Breathing Room (36 page)

Upstairs he heard water running as she began to fill the tub. He hoped she scrubbed hard at the smudge marks he'd left on her skin – the ones she couldn't see but he knew were there.

He tapped his hip, looking for cigarettes, only to remember he was wearing a towel. As he made his way to the sink to get a glass of water, a stack of letters lying on the counter caught his attention. Next to them a padded mailing envelope bore the return address of herNew York Citypublisher. He glanced at the one on top.

Dear Dr. Favor,

I've never written to a famous person before, but I heard your lecture when you came toKnoxville, and it changed my whole attitude toward life. I started going blind when I was seven...

He finished the letter and reached for the next one.

Dear Isabel,

I hope you don't mind if I call you by your first name, but I feel like you're my friend, and I've been writing this letter to you in my head for a long time. When I read in the paper about all the trouble you've been having, I decided I needed to write it for real. Four years ago when my husband left me and our two kids, I got so depressed I couldn't get out of bed. Then my best friend brought me this audiotape of one of your lectures she got at the library. It was all about believing in yourself and it changed my life. I have my GED

now, and I'm taking classes...

He rubbed his stomach, but the queasiness he felt there had nothing to do with the fact that he'd forgotten to eat.

Dear Mrs. Favor,

I'm sixteen and a couple months ago I tryed to kill myself because I think I might be gay.

Somebody left this book you wrote at Starbucks, and I picked it up. I think you might of saved my life.

As he settled down at the table, he realized he'd started to sweat.

Dear Isabel Favor,

Could you send me an autographed picture of yourself? It would mean a lot. When I got laid off at work...

Dr. Favor,

My wife and I owe our marriage to you. We were having money problems, and...

Dear Miss Favor,

I never wrote a famous person before, but if it hadn't been for you...

All the letters had been written after Isabel's fall from grace, but the writers didn't care about that. They only cared about what she'd done for them.

"Pretty pathetic, right?" Isabel stood in the doorway, knotting her robe at the waist.

The constriction in his stomach had risen to his throat. "Why would you say that?"

"Two months. Twelve letters." She sank her hands into the robe's pockets and looked unhappy. "In my golden days, sonny boy, they came in by the boxload."

The letters hit the floor as he shot up from the table. "Saving souls is based on quantity rather than quality, is that it?"

She regarded him oddly. "I only meant that I had so much, and I blew it."

"You didn't blow anything! Read these letters. Just read the fucking things, and stop feeling so goddamn sorry for yourself."

He was acting like a bastard, and any other woman would have torn into him. But not Isabel. Not the fucking Holy Woman. She didn't even wince. She just looked sad, and it cut right through him.

"Maybe you're right," she said.

She turned away slightly. He was starting to apologize when he saw her eyes drift shut.

He couldn't handle this. He knew how to deal with women who cried, women who yelled, but how was he supposed to deal with a woman who prayed? It was time to think like a hero again, no matter how much it went against his nature. "I have to get back. I'll see you in the morning at thevendemmia ."

She didn't look at him, didn't answer, and who could blame her? Why talk to the devil when God was your companion of choice?

Chapter 21

Only Massimo beat Ren to the vineyard the next morning, and not because Ren had gotten up so much earlier than everybody else, but because he'd never gone to bed.

Instead, he'd spent the night listening to music and thinking about Isabel.

She appeared as if he'd conjured her, stepping out of the early-morning mist like an earthbound angel. She wore new jeans that still had fold marks across the knees. The flannel shirt she'd buttoned over her T-shirt belonged to him, and so did her Lakers cap.

Still, she somehow managed to look tidy. He remembered the fan letters she'd received, and something burned in his chest, right behind his breastbone.

A car door slammed and Giancarlo arrived, sparing Ren the need to do more than give her a brief hello. As the others appeared, Massimo started issuing orders. Thevendemmia had begun.

*

Isabel discovered that harvesting grapes was a messy business. As she tossed the heavy clusters into the basket, orpaniere as it was called, juice threatened to trickle under her sleeves, and her pruning shears became so sticky they might as well have been glued to her palms. They were also treacherous, mistaking flesh for the tough grape stems. It wasn't long before she had a Band-Aid on the end of one finger.

