The Real Thing (13 page)

“Ah.” He puts his hands together in his lap. “It was not just a massage to you either.”

To me
either
? Why the hell did I leave? He could be grinding his hands into my booty right now! “So, um, what will we do tomorrow?”

“We will rest. We will go into town. We will shop. Swim. Relax.” He flexes his hands. “Maybe a nice massage, too.”

I smile. “You must do five things if you want me to stay,” I say in a deep voice.

He blinks. “And they are?”

God, I miss his hands on my body. “First . . .”

I grab his hand and drag him out of the cottage to the guesthouse. I throw myself facedown on the bed. “You must massage me until I say stop.”

I close my eyes.

I feel hands. I feel two hands. They rub gently over my shoulders and down my sides to—

He's pulling up my sweatshirt. I feel hands, hot hands, two of them, on my skin. They circle and caress and—

Thumbs dig into me. Am I groaning? I am. My voice sounds so . . . needy.

“What else do I have to do to get you to stay?” he whispers.

I look up at his eyes. Those eyes . . . those eyes would never hurt me. “I'll let you know tomorrow.” Because when your hands are doing that, I cannot think!

“So you are staying?”

I nod, turn my head, and close my eyes.

“Where should I massage most?” he asks.

Whoo, what a question. “I am sore in so many places.”

“So . . . anywhere?”

I nod. “Especially my legs.”

I sit up slowly and remove my sweats, avoiding his eyes, fully forgetting that I am showing him the same underwear I was wearing when I was skiing. I had to dry them with a hair dryer. Because I'm sweating, I'm sure they're soaked . . . and thoroughly revealing. Damn. A man is looking at my crack. Whoo.

I have to say something. “I, um, I like the way your hands feel on my skin.” I quickly hit the pillow and close my eyes.

He touches my calves. “Are you sore here?”

“
Sì
.” Damn. Just saying “yes” in Italian is hot.

“And here?” He rubs my hamstrings.

“
Sì
.” Check that—
oh sì
.

“And . . .” He brushes my booty so gently I get shivers, but his hand ends up grabbing my
foot
! “Here?”

I turn.
“Che?”

He touches my face with a rough knuckle. “I, too, am afraid I will do something wrong if you let me continue.”

But I
want
you to! Don't I?

I bury my head in my pillow, biting at the fabric Evelyn probably picked out. I pop up and rest my head on my hand. “All better.”

He leans in and holds my face with his hands, kissing both of my cheeks. “Rest, Christiana. Tomorrow we play
turisti
.”

I sit up and take his face in my hands. “May I at least kiss you good night?”

His jaw muscles tighten. “If you must.”

I must, I must. I lick my lips and put a soft kiss on his . . . nose. I let go of his face and settle back onto my pillow. “Good night, Dante.”

He smiles, grabs my foot again, growls a little, and leaves the bed. When he gets to the door, he turns.
“Ciao
.
”

“
Ciao,
Dante.”

The door opens, I check out his ass one more time, and the door closes.

Oh, God, what a man.

I can't believe I revealed so much to him. What have I known him for, thirty hours? I've already told him things I've never told
anyone
. I've also dropped my sweats for him, let him kiss my cheeks, kissed his nose, and allowed his hands to hold my booty.

I've had a busy day.

But here I am
not
getting busy.

This is crazy.

I know I'm vulnerable, but . . . He's not fighting for
my
love. I have to keep telling myself that. He's fighting for another woman, the woman he built this guesthouse for, the shrew
Eve
lyn. I'll never be able to convince him that he's only fighting for the
memory
of another woman.

My booty is still tingling.

And so is my foot. What's up with that?

He doesn't want me to leave. That has to mean something. I hope it means something. If I really had to leave tomorrow, I don't think I could.

I slip out of my sweatshirt and bra, turn off the lights, and worm under the covers, wondering why I'm not dead to the world right now. I have never worked so hard in my life. He should have had to carry me in here.

Maybe that can be one of his five tasks.

