Her Italian Millionaire (31 page)

He was waiting for her answer. He didn't know a woman in the world who would sleep outside without complaining.

“Of course I wouldn't mind. It would be an adventure.”

“What about bears?”

Her face paled. “Are there bears here?”

“And wild boar with big tusks.”

She licked her lips nervously, then she laughed when she realized he was joking. And the tow truck arrived. She smiled with relief. She had the most amazing smile. He couldn't help smiling back at her. He couldn't help kissing her quickly on those smiling lips while the tow truck backed up to the front of the Lancia.

The driver gave them a quizzical look, admired the Lancia, hooked it to his truck, and then they all squeezed into the cab of his truck for the ride to the town of Maggiore. Anne Marie was crushed against the door. Marco put his arm around her shoulders possessively, as if it was the most natural thing in the world, as if she belonged to him. Of course it was none of the above. It was simply that there was no room for his arm anywhere else. His hip was pressed against hers, but he didn't seem bothered by their close proximity. She was. So bothered, she clenched her hands together and turned her face to the window to catch the breeze to cool her fevered cheeks.

Marco and the driver conversed in Italian, which left her free to go over the day's events, especially the event that had shattered all her notions of what sex was. It wasn't a ritual that had to be performed once a week in a darkened bedroom. It wasn't mechanical. It wasn't boring. Of course, after twenty years with any man it became that way.

Twenty years of sex with Marco? She sneaked a glance in his direction. He met her gaze, his eyes glimmering with amusement as if he knew what she was thinking. There was no way he could know, but she didn't feel safe. She felt scared. Scared she'd never make love with him again. Scared she would make love with him again.

The small town of Maggiore boasted a garage, a church, a market, and vineyards that covered the hills for miles around, but not much else. Still, the streets were full of people.

“They're here for the grape harvest,” Marco said.

“These are the workers?” she asked.

“Or tourists. This is an old Roman town. Besides the grape crush, there is a wild donkey race tomorrow to kick things off.”

“Then there will be a hotel,” she said.

The driver shook his head and spoke to Marco.

“He says it's full. But there's a youth hostel and rooms for rent.”

While she wondered just how long they'd be staying in Maggiore, the driver drove through an old stone gate and pulled up in front of a garage on the town square. Marco went with the driver to talk to the boss.

Voices drifted from the garage.

“Si puo ripararlo?

“Ebbene...”

“Quanto ci vorra?”

Anne Marie leaned against a stone pillar which might have been there since Roman times. She studied the cobblestones under her feet, looking for ruts that might have been left by chariots racing through town on their way to Rome.

The people who wandered by, locals or young people with backpacks speaking German or French, hardly gave her a second glance. In her Italian clothes and Italian hair, she obviously didn't stand out. Not until she opened her mouth, anyway. Maybe having her luggage destroyed wasn't such a bad thing after all.

Again, she was seeing a part of Italy she never would have seen on her own. She owed Marco in a big way for bringing her on this trip. She owed him for other things too, like awakening her sexuality. But she wasn't likely to mention that to him.

When Marco came out of the garage he told her the owner would order a new fuel pump and it would take several days for it to arrive from Rome.

“If you really must get to Rome before that, there is a bus,” he said.

“But I'd miss the crush,” she said. Get on a bus by herself? Go to Rome and track down Giovanni, who may or may not want to see her? Wander around the Coliseum and the Forum by herself with only a guidebook and no guide? She was getting accustomed to having Marco around. She liked feeling like she belonged. She liked traveling in an Italian car with the world's sexiest Italian. She liked eating outside under a tree. She liked making love.

Yes, that's what it was all about. She wanted to do the things with him she hadn't dared do the last time. She wanted to surprise him. She wanted to please him. She wanted to show him she wasn't as unimaginative a partner as she'd been this afternoon.

“Yes, you'd miss stomping on grapes in a wooden vat with strangers.”

“You mean it isn't automated?”

“Not here; labor is still cheap. Not only that, the mechanic told me the traditional way produces the best wine. Crushing grapes by foot gives the best color, aroma and flavor without breaking the bitter seeds.”

“Can we actually participate?”

“If you want to, along with a few other adventurous tourists and the town people. Most of the women I know wouldn't want to stain their feet purple.”

“It comes off, doesn't it? The purple? And if it doesn't, what a story that will make back home. Wait till my friends hear about this. I can't wait to tell Tim, my son. He'll be impressed.”

She picked up her bag and noticed he carried his with his left hand. The ice pack and the makeshift bandage were now gone, but she could see his right hand was still swollen. Then they walked down the street to check out the hostel. They passed what might have been a lemonade stand in America, but at this sidewalk stand two young men were toasting bread over a small fire. Anne Marie set her new bag down and ordered a
bruschetta
with chopped fresh tomato. At Marco's urging, she accepted a glass of wine too. She reached for her purse, but she was too late, as usual. One of these times she'd settle up with him.  

