Her Italian Millionaire (12 page)

“I didn't. I'd better go see what heavy object Nonna wants moved.” Marco headed for the kitchen before he blurted out something else he wasn't supposed to know. He had a feeling there was no heavy object to be moved, Nonna just wanted to see him. He felt trapped between the proverbial rock and the hard place and he didn't know how to get away.

 Anne Marie was in the living room and his grandmother was in the kitchen and he was in between. Each woman had her own agenda, agendas that clashed with his. Anne Marie was trying to shake him and meet Giovanni without him. Nonna was trying to marry him off. It hardly mattered to whom, anymore. It made him nervous to see the way she looked at Anne Marie. If she only knew who she was. If she only knew why she was there in San Gervase.

Steam filled the air, along with the fragrant sauce his grandmother was now stirring on the stove. He had to admit he was hungry. She was right. He didn't eat enough or get enough home cooking. He put his arms around her. She looked solid, all rounded curves and good high color in her skin, but she felt smaller and more fragile than before. He really should come by more often while he was in the area.

No matter how much she nagged him, she was his favorite relative. The one who'd taught him to play marbles on the kitchen floor when he'd spent the summers there as a child. Then when his father was given a post outside the country, he and Isabella came to live with them here in this house for a few years. Nonna was the one who'd read folk tales to him and filled his head with dreams of love and adventure. How many of those dreams had come true? He had a good job. He'd traveled as far as England. He'd been the star of the high school soccer team, at least when Giovanni wasn't there. He'd had his share of adventure and of love. But what about the future, what next?

“She's a nice girl, yes?” She turned to face him, her black eyes sparkling.

“Yes, very nice. She's American. She's here on vacation.” He stifled the urge to say She's Giovanni's girlfriend. Wasn't it bad enough that she was from another country? Someone who was not going to be around in two weeks? Someone who, if he fell in love with her, might tempt him to follow her and never come back? What kind of a grandmother would want that for her grandson? Not that he would ever be tempted to fall in love again. Or follow anyone anywhere. He was way past that. He'd tried it once. It hadn't worked.

Nonna shrugged as if being American was no more of a drawback than having blue eyes. Which just went to show how desperate she was to find him a wife.

“I like her,” she said.

“You like every woman I bring here.”

“No,” she said, waving her spoon in his face. “Not every woman.”

“All right, only the ones with two ears and two eyes.”

“Nice eyes,” she remarked. “Blue like the Mediterranean.”

“She can't speak Italian,” he reminded her.

“She can learn.”

“Does she know about the money?” she asked. “Your inheritance?”

“No one knows. Only you.”

“And your grandfather, may he rest in peace. He would want you to use it, to spend it. Wisely of course.”

“I will. I promise. When the time is right.”

“And when the woman is right. Perhaps she is the one,” she suggested.

“I don't know her. I only met her yesterday.”

“Two days is enough. The first time I saw your grandfather, I knew. It was a Saturday night at the old dance hall at the beach. I was wearing a blue dress.”

“I'll bet you were the prettiest girl in town, Nonna. And grandfather couldn't take his eyes off of you.”

“Have I told you this story before?” she asked.

“If you have, I've forgotten. Tell me again.”

“Well, your grandfather was standing on one side of the hall and I was on the other with my mother and my aunt. I said to my mother, 'That is the man I'm going to marry.' She said, 'Who is he? Who is his family? I've never seen him before. He's not from here.' Of course he wasn't from here. He was Sicilian. When she heard that she hit the roof. She was afraid I'd go off with him to Sicily and never come back. After a while he came up and introduced himself to us and kissed my mother's hand.”

“I'll bet that got her attention.”

“It got everyone's attention. A handsome stranger. Everyone was looking at him, wondering who he was.”

“Then he asked you to dance.”

“So I have told you the story.”

“I'm just guessing.”

“Yes, he asked me to dance.”

“He was a good dancer?”

“The best.” She smiled dreamily and he had a flash of how she'd looked then, her girlish figure dressed in blue, her dark eyes flashing even as they did today, her long dark hair piled high on her head. He knew exactly why his grandfather had crossed the room to ask her to dance. He felt a twinge of envy. She'd found true love at eighteen, she'd married at twenty and raised a family in her home town where she was known and loved. It wasn't a bad way to live. But could he ever adjust to such a routine? Could he live a life without the excitement of the chase?

“Do young people dance today?” she asked.

“I don't know,” he said.

“What do you mean you don't know? What about you?”

“I'm not young.” He didn't feel young. He felt old and cynical.

“But you know how to dance, don't you?”

