“One who was about to add: the finest
ristorante
in all of Vernazza can be found a short distance away. What’s more, it has a better view of the sea.”
“And way too many tourists … been there, done that.”
Jonathan shifted from one foot to the other. He glanced around the trattoria and with a raise of his forefinger, he caught the waiter’s eye and said,
“Uno, par favore.”
I
waited for Lorenzo to react in the gracious manner I’d come to expect. Instead he sat down, picked up his wine glass, and emptied it. His way of dismissing Jonathan gave me a strange sensation in my ear. I pressed two fingers near its edge. I heard the soft pounding of my pulse. What was that? Not Mom again, oh yeah, something about remembering my manners. I lifted my head to the American and tried to sound sincere when I said, “Jonathan, please, there’s no need for you to eat alone. We’d love having you join us.”
He grinned again. “You’re sure I won’t be imposing.”
Before I could reassure him, he pulled out the chair next to me and sat down.
“What about menus?”
Jonathan asked.
“Today’s f
are is posted on the chalkboard.” Lorenzo motioned his head toward the entrance.
“So, Lorenzo,” I said
. “What do you suggest?”
He didn’t hesitate to say,
“My first choice would be the
tegame alla Vernazza
, a combination of anchovies, potatoes, and tomatoes in white wine.”
“Sounds good to me,”
Jonathan said. “Anchovies straight from the sea sure as hell beat the canned variety we get in America’s heartland. Right, Ellen?”
“Absolutely, but
I’ve eaten so many anchovies I’d like to try something else.”
“When the anchovies are in season, we eat them every day, Elena.”
“Same as we do with corn on the cob in Iowa,” Jonathan said. “By the way, Ellen, since we’re in Italy, would you prefer I call you Elena too?”
“Only if you prefer I call
you Giovanni.”
“Too confusing, I’ll stick with Ellen. We Americans should stick together, right?”
Enough with the fake familiarity, I changed the subject. “Lorenzo, quick, to my right: that lady in the flowered dress, what’s she having?”
“Another local specialty: the
ricotta and spinach ravioli topped with walnut sauce.”
“
Hmm, very enticing,” Jonathan said. “I’m going with that instead of the potatoes and anchovies.”
“Not me,” I said out of my new-found loyalty to Lorenzo. “
I’ve decided to try the
tegame alla Vernazza
after all.”
“Perhaps we can share,”
Jonathan said. A comment I ignored as did Lorenzo.
We ordered, we at
e without sharing, and we agreed the food was delicious. But it was a meal not as relaxing as yesterday’s, what with Lorenzo and Jonathan competing to impress me, a situation I’d not experienced before but thought I could handle without appearing ridiculous.
“Bet you didn’t hear this bit of local gossip,” Jonathan said. “
Two women fighting over a man who was married but not to either of them, imagine that.”
Lorenzo sat back, hesitating before speaking. “Unless you know this to be true, I suggest you refrain from spreading such rumors.”
“Hey, don’t blame the messenger. Or in this case the reporter. I’m only repeating what I heard on the street.”
His comments were enough to bring a tinge
to Lorenzo’s ears that only grew redder when our bill arrived and Jonathan snatched it from the server’s tray. “This one’s on me,” he said, “since any friend of Ellen’s is a friend of mine.”
Really, our friendship was growing by the hour, more like the minute.
Too bad neither man was my idea of the perfect catch. Nor was I my idea of the perfect catch, all of which made for an interesting afternoon of three unattached less-than-perfect strangers having more in common than most singles in a similar predicament. Being in the middle had turned into a definite plus for me.
Memo to self:
Although Jonathan presented the more practical choice, Lorenzo oozed with European sophistication I found hard to ignore.
***
By six o’clock the three of us were back in Monterosso, with Jonathan having established himself as the third wheel and me, exhausted, worse yet, consumed by my thigh that wouldn’t stop aching. As we approached a small hotel a few steps from the sea, Jonathan slowed his pace until he came to a complete stop. I felt the light touch of his hand on my arm.
“This is where I get off
,” he said, “the Albergo Pasquale.”
The Pasquale was one of many
hotels I’d tried without success to book, mainly because Margo waited too long to make up her mind about its suitability. “Nice,” I said, “and very convenient.”
H
e leaned in closer, his next words a whisper directed only to me. “How about spending the night?”
“Are you out of your mind?
” I whispered back.
“
Not in Italy.”
“It’s out of the question.”
“Then what about dinner?”
