Champagne Deception (6 page)

“Deliver them on your
motor scooter?” She asked incredulously.

“No, of course not!” He laughed.  “I rent a van whenever I have a delivery to make.  And that’s what I’ll do tonight.”

“Oh, I see.  Well, congratulations on making more sales!” Coretta feigned enthusiasm, though she felt highly uneasy about being alone in the studio overnight.

“I’ll be back
tomorrow,” he promised.  “I’m sorry for being such a rude host and leaving like this.  I had planned to take you out to dinner in Milan tonight.  But, hopefully, you will allow me to take you out tomorrow?”

“Yes, of course!  I look
forward to it,” Coretta replied.

Slowly, he walked over to the bed and lowered his face to hers for a kiss.  But instead of touching her lips, he merely kissed her on the forehead like a
grandfather would do.  She struggled to hide her disappointment at the lackluster kiss.

“I look forward to it too.  I’ll see you tomorrow,” he said.

Instinctively, she pulled the blanket around her again as Lorenzo left her in the lonely chamber.  She lay in the bed for the next hour lost in her thoughts.

Yearning for a hot shower, she rose from the bed to inspect the bathtub in the next room.  “Typical man,” she whispered, surveying the less than pristine condition of the tub.  Rather than bathe in the unappealing tub, she freshened up with a simple bar of soap and sink water.  Slipping into her blouse and buttoning it to her collarbone, she descended the staircase, screaming as one of the planks rattled beneath her.  Without a bannister to grip, Coretta righted her balance, standing as straight as a tightrope walker and avoiding a fall.  She inspected the shaky plank, which lifted right out of the staircase into her hands.

Beneath the steep staircase was a dusty valley hundreds of feet above the hard studio floor.  Resolving to tell Lorenzo about the hazard when he returned from Umbria, she inserted the plank back into the staircase and cautiously tiptoed down the remainder of the stairs.  Sunlight beamed through the studio, casting curious shadows on Lorenzo’s sculptures.  She glanced at the potter’s wheel where they had shared a kiss.  Hastily, she looked away, not wanting to dwell any further on that one kiss, as delicious as it had been. 
It was just one kiss.

The studio was cold and empty without the luminous presence of its artist.  The large sculptures appeared haunting and lifeless without Lorenzo’s cheerful smile and sparkling green eyes.  Coretta shivered wondering how she was going
to spend an entire night alone in this building.  She had no mode of transportation and essentially no idea where she was.  Coretta knew the studio was outside of Milan, but that was all she knew.  And, with a fresh shudder, she realized that she didn’t have Lorenzo’s cell phone number.

At loose ends, Coretta strolled over to Lorenzo’s work bench and sat down.  Cupping her chin in her hand, she wondered how she would spend the long hours before nightfall.  And she was hungry, she realized.  Breakfast had been consumed hours ago and was nothing but a
n unsatisfying carb fest.  She needed real sustenance if she was going to fall asleep tonight.  Spying a half-size refrigerator by the side door, she hurried over and opened it.

Inside was a disappointing selection of soda, luncheon meats, and cold pizza.  Shutting the door distastefully, she sighed and returned to Lorenzo’s workbench.  His latest sculpture was incomplete and stood in unrecognizable form.  Would it become a statue?  A functional object?  Coretta had no idea where the artist was going with the piece.  She stroked the damp clay and imagined Lorenzo’s strong hands molding
it.

The front door to the studio swung open, as she pulled her hand back and sat paralyzed on the bench.  A towering shadow stood in the doorway.  Could Lorenzo have forgotten something and come back?  Secretly, Coretta hoped that he had come back for
her
.  She was too jumpy in this remote building that had become so foreboding since his departure.

“Lorenzo?” She called hopefully.

Coretta shrank back in fear as Angelo the janitor walked through the door.  Struggling to gain enough composure to address the unnerving man in Italian, she sat up rigidly and parted her lips.  No sound escaped as her breath constricted in her throat.  Trying again, she demanded shakily in Italian, “Wh-what are you doing back here?  Lorenzo told you to come on Monday.”