“Hmmm,” she said. “Very good. I guess the bare feet do make a difference.”

Marco swirled his wine around in the glass and nodded. “They want to know if you want to see their cellar. Where they store the wine.”

“Of course. I'd like to buy some from them.”

One of the brothers led them around to the back of the house and down steep, cement steps to a cool room where huge wooden kegs lined the walls and a sign said, “Abandon all hope, ye who enter here.”

“Dante,” Marco said. “Our national poet. Italy's Shakespeare.”

“I know who Dante is,” she said. .

“Of course,” he said. “I should have known. You probably have his books in your library.”

“I wonder,” she said to Marco, “if I could leave my candy in his cellar. It needs to be in a cool place. Could you ask him?”

Marco shook his head. “Why don't you just eat it and be done with it?”

“Because it's special and it's for someone else. I told you. But maybe just one more piece.” She reached into her bag and extricated another truffle from the box. Then she closed it again and wrapped it in a plastic bag. The wine maker agreed, she put the box behind some bottles, and someone shouted from somewhere above them. The brother excused himself and went upstairs.   

“Don't let me forget this,” she said. She wouldn't want him to have to drive back to this town as he did the last to retrieve the lost chocolates. Anne Marie shivered. Marco put his arms around her. She let out a ragged sigh and pressed her face against his chest.

“We should go,” she said. “The hostel may be filled up.”

“Ah, you Americans, always in a hurry,” he said.

The truth was, she didn't want to go anywhere. She wanted to stay in this cool cellar, surrounded by vats and washtubs and kegs and bottles, and eat a truffle with the pungent smell of wine grapes in the air and the taste of home in her mouth. She wanted to slow down.

She ate the whole truffle in one bite, closing her eyes to concentrate on the intense flavor. When she opened her eyes, Marco was staring at her.

“I'll remember the candy for you, but you must remember this day. You won't forget, will you? No matter what happens?”

“No, of course not. I'm going to buy a bottle of wine and take it back with me, for a souvenir.”

“When you open it, and inhale the scent of oak and grapes you'll think of Maggiore.” He looked so serious she stood there staring at him, wondering what had come over him.

She'd think of Maggiore, but she'd remember Marco more than any town. She'd remember how he looked standing there in the middle of the cellar, his shirt unbuttoned just far enough to expose a glimpse of tanned chest, his sleeves rolled up, showing his muscled forearms. Yes, she'd seen it all before. She'd seen his naked body looming above her, but this was how she would remember him.

Would she be happy? Back in California by herself? Back in her same house, at her same job? Under the same California sun where she'd lived her whole life, where every day was the same? It sounded unbearably dull.

“I wish...” she said.

“Yes?”

“Sometimes I wish my vacation would never end.”

“It doesn't have to. You could stay here.”

“Here?” She gulped, imagining a small house overlooking the sea, done in blues and yellows. Then she came down with a crash to reality. “You sound like Giovanni. He used to tell me to come and live in Italy. Tell me, how would I live, without a job? Unless I win the lottery. What would I do here? I have a job at home, a house, a son, friends...”

“And an ex-husband.”

“By now he's probably found someone else to take Brandy's place. Have you ever had a mid-life crisis?” she asked, placing her hands on her hips.

“I don't think so,” he said. “What does it mean?”

“It means you suddenly wake up one day and realize your life is half over and you haven't done what you wanted to do. You haven't found the job you wanted, or the woman you wanted. So you drop everything, quit your job, leave your wife, and act like you're twenty again. It's especially dangerous if you never acted like you were twenty when you were twenty. Then you have a lot of living to make up for.”

“Is it just for men, or do women have mid-life crises too? Have you had one?”

“Maybe I'm having one now. Maybe that's really why I came to Italy, to see a man I hadn't seen for twenty years. Maybe that explains...” Explains why she was falling for an Italian she didn't really know at all. Maybe she was having her own mid-life crisis. Everyone was entitled to one. Maybe that explained making love on a picnic blanket with someone whose job, he said, was to show tourists a good time. He'd done that, all right. She'd had the time of her life. Now the regrets came flooding in, as inevitable as the tide.

Marco asked, “There was another reason, wasn't there? Another reason to come to Italy, to see Giovanni again.”

“You mean to bring him the yearbook? Yes, but that was just an excuse. I needed to get away from Oakville. Evie suggested Italy. She came here after her divorce, and I'd always wanted to come. So I picked up his yearbook for him. I think he appreciated it; he said it reminded him of the happiest time of his life. I was surprised to hear that. High school was full of anxiety and uncertainty for me.”