“Thanks, but my leg—”
He raised his voice but his eyes never left mine. “You’re welcome to join us, Lorenzo.”
“Another time,” I
said before giving Lorenzo a chance to answer. “I’m really bushed.”
“Hey, no problem, if you change your mind, you know where to find me. By the way, where are you staying?”
“Elena is my guest,” Lorenzo said. “I have an apartment here in Monterosso.”
Jonathan
dropped his hand from my arm and stepped back. “Oh, I see.”
“
No, you don’t. I’m a paying guest. Lorenzo has a wonderful villa in La Spezia that accommodates a few fortunate tourists. He was kind enough to transfer my reservation from there to here.”
“
How convenient,” Jonathan said. “Did I give you my card before? Never mind, here’s another, in case you need to contact me.” He scribbled something on the back of the card and handed it to me. “A single girl can’t have too many friends, or so I’ve been told.”
“Me too,
or so my sister tells me.”
“She’s here with you?”
Jonathan asked.
“Not exactly,” I said, tired of
chitchat going nowhere. “Good night, Jonathan.” I dropped his card in my purse, most likely to rest against the one he’d already given me. I didn’t expect to use either of them.
“You mean
buona sera
, don’t you? The evening is still young.”
Enough already, I pretended not to hear and walked away, more like limped
until Lorenzo took my arm.
“If you prefer, we can take a taxi to my apartment,”
he said.
“Thanks, but I can make it
, although I wouldn’t refuse a glass of wine when we get there. Better yet, while sitting on your fabulous balcony.”
“Along with
a pizza with anchovies to celebrate the season.”
“None for me but don’t let that stop you.”
“I think I have had my anchovy limit for the day,” he said. “But not the wine, for that there is no limit.”
I
didn’t realize the depth of my exhaustion until we arrived at Lorenzo’s apartment. After dropping into the nearest chair, I kicked off my shoes and lifted my feet onto the matching stool. Music filtered into the room. Andrea Bocelli, I couldn’t believe my ears. Then again, what better place to hear him sing
“Besame Mucho”
than in Italy, his voice so pure I almost cried.
“Shall I draw your bath again?” Lorenzo asked
. The question so intimate spoke volumes and made it harder to ignore my growing interest in him.
Still, I put forth the effort.
“That’s so sweet of you but I’m quite capable of doing it myself, really.”
“With or without the lemons?”
he asked.
I
laughed to cover my embarrassment. “Perhaps a glass of Limoncello after my bath but nothing else, I don’t have the energy to eat another bite.”
***
At last, alone in the bedroom, what I needed more than anything else. While hot water poured into the bathroom tub, I stripped to bare skin, stood before the mirror, and examined my injuries. The bruises didn’t look any better, nor any worse, which confirmed my rollercoaster ride to recovery.
Tap … tap … tap …
came an ever so lightly sound to the door, followed by Lorenzo’s voice. “I recommend more lemons, Elena. They are sitting outside the door, should you decide to use them.”
“Uh … thanks.”
I wrapped myself in a towel, waited another minute before opening the door, and grabbed the bowl of sliced lemons before closing it. If Lorenzo had been lurking nearby, he didn’t show himself or clear his throat or do whatever men do in romance novels or during the mating season, which pretty much covered every day of the year. Not that I would have wanted him to. After emptying the lemons into the tub, I let my towel slip to the floor, and stepped into the waiting water, its temperature the perfect degree to welcome my tired bones. I slid down until my chin touched the water, only then allowing my eyes to close and to use this time for revisiting the day.
I
must’ve fallen asleep because the next sound I heard was Lorenzo calling my name. There he stood in the doorway, the usual red tinge surrounding his ears. Bubbles my bath didn’t have would’ve done a better job of concealing my nakedness than those lemon slices floating here and there. I covered what Margo calls her tatas with one hand, my crotch with the other.
“Are you all right, Elena?
” he asked with eyes burning into mine. “I knocked several times and became worried when you did not answer.”
“I’ll be right out. Ten minutes, tops.”
He left and I cringed. Damn, how long had he been standing there, staring at all I considered holy? I hadn’t been that tired, nor that sound a sleeper. I released the water into a swirl down the drain while using my hands to scoop the lemon slices into the plastic-lined wastebasket before wiping the tub clean. After slipping into the oversized pink t-shirt, white capris, and sandals bought earlier that day, I added a dash of mascara and lipstick to my face which had taken on a golden tan as had my arms, making a decent contrast against the pink top. My hair had frizzled up into damp natural curls. All in all, not bad for the family’s Plain Jane.