Angelo scanned the room wordlessly before settling a heavy gaze on Coretta’s blouse.  His eyes roamed up and down as she
trembled uncontrollably, fearing that he had returned to harm her.  She watched him from the periphery of her vision but avoided meeting his gaze directly.  The janitor stared her down, seeming to will her with his persistence to make eye contact.  But she patently refused and kept him on the edge of her vision.  Why wasn’t he answering her?  She had spoken to him in his native tongue.  Her Italian was a little rusty, but she could certainly make herself understood.

Repeating herself more slowly but just as shakily, she quivered, “Lorenzo told you to come on Monday!”

She dared to look him square in the eyes after she spoke…and didn’t like what she saw.  His eyes were as small and black as espresso beans, and the expression in them was angry.  He met her gaze aggressively but still would not speak.  Coretta squirmed on the bench, thinking she would go mad if the creepy old man didn’t at least say something. 
Anything.

Turning on his heel and shooting her one more fierce look over his shoulder, the janitor walked out into the waning afternoon sun.  Coretta exhaled for the first time since the door had swung open.  Gathering strength, she stood up and tested her wobbly legs before racing over to the door and locking it.  Fortunately, there was a deadbolt lock on the door that felt sturdy enough to keep out even the heftiest intruder, let alone a scrawny old man.

“But he must have a key!” Coretta cried in alarm.

What good would it do to lock a custodian out of a building
that he cleaned every week?  She still wouldn’t be safe.  Dragging two wooden chairs, she created a barricade at the door.  She pushed two of Lorenzo’s heaviest sculptures up against the chairs for added protection.  Hustling over to the side door, she slammed a writing desk into the entry way, constructing a solid wall.  Now no one would be able to invade the building as she slept there alone tonight.  Not even a janitor with a key to every door and window.

Fighting back tea
rs, Coretta trudged up the squeaking stairs.  In her daze, she forgot about the loose plank and tripped up the stairs, landing face first on the top step.  Her jaw crashed into the splintery surface, creating an instant abrasion dotted with blood.  Unable to hold the tears in any longer, Coretta released a sob, thinking how her tumultuous first day in Italy must be an omen of awful things to come.

*****

Lorenzo knelt on the side of the road, spewing swear words that would make his Catholic mother faint.  After just twenty miles of traveling, the van had burst a tire, and now Lorenzo was standing in the chilly dusk, trying to fix the problem.  He didn’t have to rush to get to Umbria.  The sculptures would be delivered to his clients in the morning.  But he wanted to get off the highway before dark so he could check into a hotel at a reasonable hour and get some rest.  He doubted he would be able to sleep very well that night, though.  Coretta had aroused feelings in him that had been dormant since his college sweetheart, Barbara, had cheated on him with an older man.

Throughout four years of college, Lorenzo and Barbara had been a steady couple, and he had assumed that they would eventually marry.  But after he found out that she had been having an affair with their literature professor, the relationship had ended hideously.  Betrayed and broken-hearted for the first time in his 22 years, Lorenzo had spent the next decade avoiding such entanglements.  The artist’s carefree
mentality lent itself to casual encounters, and Lorenzo had never thought twice about his lifestyle…until today.

He had met Coretta at the wrong time but had always harbored affection for her.  Days after she returned to the United States from her study abroad term, he had learned of Barbara’s deception.  If only he had known sooner, he would have pursued Coretta and convinced her to stay in Italy
with him.  Now, it was incredible that she was staying in his studio, and they were both single at this point in their lives.

Lorenzo exhaled heavily, returning to the laborious task of changing the tire.  Grease coated his hands as he twisted the hub cap into place.  From the
center lane of the highway, a dark sedan cut over into the right lane and swerved onto the shoulder inches from where Lorenzo knelt on the ground.  Instinctively, he rolled to the side to avoid being struck by the 5,000 pound steel death machine.  Shouting and staggering to his feet, he stared in shock at the reckless car as it sped away and merged back into the center lane.  Lorenzo’s limbs shook as the car disappeared into the twilight.