Ren and Giancarlo traveled the rows picking up the overflowing baskets and dumping them into the plastic crates that had been stacked on the small flatbed hitched to the tractor. They unloaded these at the old stone building beside the vineyard, where another group began crushing the grapes and pouring the must into vats to ferment.

The day was overcast and cool, but Ren had stripped down to a T-shirt printed with the logo from one of his films. He appeared beside her to collect the basket she'd just filled.

"You don't have to do this, you know."

In the next row one of the women held two bunches of grapes in front of her breasts and jiggled them, making everybody laugh. Isabel waved away the bee that kept buzzing her.

"How many chances do I get to harvest grapes in a Tuscan vineyard?"

"The romance is going to wear off pretty quickly."

It seemed that it already had, she thought, as he wiped his forehead and walked away.

She stared at the bee that had landed on the back of her hand. He hadn't come to her last night. Instead, he'd phoned from the villa and told her he had work to do. She needed to work, too, but she'd brooded instead. The dark side of Ren's past clung to him like cobwebs, getting in the way of any hope they had of a future together. Or maybe he'd just decided she was too much for him.

She was grateful when one of the younger women appeared to work next to her. Since the woman's English was as limited as Isabel's Italian, their conversation took all her attention.

By evening, with half the vineyard picked, she headed back to the house. She didn't speak to Ren, who'd gone to share a bottle of wine with some of the men. WhenTracycalled to invite her to dinner, she declined. She was too tired to do more than eat a cheese sandwich and fall into bed.

Morning arrived before she was ready, and her muscles protested as she rolled over. She considered staying in bed, but she'd enjoyed the camaraderie yesterday. She'd also liked the sense of accomplishment she'd felt. It was something she hadn't experienced for a long time.

The job went faster the second day. Vittorio showed up to help.Tracyappeared with Connor and filled Isabel in on the children's first day of school, as well as Harry's phone call fromZurichthe previous night. Fabiola used her limited English to tell Isabel about her struggles to get pregnant. But Ren barely spoke to her. She wondered if he was working harder than everyone else because he owned the vineyard or because he wanted to avoid her.

The sun sank closer to the horizon. When there were only a few rows left, she made her way to the water table. As she filled her cup, a burst of laughter made her look up. She saw a group of three men and two women approaching from the villa.

Ren set down the crate he'd been unloading and waved as he walked toward them. "It's about time you got here."

Two of the three men were of the Adonis species, and they both spoke with American accents.

"When the big guy calls, the cavalry comes to the rescue."

"Where's the beer?"

An expensive-looking redhead with a pair of pricey sunglasses pushed on top of her hair threw Ren a kiss. "Hey, babe. We've missed you."

"Glad you made it." He brushed her cheek, then did the same to the other woman, a Pamela Anderson look-alike.

"I'm dying for a diet Coke," she said. "Your heartless agent wouldn't stop."

The fourth man was small and thin, maybe in his midforties. His sunglasses dangled from a sport strap around his neck, and he held a cell phone pressed to his ear. At the same time he managed to pantomime to Ren that the caller was an idiot and he'd be off in a minute.

The redhead gave a throaty laugh and ran her index finger down Ren's bare chest. "Oh, my God, sweetie, look at you. Is this real dirt?"

Indignation swept through Isabel. That was Ren's chest the woman was making free with.

Isabel took in the redhead's low-riding pants, killer shoes, endless legs, and perfectly exposed belly button. Why hadn't Ren mentioned that he'd invited these people?

She was standing just far enough away that he could easily have ignored her, but he called her over instead. "Isabel, I want you to meet some friends of mine."

Tracyhad teased Isabel about always looking tidy, but she didn't feel tidy at the moment.

As she moved toward them, she wished she could freeze time just long enough to take a bath, do her hair, put on makeup, slip into something elegant, and saunter over with a martini in her hand. "You'll forgive me if I don't shake. I'm a little the worse for wear."