Lorenzo was already sitting on the balcony
but he stood up as soon as he saw me. Such manners, they compensated for his other drawbacks, whatever they were or might’ve been before … before what. Hmm, I’d almost forgotten. But not quite, about the nose … it was prominent and fit his face as well as those of most Italians, men or women. The general build, not impressive or disastrous but in no way did it conflict with his overall appearance. After pouring two cordials of Limoncello, he waited for me to sit before he did the same. He’d already arranged fruit and cheese on two small plates and passed one to me.
“You look refreshed,” he said
.
“And you were looking at me in the bathtub.”
“Only for a moment, Elena, I could not help myself.”
He leaned o
ver and kissed me, an unexpected but nevertheless welcomed move. He kissed me again, this time sending an even stronger signal of future possibilities. If only his phone hadn’t rung at that precise moment.
After the second ring, I said,
“You’d better get that. It might be important.”
He sighed,
flipped open the phone, and answered with a polite, “Buona sera, Zia.” He listened without comment, all the while nodding before handing the phone to me. “Your sister wishes to speak with you.”
“My sister, I don’t understand.”
“She just arrived at my villa in La Spezia.”
Holding the phone to my ear, I walked inside
and with lips clenched spoke a single word. “Margo?”
“Thank god, you’re still there.
After our talk yesterday, I thought, what the hell. I have tons of vacation time I haven’t used and will probably lose if I don’t. So, here I am in La Spezia. This villa is loaded with charm, what little I’ve seen of it.” Margo lowered her voice. “But I’m not so sure about the little old lady. I don’t think she likes me.”
“She doesn’t have to like you but she will make sure you’re comfortable. Just
stay put for the few days it takes me to finish sightseeing.”
“No way, little sis
,” Margo said. “First thing tomorrow morning I’m driving our Fiat into the city and catching the next boat to Cinque Terre. We are going to have ourselves an absolute blast, don’t you think?”
Chapter 16
Getting Acquainted
Whatever might’ve happened between Lorenzo and me that evening ended with his phone ringing a second
time. Before he had a chance to answer it, I said a quick goodnight and hurried off to the safety of my bedroom, half-way hoping he’d come after me, at the same time afraid that he would. My dilemma turned into no dilemma when a few minutes later I heard him leave. I walked out on the balcony and watched him hurrying down the street. Not once did he look back to where I stood, my hand poised to wave if he waved first.
As with every night of my
so-called adult life I went to bed alone, wondering if the time would ever come for me to snuggle against a desirable man, to feel the warmth of his body, and experience lovemaking I’d only heard about from Margo, who never omitted a single detail. Not that I would’ve known otherwise. If only she hadn’t called earlier, interrupting what could’ve turned into my first venture into the other side. Granted, with Lorenzo who was … well, non-extraordinary which—who was I kidding—pretty much described me too. He didn’t fit into my idea of Mr. Right; but as a thoughtful host and respected member of the Cinque Terre community¸ he was starting to look better with each passing hour. What’s more, he hadn’t made any effort to hide his resentment of Jonathan from Iowa. The nerve of Jonathan, asking me to spend the night, did he really expect me to jump at the chance. Had it been just the two of us, perhaps I would’ve considered his offer. But given the choice between him and Lorenzo, and unless I wanted to take my virginity to the grave, I had to start somewhere, with someone, and Lorenzo seemed like the better choice, however temporary.
Had Margo been around
, she would’ve told me to seize the moment. So I did, after two sleepless hours, or at least made the effort. I pushed myself out of bed and slipped into the robe that now felt like it belonged to me. I padded barefoot into the dimly lit lounge area before reaching the kitchen, half-way expecting to find Lorenzo waiting with a bottle of wine and two goblets. And was more than a little relieved not to find him there. Not to be deterred I helped myself to a bottle of bianco from the fridge, poured a substantial amount into a single goblet, and carried it out to the balcony. After sitting down, I sipped the wine and sipped some more, all the while releasing my mind to the cool breeze of the salty sea and the distant scene of bright lights. To wherever Lorenzo had taken himself and for whatever action he was not getting here with me. Not that I had encouraged him or that he’d encouraged me, other than those two kisses earlier in the evening. Two ordinary people, two pairs of lips joined for two brief moments. No exchange of tongue or saliva, no words of endearment. How very un-extraordinary.
