I looked at Luchay, imagining all the secrets tucked away in his small head. “Poor Luchay,” I murmured. “Poor Poppy Mallory.”

The parrot cocked his head to one side. “Poppy
cara,
Poppy
chérie,
Poppy darling,” he said clearly.

The black cat slid silently from the sofa. He put a soft paw on my thigh, indicating that he wished to sit on my lap. Used to the ways of Sinbad, I obediently stretched out my legs, and he climbed, purring, onto my knee. He turned around a couple of times, then settled down, tail tucked under his nose.

I watched Ben pour more wine. I so loved the way he looked, the way he moved. And I loved his hands. Lightly tanned hands with dark hairs curling over that big steel watch. Hands that worked magic on me. I smiled as I watched him. “Now tell me about you,” I said, knowing I was putting off that evil moment when I would have to tell my own story.

“You know it all by now.” His greenish eyes glinted in the firelight. “Or most of it. The rest is pretty routine stuff…poor boy from the Bronx, worked two jobs when I was still in high school, hit the streets running—never stopped since.”

“That’s short and sweet,” I said, wanting more. “What about your mother, your family?”

“Dad died when I was three. Mom worked all her life. She was a waitress at the local diner, worked both the lunch and the dinner shift. She was pretty, kind of fragile-looking, and too thin because, like you, she was always running from one job to the next. I had no brothers or sisters.” He raised a brow. “Can’t you tell I’m an only child?”

“You mean by your ego?” I said, and he laughed.

“My biggest regret in life is that Mom died before I made a dime. I wanted so badly to take care of her, get her out of the Bronx, buy her a house, shower her with gifts—the way Poppy did with Luchay.” He shrugged. “But life isn’t like that. We rarely get to repay those kinds of emotional debts.”

I nodded. I knew what he was talking about.

“You know about my ex-wife, Bunty. I already told you about her. And since then I’ve been kind of playing the field, I guess. But now…”

Our eyes met.

“Now,” he said softly, “I feel the need to have someone there to say good-night to, last thing before I fall asleep.”

“Someone…?” I sounded breathy, unsure of myself.

“Someone like you.”

He took the wineglass from my numb hand and set it down on the coffee table. Then he took that same numb hand and held it to his lips. “I love you, Gemma.”

He loved me. Ben
loved
me. He was looking at me, waiting for me to say I loved him too. But I couldn’t let this happen. I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t break my vow.

“I love you, Gemma,” he said again, looking puzzled. “I only wish I
knew
you.”

Oh God, I knew what was coming.

“I told you Luchay’s story and mine. Now you have to tell me yours.”

I turned away. “I don’t want to tell you.”

“Why not?”

“Because then you won’t want to know me anymore.”

He shook his head. “Of course I’ll want to know you. For God’s sake, Gemma, what is it? What happened to you? You
have
to tell me.”

A sudden draft fluttered through the room. The candles flickered, and then with a little hiss they went out. There was no moon tonight, and the tall windows reflected only blackness.

Ben stirred the fire with a long iron poker and threw on another log. I saw his profile against the leaping flames, and then he turned and looked at me. He saw the desolation of my soul reflected in my eyes, and with a look of great tenderness, he came to sit next to me. He propped more cushions against my back, and we leaned against them. He took my hand and said, “It’s all right, Gemma. Whatever it is, it’s all right, I promise you.”

I wished it were true.

“The hardest thing about being an emergency room doctor,” I said in a quiet, distant voice I hardly recognized as my own, “is telling the victim’s family the bad news. This is sort of like that. I’ve never talked about this with anyone before, not even Nonna, or my best friend, Patty. I just couldn’t, you see, because then they would know how guilty I was.”

Ben’s hand gripped mine tighter, and I felt a kind of strength running from him to me. “But now,” I said, “because of what happened between us, because of
us,
I know I have to tell you. To explain about Cash.”

“Cash and I met by chance,” I said, “in a Starbucks, and I guess I was in love right away. He was younger than I by about six years. Not a lot, I suppose, but I was in my thirties and he was still in his twenties. I always thought that someday he would dump me for a younger woman, a gorgeous nineteen-year-old with no emotional baggage and no children. But then when I knew him better, I told myself Cash wasn’t like that. He was different, special.”

I stared silently at the dark windows, empty black spaces in those walls full of color and life, and suddenly I was there, reliving my life.
Our
lives. Cash’s and mine.

I told Ben about our first meeting, how I had given him my bag and with it, symbolically, my entire life. I remembered the fun times, sandwiched between my crazy hours and his off-Broadway theater groups. The wonderful day at the little New England inn. About how gentle and understanding he had been with Livvie, who adored him and couldn’t wait to call him “Pop.” About our plans for the house in the country, the enormous Newfoundland dog for Livvie, my new life as a local doctor, Cash’s potential success on Broadway.