I was so close to having a booty rub and then some tonight, and then he grabs my foot? “I am afraid I might do something wrong,” he says. Why did I even say that in the first place? I was getting some nice back in front of the fire, and I jetted away from him.

And I surely didn't want him to leave just now, so why didn't I just kiss him soulfully on the lips, rip down his sweats, and—

I
scream
into the pillow this time.

All better.

Not.

A loon echoes me out on the lake.

I know how you feel, buddy.

I know how you feel.

Chapter 16

A
fter waking to sunlight instead of darkness, I take another nice long, hot bath, putting my booty fully on
both
seats in the tub. That's right,
Eve
lyn, another booty is moving in. I swim around with my bra, washing it with a bar of Lifebuoy. When I get out, I dry it with a hair dryer, but I don't put it on once it's dry. The underwires might still be too hot.

I walk naked to Evelyn's dresser before I remember where I am. I do this all the time at home. I look at the window and shrug because I am
coraggiosa
. I open the top drawer and see a few pairs of cotton underwear. I am not putting my same drawers on for the
third
straight day. I pull out a gray pair, put my heel in the back, and stretch that size six to a size ten. The elastic is still tight as hell, but at least my booty fits. I touch the underwires and find them to be cool. I put on my bra, and it is snug, too. I'll bet the hair dryer shrunk it.

I feel so buxom.

I choose a blue Nike running suit and a light blue T-shirt before I realize—damn. I can't wear boots with these! Oh, shit. I have to go Canadian today.

I size up a pair of size six jeans. I ought to be slimmer than I was yesterday. Maybe if I stretch them like I stretched her underwear . . .

Jean material is cruel and unforgiving, but I somehow manage to squeeze in, the metal button looking dangerously afraid. “Hold on, little buddy,” I tell it.

It holds on.

I slip on a black T-shirt and a blue and black flannel shirt. If I had a string tie and a ten-gallon hat, I could be a Texan. I empty out dust, pine needles, and sand from my boots, and before I put on a pair of Evelyn's footy socks, I examine my feet and find two nasty blisters on both heels and one on my left pinkie toe.

Yee-haw.

I use three Band-Aids on each blister, slide on the socks, ease into the boots, grab my camera case, and walk gingerly to the kitchen.

These jeans are so tight I must look like I have a pinecone stuck up my ass.

As soon as I hit the kitchen door, Red hands me a cup of coffee and slides me a plate of bacon and eggs.

I don't dare eat. The little button is crying. I sip my coffee instead, waiting for Red to start the conversation.

Red says absolutely nothing for the longest time before he sighs and pours himself another cup. “You packed?”

“No.” Not that I have anything to pack.

He frowns. “Why are you all dressed up then?”

This is dressed up? Red needs to get out of Canada more often. “These are Evelyn's clothes. I'm staying another day.”

He blinks.

“Dante has asked me to go to town with him.”

“No shit,” he says, his mouth a giant O. “I mean, no kidding.” He squints at me. “The interview went
very
well then.”

I smile. “Yes. Much better than I expected.”

He looks away. “You two didn't . . . did you?”

We could have if I hadn't been so skittish. “We didn't do any conjugating, Red. We just . . . talked. We did some conversating.”

“If you just talked, then why . . .” He shakes his head. “He asked you to town.”

“Yes.”

He starts to say something but stops.

“Is anything wrong, Red?”

“Dante asked you to town,” Red says in a monotone.

“Yes.” Now I'm getting as frightened as the button on my pants. “Is, um, is town so bad?”

“Oh, no, no. It's a nice town. Really.” He starts to laugh.

“What's so funny?”

He looks to the stairs and then back to me. “Dante only goes to town when Evelyn's here,” he whispers.

“I had no idea this meant something,” I whisper.

“It does,” Red says. “It means everything.”

Lelani enters the kitchen and kisses Red on the nose. She looks at me. “All packed?”

“Are you two trying to get rid of me?” I ask.

Red pulls Lelani to him. “Dante and Christiana are spending the day . . . in . . . town.”

“No,” Lelani says.

“Yes,” Red says.