Having drunk all but a few drops of
wine, I turned the raised goblet on its side, and let those remaining trickle down my throat. In another hour or so Monterosso would shut down for the night. The remaining villagers would trickle home, the tourists back to their hotel rooms. Bravo to those daring enough to seize the moment, to make passionate love all night long, perhaps to the music of Andrea Bocelli. I, on the other hand, would be fast asleep. All night long, just like every other night of my so-called adult life.
***
If the bathroom had been equipped with a shower, I’d have taken a long one, so cold my body would’ve begged me to stop. Instead, I splashed cold water from the hand bowl’s faucet onto my face, again and again until my fingers turned into ten withered digits. I crawled back in bed, pulled the sheet up around my neck, and sent my fingers to the warmth of my armpits. Shivers passed through my body while I willed myself to fall asleep, a tried-and-true remedy that had worked in the past but still refused to cooperate on this night. At some point I heard movement in the apartment and figured Lorenzo had returned. I got out of bed, opened the door a few inches, and saw his hunched form in the kitchen, standing in the light coming from the opened fridge. I closed the door, intent on hurrying back to bed, if only I hadn’t stumbled over a pair of shoes scattered on the floor. Great, just what I needed: fresh bruises on top of those from the motorboat fiasco.
Take two:
I now limped back to bed, again pulled the cover up to my neck.
A
knock on the door made my heart pound in my ear.
“Yes?” I called out
, surprising myself with the calmness in my voice.
“Are you all right, Elena?”
“I was … yes, fine, thank you.”
“
Permesso
to enter,” he said.
I cleared my throat, enough to squeak out another yes before pulling
the sheet over my head. In a matter of seconds, I sensed Lorenzo beside the bed.
“Are you
sure
you’re all right?” he asked.
“Just a little shaky,”
I mumbled from under the sheet. “It must be the night air.”
I popped my
head out. There stood Lorenzo, still wearing his street clothes, the fly of his trousers a few inches away.
Whatever I might’ve be
en feeling slipped away, along with any semblance of a flirtatious remark, when I managed to say, “I take it you went out again.”
“A
matter of business that could not wait until morning,” he replied. “Since we’d already said our goodnights, I did not think it necessary to explain myself further.”
“That’s for sure.
I’m only a guest and not your keeper.”
He placed one hand over mine
that was clutching the cover. “You’re shaking. Would you allow me to comfort you?”
“Maybe some night music, you know, Andrea Bocelli.”
Lorenzo picked up a remote sitting on the night stand—one I hadn’t noticed before—gave the remote a click, and within moments the soothing voice of Bocelli filled the room.
“Lovely,” I said.
“Who’s he singing with.”
“Dolce Pontes, if I’m not mistaken.”
“Two singing as one, nice.”
“There are many things two can do as one,”
he said.
“Uh-huh, so I’ve heard.”
Thanks to Margo.
He took a step back, as if preparing to leave.
“Is there anything else I can do for you, Elena.”
“That depends.”
A lump had formed in my throat. Yet I managed to ask, “What did you have in mind?”
“Only what you agree to. We could start with you inviting me into your bed.”
“You should know … you may have noticed—”
“That you are still
a virgin. Si, Elena, this I sensed from the day we first met. It would be my pleasure to escort you to the other side.”
“Easier said than done, w
hat if I’m not ready?”
“
You will be, I promise.”
What more could he have said
. Or me, other than to lift the sheet and say with a smile, “Permission granted.
***
Lorenzo did not disappoint me; in fact he overwhelmed me in ways I’d only imagined until that night and well into the next morning. Nor had I ever imagined myself sharing a lemon-filled bath with him and yet we did, along with a single Bellini we took turns drinking with our arms linked, my back pressed into his chest. A moment so delicious I didn’t want it to end, so intimate I wanted to keep it in my heart forever. I wasn’t sure how Lorenzo felt until he set the empty glass on the floor.
He
leaned in closer, kissed the hollow of my neck, and said, “Perhaps you would consider extending your holiday even longer.”
“
I teach school.”
“So you told me.”
“My students—”
“
Won’t miss you as much as I would; stay with me, please.”
For how long, I want
ed to ask, but instead said, “I’ll have to think about it.”
Saved by the bell, in
this case the ringing of a phone, Lorenzo grumbled a
merda
under his breath, the first I’d heard from him. He stepped out of the tub, grabbed his phone, and walked naked from the bathroom. I slid down into the water, only stopping when a lemon slice tickled my chin. Never had I felt so fulfilled, so loved. Living in Italy with Lorenzo, no problem, but first we’d have to get married. After all, I did have certain standards and was still an old-fashioned Catholic from an old-fashioned family who tolerated Margo but didn’t approve of her lifestyle. Ellen Savino Gentili … Elena Savino Gentili … yes, I could handle a change of name, a change of country.