When you are young and in love, everything is possible. And this was the first time I had ever really been in love, the first time I knew what love was all about. How it touched your heart as well as your body, how it took over your mind so you wanted to think of nothing else, wanted no one else. Forever.

Nobody told me that forever did not exist.

I told Ben how happy we were on that plane ride to Dallas and how easily Livvie had fitted in with Cash’s family; how kind they were to us, how accepting. And then Cash’s bombshell news that he was going to Hollywood to become a movie actor. “Movie star, you mean,” I remember saying, because with his looks and his talent, how could he lose?

“The three months he was away were the longest of my life,” I said to Ben. “And there had been some long ones before that, when I was alone and going to med school and having a baby. Loneliness takes many forms, and some of us deal with it in different ways. I chose to fill my life with work. There were just me and Livvie and Nonna. Until I met Cash.

“Anyway, finally Cash finished his movie, but he lingered a few more weeks, ‘taking meetings’ with agents and producers and directors, lining up the next job. ‘A job’ was what Cash called it. It was work, just like anything else, he said, only it called for more of
himself,
more input, more soul-searching in order to transform himself into someone he was not. ‘An actor’s life is not easy,’ he said. ‘Sometimes I think we’re all schizophrenics,’ which of course clinically was not correct, but hey, I couldn’t play the know-it-all doc all the time. I was just glad he was home.”

I fell silent again, staring at the blank windows in the fire-lit octagonal room, thinking about Cash being home and how it had felt to have him back with me, with us. Somehow he’d enfolded us into his life, taken us out of the strict day-to-day routine I had fashioned in order to keep myself going. We laughed more, we went to the zoo, we ate in funky little barbecue places and tried Indian food and saw shows his friends were in. I was drawn into his world, into the impromptu after-show parties, where we drank cheap wine or too-sweet Cosmopolitans, and I found myself being jealous of the pretty girls who were struggling to take their first steps up the ladder to what they just knew would be fame and fortune. I wasn’t jealous of their looks and their uninhibited sexuality, I was jealous of their freedom. They made me realize that I had never been free. I had gone from high school to married woman to mother to doctor with never a break. I had never been just me, alone.

I looked at Ben. He was still holding my hand, staring down at it, serious-faced and silent. Waiting for me to continue.

“When Cash came back, my world was lovely again,” I said, half smiling as I remembered. “You know the old cliché about rose-colored glasses, well that was me. I saw everything through that lovely pink haze. My job seemed easier because I was able to put less of my own emotions into it, I suppose. Even the rotten winter weather was okay. I could cope with freezing and snow and those winds careening down the avenues almost taking my nose off.

“Anyhow, this night, a Saturday, I was to finish my shift at midnight. It had been the usual mayhem in the ER, but for once instead of crashing, I was awake, alert. Cash was having dinner with his new agent, who had come specially from Hollywood to see him. ‘It’s important,’ Cash had said. ‘The agent thinks I’m on my way, Gemma.’ I can still see the look on his face as he told me, that sort of triumph mixed with awe that precedes a momentous life-changing act. And I wished him good luck, and he laughed and said, ‘Never say that to an actor, honey. It’s always “break a leg.”’

“‘Okay, so break a leg then,’ I told him. ‘Then I’ll fix it for you.’

“We hadn’t made arrangements to meet, because he didn’t know how late he was going to be, and anyhow I was usually too exhausted after a Saturday-night shift. But now I wanted to see him, to hear all about the new offers that I secretly feared would take him away from me. I called him on his cell phone. He was just leaving the restaurant. ‘Good news, honey,’ he told me. ‘Everything’s great in Hollywood.’

“‘I’m glad, Cash,’ I said, though I heard a little snaggle of resentment in my voice. ‘Hey, listen, I’m not so tired tonight. Why don’t you come and pick me up? We could grab a cup of coffee somewhere, and you can tell me all about it.’

“I heard his laugh, that great laugh that had so intrigued me when I first met him. ‘Be there in fifteen,’ he said. ‘See you then, honey.’

“‘I can’t wait,’ I said, and I was smiling, because it was true.

“At the stroke of midnight, I handed charge of the trauma department over to my colleague and went and scrubbed the hospital smell off my hands and face. I took off my white coat and my stained green scrubs, brushed down my jeans and sweater, powdered my nose, and put on lipstick. I actually remembered to comb my hair. Then I said good-night and went out through those automatic glass doors to wait for him.

“Of course it was raining again; didn’t it always on a Saturday night? And now the rain was turning to sleet. I shivered, turning up my coat collar, snuggling my cold nose into its faux fur depths. Maybe there was something to be said for mink after all, I was thinking as the minutes ticked by. And ticked by…

“I called Cash again. There was no reply, but he was absent-minded and often forgot to switch on his phone. I paced up and down outside the hospital, watching for his little red sports car.

