California Dreaming: Four Contemporary Romances (57 page)

He hesitated to mention what would happen after he went back to Italy. She’d told him her daughter was coming home for the American Thanksgiving, so he knew there was no hope of getting her to Italy in November. Then there was her shop and her product launch.

He sighed. The new year would need to ring in before he would see her again.

“What’s up?” She touched him on the arm.

“I am thinking of when we can see each other again.”

“Oh.” She picked up a bottle of lotion and rubbed it on her skin, looking out over the valley as if she were peering into the future. “I think we need to attend to our own business for a while. Holidays are my busy season and I want to see if I can get that bank loan. We shouldn’t make too many plans.” Her lower lip trembled. “Remember, we agreed to enjoy the weekend and leave it at that.”

He sat up from the lounge chair. “You want to pretend this never happened?” He heard the anger in his voice.

“No, Marcos. I couldn’t forget. Last night was beautiful. You made me feel more of a woman than I’ve felt in many years. But, it’s too complicated.”

“Nothing is impossible. Nothing.” Why was she drawing away from him again?

She shook her head. “I don’t want to talk about it now.” After she glanced at her watch, she added, “We’d better pack and check out.”

In his room, Marcos threw clothes into his suitcase, not caring whether they were folded neatly or not. After last night, he thought he’d broken through her damn wall.
Per l’amor di déi
, the woman was stubborn!

Should he give up? No. He could be as mule-headed as she was. He knew they were right together. With each other, their businesses could be stronger. She was an angel in person and had the touch of the devil in bed. He was not going to give up.

He zipped the bag closed, pushing unruly clothes out of the way, grabbed the handle and went out to the hall to wait. The door slammed behind him.

When Elizabeth came out a few minutes later, she looked cool and refreshed. After quietly closing the door behind her she said, “Someone’s in a snit.”

He buried his hot feelings. “Not at all.”

“Hmmm.” She started down the stairs to the lobby.

It wasn’t until they were out of Napa Valley proper that he believed it was safe to speak again. “We need to talk. I care for you, Elizabeth. Can’t you understand that?”

“Yes, I understand. But I have to be realistic. I have a daughter to think of.”

“A daughter who is in college. She is starting her own life. You need to create your own.”

Elizabeth was silent and he feared he’d gone too far.

“I’m not ready,” she whispered, her voice aching with fear.

He put his hand on hers, tempted to try to convince her, but it knowing it was a decision she’d need to make on her own.

He kept the conversation light after that, telling her about what he wanted to do to the vineyard over the winter, and stories about his family and his daughter. His mind was a jumble, trying to figure out the right way to say what needed to be said without pushing her away forever.

“When you come to Italy next, I will make sure you meet my daughter,” he said as they pulled into her driveway.

“That would be nice.”

Awkward silence filled the car. They’d grabbed a bite to eat on the way down to the coast, so there was no real reason to continue the evening.

“Let me help you with your suitcase,” Marcos said. He got out of the car, opened the trunk, and pulled out her bag, her champagne, and the few bottles of wine she’d purchased. She’d walked to the door and opened it. He breezed past her and deposited her things on a spare chair in the living room.

The silence returned as they turned to each other. He stepped across the room and gathered her in his arms to kiss her. She responded, but the passion from the morning was lacking.

He drew back. “What is it,
cara
?”

“I … I can’t do this.” She spread her hands, palms up. “We are impossible.”

He resisted an urge to slam his fist into a wall in frustration. “Nothing is impossible if you want it badly enough. We only have tonight before I must return to Italy. We don’t know when we’ll see each other again. Let’s not waste our time thinking things are impossible.” His voice became louder with each sentence.

She put her hand on his arm. “Last night was wonderful, Marcos, a dream. I’d like to keep the memory the way it was.”

He took her hand off his arm and took a step back. “I will not force myself on you. It will be a long time before I will be able to come back to America. I was hoping you might come to Italy around Christmas time. There are many beautiful festivals and it would be a good time to meet my family. I can show you how our lives can work together.” He kissed her briefly. “Give us a chance to love again,
cara
. We both deserve it.” His throat hurt with raw agony.