That was no accident.  That was attempted murder
, he thought, terrified.  The car had aimed directly for him and narrowly missed.  But he didn’t have any enemies, none that he knew of at least.  There was the possibility of professional jealousy on the part of fellow sculptors.  Lorenzo enjoyed a monopoly over the Milanese art scene, and he knew it.  But how would a professional rival find him on the highway?  Lorenzo hadn’t noticed anyone tailing him as he drove, but then again, images of Coretta had consumed his thoughts during the whole twenty mile trip.  Hurriedly, he climbed into the van and eased the clumsy vehicle back onto the highway.  Whoever had tried to kill him was gone now, but the spine-chilling memory of the incident was embedded in his mind.

*****

Coretta blinked in sheer disbelief. 
The digital clock on her cell phone read 10:46 am.  She sat up straight in the uncomfortable bed, unable to believe she had slept that long.  Last night, as exhausted as she had been, slumber had not come quickly.  And she knew very well that jet lag was not the culprit for her insomnia.  It was that sniveling, staring old janitor who had frightened her to the marrow.  Somehow, though, she had managed to fall asleep, and apparently stay asleep, until half the morning had passed.

With lingering fright, she had gone to bed in her clothes, which were wrinkled and odorous this morning. 
Coretta still didn’t feel safe enough to take a bath, even with the doors barricaded shut downstairs.  So she plodded over to the bathroom for another sink shower, rubbing some dry shampoo into her hair and shedding her clothes to quickly soap her body.  Grabbing a towel, she swaddled her body tightly and rushed back to the room.  Opening her suitcase, she randomly selected a pair of khaki pants and white tee-shirt.

Warily, she descended the staircase, reaching the bottom without incident.  The studio appeared soft and inviting in the morning light.  Suddenly,
Coretta felt compelled to break free of the stifling building and explore the painter’s annex that Lorenzo had mentioned yesterday.  In the light of day, the episode with Angelo didn’t seem nearly as sinister, and a surge of adventure flooded through her.  As she strode towards the side door, she held her head high, thinking how she had successfully escaped Jonathan’s clutches and wouldn’t be a prisoner to anyone or anything again…not even to her own fears.

Outside, the mild breeze beckoned to her as she strolled behind the main studio.  The grass was overgrown with weeds peppered in, but the annex was clearly visible and charming in the distance.  Obviously built more recently than the old farmhouse, the small structure was painted a friendly shade of pastel blue that sparkled against the cloudless sky.

Coretta opened the solid wood door, propping it open with a branch.  She gasped as her eyes beheld the contents of the studio.  It was not dusty or dirty like Lorenzo’s artist space, but spotless and organized with every tool a painter could possibly dream of.  Easels, poster board, and stacks of paintbrushes were brand new.  Paints of oil, acrylic, and watercolor were stocked in a rainbow of shades.  Coretta’s eyes glimmered as she envisioned all the creative ways she could delve into the art supplies.

Lorenzo had clearly been preparing for the arrival of a painter.  Secretly, she wondered if he had been preparing for
her
.  The supplies all looked so new, as though he had just purchased them after she told him she would be coming to Milan.  Taking a seat on a birch wood stool, she picked up a thick paintbrush, dipped it in a can of peach paint, and spread the color liberally across the blank canvas.

Instantly, the canvas transformed from pale anemia to sheer vibrancy.  Coretta sighed contentedly, unable to remember ever having felt this
liberated during a painting session.  A few times in New York, she had painted on a street corner or in Central Park, but there had been so many people and overwhelming noises.  Now, the natural surroundings combined with the mild Italian climate stoked her imagination as she painted in blissful solitude.  Every brushstroke swept across the canvas elegantly, creating an abstract flow of color.

For the next two hours, Coretta remained lost in her work and unaware of the time.  Lunch hour passed, and she didn’t feel the slightest pang of hunger.  She was to
o absorbed in her artwork.   As she mixed hues together on a palette, she hummed an Italian love song to herself.  Her low humming and the gentle breeze were the only sounds that broke the silence…until a series of footsteps approached from the main studio, plodding insistently over the grass and startling Coretta out of her reverie.