“I heard the wail of police sirens and the blare of the fire rescue trucks, but that was nothing unusual around there. Nor was the paramedic ambulance that sped away into the night. I peered down the street, but I could see nothing. I bumped into Patty, who said, ‘Hey, I thought you’d gone home twenty minutes ago.’ I told her I was supposed to meet Cash. He was coming to get me, but he was late, darn it. And she said, ‘Well, better come back inside instead of freezing out here. Let’s get a cup of coffee.’ So I went back in with her.

“A few minutes later we got the call. Patty said they were bringing in a road accident victim with major head and chest trauma. I heard the wail of the ambulance siren. And something in my heart told me that it was Cash.

“I ran and put on my white coat—my doctor’s coat—my official badge that meant I knew what I was doing. Stupid, I know, but somehow it mattered, it made me more able to cope.

“The paramedics ran with the gurney, one holding the plasma bottle aloft. Cash was strapped to that gurney. His arm dangled over the edge, fingers curled like a child’s. I saw his beautiful blond hair—his ‘Malibu surfer’s’ hair—tangled in a mass of blood.
Oh dear God
, I thought,
it can’t be true…this cannot be for real…. Please, someone, tell me I’m dreaming
….

“And then Cash opened his eyes. I could swear he was smiling. ‘Sorry I’m late, hon,’ he whispered, and then his eyes closed again, shutting me out from his world of pain.

“I helped lift him from the gurney onto the table. I was checking his vital signs while they cut off his clothes, trying not to think that this was the man I loved, my lover. Patty was right there with me, my whole team was there. They were silent for once, working steadily, doing what they knew how to do best.

“Cash had skidded on the slick road, hit a truck—one of those huge shiny steel tankers, the kind you can see your car reflected in when you drive up behind them. Only Cash hadn’t seen it in the sleet.

“His car was an old sports model, too old for air bags. His skull was fractured. The steering wheel had crushed his chest. I intubated him, watching his lifeblood gushing out through the plastic tube, his vital signs slowing down on the monitor. He had a pulmonary injury. A rib had penetrated the chest wall, punctured the lung.
Princess Diana died like this,
I thought.
She died exactly like this.

“Don’t die!
The scream was locked inside me.
Don’t fuckin’ die.
But Cash was choking to death on his own blood. And all my training, all my experience couldn’t save him. And that’s what I did every day, for god’s sake. Saved people.”

I stopped and looked bleakly at Ben. “But I couldn’t save the man I loved.”

I heard Ben’s quick indrawn breath. I wasn’t crying. I couldn’t cry anymore for Cash. I was drained dry.

“Gemma, I’m so sorry.” He lifted his shoulders helplessly. “It’s not enough to be sorry, I know that, but I don’t know any other words to express what I feel.
How
I feel. Except to say that I recognize your pain. Your loss. Your helplessness.”

I stared at him, and for a second his strong dark face blurred into an image of Cash; so blond, so young, so handsome. They were intertwined somewhere in my heart, in my head…except that I had no right to this new love.

“Not only did I not save him,” I whispered, “I
killed
him. Cash would be alive today if I had not made that phone call, not asked him to come and pick me up. He wouldn’t have been on that road, in back of that tanker. He would have been home, waiting for me.”

There was silence. Head bent, shoulders slumped, I watched the black cat uncurl itself from a cushion. He walked over to Ben, inspected him carefully, sat in front of him. His yellow eyes slid from Ben to me, then back again. And he waited.

Ben sighed, and I knew it came from somewhere deep inside. He wasn’t foolish enough to say, Look it wasn’t your fault, it could have happened anywhere, anytime, you were not really responsible. He was a man who understood the facts. A businessman like him knew all about responsibility and the bottom line.

“So—afterward,” I said, and heard my voice tremble slightly, “I decided to dedicate myself to my job. I had not been able to save Cash, but I would do my utmost to save anybody else coming through those hospital doors. I would work as many hours as I could, as hard as I could, do everything I could. It was a sort of penance I set myself. I had killed my lover, and now I would have no other lovers. There was to be nothing else in my life but my family and my work. I
needed
nothing else. In a way I suppose it was like dedicating my life to God, hoping He might forgive me for my terrible sin. And so that’s exactly what I did.”

“And has God forgiven you?”

I shook my head. “I don’t know.”

“You certainly have not forgiven yourself.”

“I kept myself so busy I didn’t have time to think about guilt. I thought my hyperlife could blot out Cash’s death. But inside raged guilt and fear and helplessness. And anger. So much was happening underneath my normal day-to-day persona, things I didn’t want to acknowledge, didn’t want to know. I
hated
myself.
Hated
what I was—the fraud I was. The doctor who couldn’t save the life of her own lover.”

He was stroking my hand, soft, gentle strokes like the lick of the black cat’s tongue. “You must have been very lonely.”

“Lonely? I didn’t have time to be lonely. I was just so damn busy.”

I turned to look at him then. Firelight flickered over his face, his good, handsome, strong face.

“Trouble is, Ben,” I whispered, “I still love him.”