"These are friends of mine fromL.A.," Ren said. "Tad Keating and Ren Gearhart. The bozo on the cell is my agent, Larry Green." He indicated the redhead first. "This is Savannah Sims." Then the Pamela Anderson look-alike. "And that's Pamela."

Isabel blinked.

"I just look like her," Pamela said. "We're not related."

"This is Isabel Favor," Ren said. "She's been staying in that farmhouse over there."

"Oh, my God!" Pamela shrieked. "Our book club did two of your books last year!"

The fact that someone who looked like Pamela was also smart enough to belong to a book club could have given Isabel another reason to detest her, but she rose above it. "I'm glad to hear it."

"You're a writer?"Savannahdrawled. "That's so cute."

Okay, this one she was allowed to detest.

"I don't know about all of you," Ren said, "but I'm ready to party tonight. Isabel, why don't you come to the villa after you get cleaned up? Unless you're too tired."

She hated it when anyone over the age of twenty-one used "party" as a verb. Even more, she hated the way he was making her feel like an outsider. "I'm not tired at all. As a matter of fact, I can't wait.Woo, woo . Party hearty."

Ren looked away.

When she got back to the house, she took a bath, then lay down for a quick nap, only to fall into a deep sleep. By the time she awakened, it was after nine. She shook off the cobwebs and began to dress. Since she couldn't compete with the women in the hottie department; she didn't try. Instead, she wore her simplest black dress, brushed her hair smooth, fastened on her bangle, grabbed her shawl, and set off forth villa with a sense of dread.

Because she felt like a guest, she rang the bell instead of simply walking in as she'd been doing. A blast of music hit her as Anna opened the door. "It is good you are here, Isabel,"

she said, her posture stiff with disapproval. "These people..." She made a sound like air escaping from a tire.

Isabel gave her a sympathetic smile, then followed the music to the back of the house.

When she got to the archway leading to the rear salon, she paused.

Ren's agent lay facedown on the carpet with Pamela straddling him, her skirt riding to the top of her thighs as she gave him a back rub. The lights were low, the music loud.

Abandoned food lay all around, and a black bra draped the marble bust of Venus. Next to it, Tad the Adonis was making out with the sultry young woman who worked in the cosmetic shop in town. Ren, the other Adonis, held a gnawed drumstick like a microphone and sang drunkenly along with the music.

Ren was dancing withSavannahand didn't seem to notice Isabel's arrival, maybe because the redhead's breasts were plastered to his chest and she had both arms wrapped around his neck. A crystal tumbler filled with something lethal-looking dangled from his fingers as he rested his hand at her waist. Isabel watched his other hand slip down along her bony hip.

So...

"Hey, girlfriend!" Pamela waved from her perch on Larry Green's back. "Larry loves twozies. Want to do his feet?"

"No, I don't believe I do."

Ren turned languidly as she spoke, andSavannahmoved with him. He was elegantly dissolute in a pair of tailored black slacks and a white silk shirt open one button more than necessary. He took his time lettingSavannahgo. "There's food on the table if you're hungry."

"Thanks."

A lock of hair fell over his forehead as he made his way to the chest and refilled his glass from one of the liquor bottles that sat on a silver tray. He took a sip, then lit a cigarette.

Smoke curled around his head like a tarnished halo. "I didn't think you were coming."

She slipped off her shawl and laid it over the back of the chair. "Miss a chance to party?

No way. Just tell me I'm not too late for spin the bottle."

His eyes swept over her, smoke trickling from his devil's nostrils.Savannahof the haughty expression and endless legs regarded Isabel's simple black dress with cool amusement.

Pamela laughed and hopped off Larry Green's back. "Isabel, you're too funny. Hey, did you ever play that drinking game when you were in college where every time Sling sings

'Roxanne,' you chug?"

"I think I missed that one."

"You were probably studying while I was hanging out in bars. I wanted to be a vet because I love animals, but the classes were really hard, and I finally dropped out."

"Basic math is such a drag," the Queen of the Bitches drawled.

"No, it was organic chemistry I couldn't handle," Pamela replied good-naturedly.

Adonis Ben abandoned his drumstick microphone for some air guitar. "Come on over here an' love me, Pammy, 'cause I'm an animal."