He put his arms around her waist and twirled her around in the air. “Like this?” he said. “Am I dancing?”

Her laughter rang through the kitchen, just as young and girlish as it was sixty years ago.

Anne Marie heard the voices and the laughter that came from the kitchen. She went to the double Dutch kitchen doors and opened the top door just a crack. Just far enough to see Marco lift his grandmother in the air and twirl her around. She didn't understand their words, but she understood the wealth of love and affection in that small room. She understood that Marco, however macho and tough he seemed, loved his grandmother very much, as much as she loved him. The sight of the small old woman, her eyes brimming with emotion, being lifted in the air by the big strong man smiling broadly at her, touched Anne Marie's heart with an aching sweetness. If she left the house now or in an hour and she never saw Marco again, she'd never forget the sight of the two of them, enveloped in steam and tender affection, spinning around in that small, homey kitchen.

Hearing a knock at the front door, she started guiltily and closed the door to the kitchen. When she turned, she saw a strange man walk through the door. He looked as surprised to see her as she was to see him. He stood in the doorway for a long moment, staring at her. He was wearing skin-tight black pants, a white shirt unbuttoned half way down his chest and a whole set of gold chains around his neck.

“Ciao, bella,”
he said at last.
“Da dove viene?”

At last, some Italian she could understand. A phrase right out of the book.

“Sono di Stati Uniti,”
she said carefully.

He laughed loudly. “You're American,” he said. “I should have known.”

The corners of her mouth drooped. Just when she'd found somebody to practice her Italian on, he started speaking English.

He held out his hand. “I am Rocco,” he said as if she should know. As if she'd at least heard of him.

She shook his hand. “How do you do. My name is Anne Marie.”

“May I ask what you are doing in the house of my grandmother?” he asked.

“Your grandmother?” she asked. Of course Marco wasn't her only grandson. There might be many others. This might be a family get-together that she didn't belong at. “I came with Marco, just stopping by for a moment on my way out of town.”

He nodded, giving her a long, appraising look from head to toe. “Of course. So you are one of Marco's girls.”

“I'm not a girl, and I'm not Marco's,” she said. “I'm a tourist, that's all. Just passing through.”

He nodded as if that was always the case with “Marco's girls.” “Where are you from?” he asked.

“California.”

“My cousin Georgio lives in LA.”

“I live near San Francisco.”

He put one hand over his heart. “I left my heart in San Francisco,” he sang in a poor imitation of Tony Bennett. “Did you leave your heart there too?”

“No,” she said. “Where did you learn to speak English so well?”

“I'm just now returning from the States,” he said. “I go every summer to work for my uncle in Maryland. Do you know Ocean City?”

She shook her head.

“He has a cannoli stand on the boardwalk. Ocean City is a fantastic place in the summer. You would love it.”

“I'm sure I would. I love cannoli.”

Rocco sniffed the air. “I hope I'm in time for lunch. It smells like
puttanesca
sauce.” Then he sat in one of the overstuffed chairs and stretched his legs out in front of him. “So Ana Maria,” he said. “Sit down and tell me more about yourself. If you are not one of my cousin's girls, who are you?”

She shifted uncomfortably from one foot to the other and finally perched on the edge of the sofa across the room from him.

“Just a tourist,” she repeated. “Traveling on my own.”

“On your own? No husband? No family?”

“I'm not married. And I'm old enough to be on my own, believe me. I have a son in college.”

Rocco's eyes widened and his mouth fell open in surprise, or at least in mock surprise. Anne Marie almost laughed at his response, it was so dramatic.

“I can't believe this,” he said.

Inside her wallet was a recent picture of her with Tim at graduation. She crossed the room to show it to Rocco. “This is my son.” She couldn't help the pride that crept into her voice.

“So, it is true,” Rocco said, staring at the picture. “I see the resemblance. He's a handsome boy. He takes after you.” He stood and handed back the photo, but caught Anne Marie's wrist between his thumb and forefinger. “You say Marco is not your boyfriend.”

“Of course not,” she said. “I just met him yesterday.”

“That means nothing to Marco. He's a fast worker.”

Anne Marie sensed a certain amount of cousin rivalry in the air.

“Do you have a boyfriend?” Rocco asked.

“No.”

“Marco doesn't bring just any girl to the house of our grandmother, so I am wondering....”

“There's nothing to wonder about. I'm here only by accident.”

“By accident? There was an accident? Was that how you met? Did you break the law or lose your passport or are you wanted by Interpol for some high crime?”

“No,” she said with a laugh. “I don't think so. Why?”