She sighed. “I wish I could. But I don’t see how we fit.” She lifted her hands in a gesture of hopelessness. “I can’t even learn to make ravioli.”

“Maybe you think too much when you try.”

She laughed.

He was struck with a sudden inspiration. “Will you make me a promise, Elizabeth?”

She looked at him warily. “Maybe.”

“When you successfully make ravioli, you will come to Italy and stay with me for a week.”

She looked at the floor and shrugged. “I think that’s safe enough. You’ve obviously never seen me with flour, egg, and a rolling pin! Agreed. If I learn to make ravioli, I’ll come to Italy.” Finally, she looked at him again. Her eyes were bright with unshed tears.

“Not if,
cara
, when … I know your determination. I look forward to seeing you.”

He stood and reached his hands for hers, pulling her into his arms. He lowered his lips to hers, looking for the kiss he knew was there. She softened under his mouth and he tasted the bittersweet texture of loss and promise. He put himself into the kiss, hoping to leave a lingering mark on her memory to bring her home to him.

Hoping was all he could do. The rest was up to Elizabeth, God and ravioli.

Elizabeth dumped the sodden mess in the garbage can for the third time that day. She plunked into a chair, covered her face with her flour-covered hands and bawled.

Why had she ever tried to make fresh pasta? It was hopeless. She was hopeless. Nothing had ever gone the way she wanted. She’d been miserable since Marcos left.

Soon she was indulging in a full-flung pity party.

And it felt good.

At least until the phone rang.

She looked up at the kitchen clock. Shit. Her coaching call.

She picked up the phone with the least sticky part of her hand and said, “Hello?”

“Elizabeth, it’s Carol. Are you okay? You don’t sound well. A cold?”

“No. Ravioli.”

“Oh. Um. Okay. Is it still a good time for our call?”

Elizabeth was about to reschedule when it occurred to her that this was probably the best time for a call. “My kitchen is a mess, I’m a mess, and my life is falling apart. If you’ll give me a moment to wash my hands, I think we better have that call. I’ve got decisions to make.”

A moment later Elizabeth picked up the phone. “I’m back.”

“So tell me about these decisions.”

Elizabeth scanned the flour-strewn kitchen again. “I don’t know why I’m making ravioli … or trying to make it … so far what I pull together looks more like one of Sarah’s grade-school science projects than ravioli.”

Carol chuckled. “Why don’t you ask someone to teach you?”

“No one would want to do that.”

“Really? Why not?”

“Who has the time? And why would a stranger want to help me?”

“Why not?”

Elizabeth grimaced. Annie had been right. When she worked with Carol in the spring, she said that the coach could be annoying.

“Because they don’t know me,” Elizabeth said.

“They’d get to know you.”

“Ha! Then they really wouldn’t want to teach me.”

“Why?”

“Ugh … I don’t know why. Maybe because I’m such a klutz and keep making mistakes,” Elizabeth said, not thinking about her answers, merely firing off retorts to the coach’s questions.

“Do you make lots of mistakes?”

“No … but when I do, they’re whoppers!”

“Give me an example,” the coach prodded.

“The obvious one is getting pregnant with Sarah … ”

“And … ”

“And … Joe … he was a mistake?”

“Is that true?”

Elizabeth had a flash of irritation before saying, “It’s not true. I just wonder if I could have done better. Or if he could have done better.”

“Better than?”

“Better than me.”

“Oh. Who could he have found that was better?”

“Well … he did find someone, didn’t he?” Elizabeth wasn’t sure where this conversation was going, but she was starting to get a queasy feeling in her stomach. “So, obviously I wasn’t good enough for him.”

“Ah. Is that true?”

“It must be. I was good enough to have under the bleachers, but not good enough to be faithful to.” A bitter taste rose in Elizabeth’s mouth.

“What about Bobby?”

“What about him?”

“Were you good enough for him?”

“I don’t know. I mean, I suppose so, but he had different dreams. He wanted to be a big shot commissioner and I didn’t want to get married. I didn’t think someone in government needed to be sleeping with someone who wasn’t his wife.”

“So, as an unmarried woman, you weren’t good enough.”

“Right.” God, she was beginning to feel depressed.

“Is
that
true?”

