“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.
Letters to the Baumgarters
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.