Minutes
later Lorenzo returned with a towel wrapped about his mid-section and a concerned expression on his face. “I must go to La Spezia, today,” he said. “A problem has developed with my business, unfortunately, one that cannot be resolved over the telephone. But please do not worry; I shall return as soon as possible.”
He opened a
second towel, wrapped it around me as soon as I stepped out of the tub. He knelt down and kissed the bruises from my accident, just as he’d done earlier with kisses exploring my body. His tongue traveled upward to my mouth, opening it with a kiss every bit as passionate as those during the night. I didn’t want him to leave, but couldn’t find the right words to express my feelings. Instead I took the martyr approach.
“Don’t hurry
back on my account. I’ll be fine, really. As soon as Margo gets here, we’ll keep each other occupied.”
“Only until I return, I hope.”
“Only until she finds someone more attentive,” I said.
“Then we must help her find that certain someone.”
“Trust me. Margo doesn’t need any help.”
While we
’d been discussing the merits of Margo, Lorenzo kept checking his watch. After the fourth glance I told him to go, that I would straighten up, a minimal task at best.
“But you are my guest.”
“More than your guest, unless I’m mistaken.”
“Y
ou are much more than a guest,” he said, “And more than a friend.”
His
smile confirmed the direction our relationship was heading. “In America friends help each other out,” I said.
“T
he same is true in Italy.”
“Then go. Take care of business so we can play afterwards.”
“We will play during the day before making love all night long. That is, if you will allow me the pleasure.”
I answered with a deep kiss and exchange of saliva, neither of which convinced him to stay. H
e went to his bedroom, and returned minutes later wearing a tan sports jacket and navy blue trousers, a white shirt and striped tie. A definite improvement from anything I’d seen thus far, except for the body I now knew under those clothes. Lorenzo had assumed his formal role again, that of a man who made it clear that his business was none of mine and of a reserved host intent on pleasing his American guest, a paying guest until today—the subject of money hadn’t come up again. Although I did ask him to bring my luggage on his return, just in case things didn’t work out between us. That part I didn’t tell him.
Before he left,
we exchanged the typical Italian goodbye kiss and nothing more, a disappointment considering the six or seven hours we’d spent together, the access I’d given him, not only to my body but to my heart and my soul.
After
the door closed behind Lorenzo, I went out to the balcony, leaned over the railing and waited until I saw him for an exchange of polite waves. He turned to the right, away from old Monterosso and toward the car park, and beyond there to where one road would lead to another and eventually back to La Spezia.
Putting the apartment
back in order became a simple task of washing, drying, and arranging a few dishes in an open hutch that serious collectors would’ve traded the family china to acquire. Having finished by nine o’clock gave me two hours of free time before Margo. No point in wasting what promised to be a good morning. I stuffed a paperback into my handbag, locked the door, and hurried down the stairs.
As with every day, this was a new day, one making way for the new me.
I walked with a purpose, the injured hip and thigh refreshed from a night I’d never forget. Several shopkeepers smiled, as if I were an acquaintance. Could they tell I’d crossed over to the other side? Was there a look about me, something in my eyes they hadn’t noticed the day before. To my surprise the proprietor of a souvenir shop stopped me.
“Lore
nzo is not with you today,” he said in passable English. “This is not good.”
I
forced a smile to accompany what had to be considered a lie. “We are friends and nothing more.”
“Ah-h, for the romance to endure it must first begin with a friendship.”
“No, no. You don’t understand.”
“I think it is you who do not understand,
signorina.”
***
I arrived at the Church of San Giovanni Battista around ten o’clock, an hour earlier than the time I’d agreed to meet Margo. Time to check my guidebook; I needed to educate myself, to jot down a few notes in the margins … just as I’d done in Florence and before Florence, Rome … and all stops in-between. Hmm, the green and white marble facade of this thirteenth century church distinguished it from the other buildings located in the old section. Yes, a few more notes. Inside the church was more green and white marble, its design woven into the supporting columns and arches that complemented similar windows and contrasted against the white walls and ceiling. While several tourists strolled around; others knelt in prayer, a form of worship I no longer did with the dedication that once filled my life. After a painful genuflection I slipped into a narrow pew, bent both knees to the unforgiving kneeler, and crossed myself.