She turns and looks at me with the biggest eyes. “You didn't, um—”

“Geez,” I say. “Is that all you two think about? No. We did not sleep together.”

Lelani shakes her head. “That's not what I was going to say. I was going to say you didn't finish the interview.”

“Oh.” How embarrassing. “We did. I'll probably take a few more pictures while we're out.”

She looks again at Red. “Dante asked Christiana to town.”

Red kisses her forehead. “Yep.”

Lelani looks up at Red. “Doesn't this sound like a date to you?”

“It certainly does,” Red says. “Unless DJ is going.” They both turn and look at me.

“Don't look at me,” I say. “I have no idea if he's going or not.”

I hear a speedy clomping down the stairs, and Dante appears all fresh and so clean in a nice pair of jeans and a big black sweater. “DJ is still at the island.”

I immediately wonder how much he just overheard. I hope he didn't hear—

“How did you sleep, Christiana?” Dante asks.

“Very well,” I say.

“Good.” Dante grabs an apple from a fruit bowl and polishes it on his sweater. “They did not finish their Risk game. DJ will be at Duels' cottage for the day with his friends.” He touches my elbow. “You look very nice.”

“So do you.” I see Red and Lelani watching us.
“Che?”
I say with attitude.

They fade into the other room, as they should. They know the power of
che.

Dante moves a strand of my hair off my forehead. “Are you ready to go?”

I haven't had a man touch my hair like that in forever, and I suddenly feel so shy! I suck down the rest of my coffee. “Yes.”

He offers his arm.

Now I'm blushing. Geez! I take his arm. “
Andiamo,
” I whisper.

The ski boat whisks us to the Landing where we get into a cavernous blue and white Toyota Land Cruiser, but I am too far away from Dante on the passenger side once we begin traveling up the dirt-and-gravel road.

“Is this new?” I ask.

“Oh no. It is three years old.” He points at the odometer. “We have put one hundred and seventy thousand miles on it.”

Geez. That's a lot of roadwork. “Where have you been driving to—California and back?”

“Trips,” he says. “From here to Syracuse. Trips from Syracuse to Virginia and back.”

Trips to see Evelyn, whose clothes I'm stretching to death. And from the number of miles, lots of trips to see Evelyn. “How often do you visit, um, DJ?”

“As often as I can,” he says. “Every other weekend, sometimes every weekend.”

Weekends with his kid. In Syracuse. Keeping his ex-wife in check. Keeping her from having a social life, too? Anything's possible, I guess.

“I should get me one of these,” I say as we bounce along. “So clean.”

“Do you have a car?” he asks.

“I've never had a car.”

“I did not have one for many years,” he says. “Now I cannot see how I lived without one.”

A long gray animal shoots across the road. “What was that?”

“A gray fox,” he says. “A rare event. They are so secretive.”

I smile. “They're so . . . foxy.”

“Yes.”

He doesn't say anymore. He was supposed to say, “Foxy, like you.” I don't pout, though. I'm going to town with a man.

And my hands are sweaty.

Once we hit Highway 60, he flips through some CDs in the console between us. “You like Sinatra?” he asks.

“Sure,” I say. I can name maybe two of Sinatra's songs. “Who doesn't?”

“Which of his songs do you like best?” he asks.

“‘My Way,'” I say quickly. The only other one I know is “New York, New York.”

He pops in a CD, hits a few buttons, and we listen to “My Way.”

When the song ends, he turns down the volume. “You did not sing along.”

“Oh, I, uh, I don't sing. At all.”

He shakes his head. “Everybody sings.”

“I, um, I sing silently.”

“Ah. Who do you like best?”

I tell him about Johnny Mathis and Smokey Robinson. He presses a few buttons on his satellite radio receiver. After a medley of Spinners' songs, Smokey's “Cruisin'” comes on.

And Dante sings along flawlessly in a mellow tenor.

My jaw is in my lap.

“What?” he says. “I cannot know this music? It is almost opera to me.”

I am beginning to like this man a lot. He doesn't sound a bit like Smokey, but hearing “Cruisin'” with an Italian accent is a panty dampener.