Elizabeth studied the question. Bobby had hammered her to get married, but he’d told her he loved her and wanted to spend the rest of her life with him. She hadn’t wanted to marry him because she wasn’t sure she wanted to spend the rest of her life with anyone, particularly Bobby.

“Noooo. I guess not. The truth is, I simply didn’t want to get married.”

“At all? Or to him?”

Elizabeth hesitated. “A combination of both, I think. He was a good companion, decent enough lover.”

“But no sparks.”

“No,” Elizabeth admitted. “No sparks.”

“He was safe.”

Elizabeth sighed. Yes, Bobby had been safe. She knew she’d never marry him. She’d spent five years being safe. Was it time to take a risk?

“You said you had big decisions to make,” Carol said. “Somehow I don’t think they’re about ravioli.”

Elizabeth laughed. “Hardly.” She told Carol about the weekend. “He wants more than Bobby did in some ways,” she concluded. “With Marcos, I’d have to be … real.” She paused and thought over what she’d said before adding, “He wants me to come to Italy for the holidays. He wants a relationship!”

“And that frightens you.”

“Scares me to death.”

“Did you tell him that?” the coach asked.

“Yeah. He told me I should come to Italy after I learned to make ravioli.”

Carol laughed. “Smart man.”

“Why? What does ravioli have to do with a relationship?”

“Doing either is out of your comfort zone.”

“Well, it’s too bad, because I’m done trying to make ravioli.”

“Why?”

Elizabeth threw up her hands. More flour went flying. “My kitchen is a disaster! I like a nice neat home.”

“You like control.”

“Things are better in my control.”

“Really? Is … ”

“Don’t you dare ask me if that’s true!” Elizabeth got up and started pacing; her voice loud with frustration. “When things get out of my control, chaos happens! Disasters! Things are going just fine in my life. I have enough risk — I filled out the papers for the loan again saying I’d invest in the product line. The bank has the forms.” She plopped herself back in the chair. “That’s all the risk I want to take right now.”

Silence hummed on the line.

“I think Marcos is a wise man,” Carol finally said. “You should learn to make ravioli — no matter what it takes. Then you’ll have your answer.”

Elizabeth groaned.

• • •

Elizabeth watched video after video and destroyed pounds of flour and dozens of eggs. She pounded through books on the subject. She tried a pasta maker she discovered hidden on a shelf in her garage.

Nothing worked.

“Annie, I’m so frustrated,” she confessed to her friend over one of their biweekly dinners. “I feel like a dieter who’s been through every diet book in the bookstore, but who’s still gaining weight. And I don’t even know why I’m doing this.”

“Really?” Annie’s eyebrows couldn’t have gotten any higher.

Elizabeth sighed. “I do know. I miss Marcos. More than I thought I’d ever miss anyone.”

“I’ve heard the most successful dieters belong to groups.” Annie took a sip of wine.

“I’m not sure there’s a group for unsuccessful pasta makers.”

Annie rolled her eyes. “Isn’t there a class you could take? Or a mentor you could find?”

“I hate taking classes.” Elizabeth poked at her food. This was not how this conversation was supposed to go. “What’s new with you and John?” she asked.

“Nice try. Why do you miss Marcos so much? What are your plans for your version of
Under the Tuscan Sun
?”

“We’re not doing anything until I learn to make ravioli.”

“Huh?” Annie took a sip of wine. “And you still haven’t told me about the weekend. What the hell happened up there in wine country?”

How much should she tell Annie? It had been almost two weeks since the Napa trip. She’d had a few emails from Marcos, but they’d been brief. He appeared to be protecting his heart and she couldn’t blame him.

“Give,” Annie prompted.

Elizabeth sighed and told her the story of the weekend.

“Wow,” Annie said when she finished. “You are even worse than I was. What did the coach say?”

“Learn to make ravioli. See … I’m doomed.”

“Remember she had me singing three times a week. Didn’t make sense to me then, but it seemed to have worked. So, you’ll just have to become a pasta-maker.”

Elizabeth groaned.

“Bad food?” Mandy, their regular waitress, asked.

“Oh, no. Bad life,” Elizabeth replied.

“Oh, that’s okay then.” Mandy sped off to another part of the restaurant.