Before we descend into Barry's Bay, we have to stop for construction. A huge machine seems to be chewing up rocks and laying them down behind it as pavement. Unlike construction crews in the States, this work crew includes mostly women.

“Why are there so many women on Canadian construction crews?” I ask.

“I have wondered the same myself.” He smiles broadly at a woman holding a walkie-talkie.

“No flirting.”

“I smile at everybody.” He turns and smiles at me.

“So you flirt with
everybody
.”

“
Sì
.”

I frown.

“Oh,” he says, “but I will try to only smile for you today, okay?”

Right.

We cruise through Barry's Bay (population twelve hundred) to a stop sign. The main drag reminds me of Van Brunt Street in Red Hook for some reason, only there are no gaping holes in the pavement and ample street parking. We go through the stop sign past Etmanskie's Shell and park on the sidewalk beside what looks like an old train depot.

We get out and cross the road to an antique store full of homemade furniture and art. I marvel at all the handmade you-name-it—chests, chairs, shelving, mirrors, walking sticks, clocks, and assorted yard art. African masks fill the walls, and carved wooden giraffes cavort with lions, tigers, and bears among the end tables. I see a stuffed moose—so cute!—that I just have to have, and Dante buys it for me.

“An early Christmas present,” he says.

I immediately name the moose Dante. He'll keep me company in bed tonight if the real Dante doesn't. I compare Dante the Moose's nose with Dante's nose.

Dante the Moose wins.

But not by much.

We continue along the sidewalk and pass a bank and the post office.

“We will stop there last,” he says.

“To collect all your fan mail?”

He smiles. “Yes.”

“Do you ever get any, oh, naughty pictures?”

He nods. “All the time.”

I take his arm. “Are any of them . . .
pericoloso
?”

“Sometimes.”

I squeeze that rock-hard bicep. “As dangerous as me?”

He looks straight ahead. “No. But I have yet to get the mail today.”

I punch his arm.

Ow.

He doesn't even flinch.

We cross the street at the stop sign and go into Yak-abuski's Home Hardware to look at fishing supplies. Though Dante has enough lures to last him and his great-grandchildren for a hundred years, he buys several more.

“I do not have this color,” he says, pointing at a shade of yellow green I can best describe as “phlegm.”

A few doors down is Steadman's, where he purchases several packs of playing cards.

“The cards have been cruel to me since you have arrived,” he tells me. “DJ was on a hot streak after the Boston.”

“So . . . you're superstitious?”

“Not really. I spilled soda on the cards, too.”

“Oh.”

He shrugs. “Maybe you can play with us sometime.”

That
is the best kind of tug on a girl's heart. “I'd like that.”

Back across the street, we go to Lorraine's Pharmacy for vitamins. I show him the over-fifty version of some brand.

“Very funny,” he says.

“Just looking out for you,” I say.

He takes them from me. “I will get them for Red.” He pulls some children's chewable vitamins from the shelf. “These are for Lelani.”

I think he's joking, but he adds them to our handbasket.

“Um, Lelani is forty, right?” I ask.

“Yes, but she looks like a child.” He shakes the children's vitamins. “And she likes the taste of these.”

He stops in front of a massive candy display. He looks at me. “Choose.”

I do the only reasonable thing. I take one of every candy bar on that display and put it in the handbasket. “I have a sweet tooth.”

We carry our bags and Dante the Moose to Palubiskie Variety, a typical package store to me, where Dante buys more leeches, several packs of hooks, at least fifty sinkers of all sizes and shapes, and another filet knife.

“Pretty confident, aren't you?” I say.

“You can never be prepared enough,” he says.

“Ooh,” I say. “The fish are scared, Dante. I can feel them trembling at the lake from here.”

“We might go out later, and I will show you,” he says, leaving the store and crossing the street again.

“What will you show me?” I ask, but I don't think he heard me. He is way too intent on making these errands.

I feel like Billy from
Family Circus
. We've been going up the street, crossing back, backtracking, crossing the street again—there seems to be no plan.