Gaining Visibility (10 page)

“You had cancer.” It was Adrianna who spoke this time. She swiveled her chair around to face Julia. “Were you afraid?”

“Oh yeah.” The perky façade faded, replaced by serious truth. “I was very afraid. Every woman is afraid.” The sidelong glances they cast toward their own and each other's breasts confirmed the perceptions in her mind.

“We caught mine with a routine mammogram very early—stage 0, actually.”

Adrianna's worried frown deepened. “I did not think they remove the entire breast for only the small place.”

“Mine wasn't in only one place. There was no lump. The cancer was very tiny, but it was scattered in several places. To remove all the cancer would've meant losing at least a third of my breast anyway.” She paused as Giada translated for Angelina. “So, I chose to have the complete breast removed. That way, I didn't have to go through radiation or chemotherapy. I had both breasts removed, in fact.”

“Why?” An astonished gasp accompanied Adrianna's question.

Julia met her gaze head-on. “I was afraid, and I didn't want to worry the rest of my life about whether I was going to get cancer in my other breast.” Adrianna's nod confirmed that she understood where Julia was coming from on the matter. “And, as it turned out,” Julia added, “there
was
cancer in my other breast, too—just too small to be picked up yet on the mammogram. Six months later, I would've had to go through it all again.”

Adrianna sat back, but it was Orabella's eyes that now shone with curiosity. “The new breasts. How did the surgeons . . . ?”

“That's the best part of the story.” Julia smiled and felt the atmosphere grow lighter. “The plastic surgeon—the one who built the new breasts—was in the operating room. When the first doctor finished, he stepped in and inserted sacs, um . . . like . . . balloons?” She wished her Italian was better when Orabella giggled at her word choice, but the young woman nodded that she got the idea and pantomimed blowing up a balloon to her mother.

Angelina's eyes rounded as her hands formed an imaginary balloon growing. She finished the imagery with a
pop
that made everyone laugh.

“Not quite,” Julia assured them. “But close. Every two weeks, I went back to the doctor and he pumped saline solution . . . um, saltwater into the sacs to stretch the skin slowly.” She used her own hand motions to indicate her breasts getting larger. “When he got them to this size, he removed the saline sacs and replaced them with silicone implants, and
voilà!
”

“How long did the process take?” Giada obviously wanted Adrianna to have all the information.

“Two years total.” Julia looked at Giada, then innocently slid her eyes to Adrianna. “I had nipples built two months ago. That was my last surgery.” She opened her blouse enough to show the results poking through her camisole. “The only problem is that they stay erect all the time.”

A titter of laughter passed among the woman again before Angelina's eyebrow rose in a knowing gesture and she said something.

Julia didn't understand the question spoken in Italian, but when Giada translated it, her voice grew quiet. “Mama asks the cost—not in money, the emotional toll.”

Julia had answered everything with candor until then, and the irony came like a punch to her gut. The whole Frank/divorce thing—the aspect she most needed to talk about—was the part she never spoke of. Except with the therapist she'd gone to those first few months . . . and Hettie and Camille, though not often to them.

She couldn't share with these strangers how Frank had been repulsed by her scars, couldn't bring himself to touch her, had turned to other women. Admitting that still dredged up too much hurt and anger. Hurt that the person she'd trusted with her heart found it worth so little. Anger because she wasn't strong enough to move beyond it all, even with the reconstruction. She skirted Angelina's question with a shrug. “My body healed quickly. My head—and heart—took a little longer.”

Angelina nodded and, for the first time during the conversation, didn't ask for a translation.

* * *

Several hours later, as the shadow of the olive grove crept within inches of the house, Vitale announced it was time to leave.

A flutter of panic scampered across the nape of her neck when she thought about what that meant. Caught up in her enjoyment of Vitale's family, she'd allowed the day to pass without finding a room anywhere else. Had that been done subconsciously?

Now the two of them would be alone for the rest of the night.

And while she no longer considered that he might be a serial killer, she worried about that other danger he exuded. The delicious one.

Among the affectionate hugs and warm good-byes, something must have clued Angelina in to their clandestine arrangement. Mother's intuition? Maybe the woman had felt a flutter of her own at Vitale's words.

Earlier in the afternoon, after the cancer discussion, Angelina had asked about where she was staying, and Julia had truthfully answered “Lerici” and, not entirely truthfully, but not exactly lying either, had gone on to praise the accommodations at the Lord Byron Hotel.

Now, as they got to the car and Julia was about to escape with her Good-Woman-and-Mother image intact, Angelina took her hand. “I come to Lerici this week. We eat. What room you stay at hotel?”

“Julietta does not stay at hotel,” Vitale answered without picking up on Julia's warning look. “She stay with me.”

Angelina dropped Julia's hand like she'd been holding a snake. And from the withering look she received, Julia was pretty sure that's exactly how the woman now viewed her.

“I can't continue to stay at the hotel. It's full. And . . . and the others were, too, and I lost my reservation at the other place I was supposed to stay, so Vitale offered . . .” Julia closed her mouth, convinced that her forked tongue was digging her into a deeper hole.

No explanation was going to change Angelina's perception of what was going on.

Vitale rested her crutch atop the luggage in the back and helped Julia into the car. Julia waved good-bye, and everyone waved back.

Everyone except Angelina, whose down-turned, silent mouth spoke volumes.

C
HAPTER
9

V
itale still drove very fast, but the urgency of the previous ride was gone, along with the lurching and braking.

Julia didn't mind the speed this time, and she wasn't sure why. Maybe it was the incredible red streaks of sunlight blazing across a now-purple sky, or the perfect blend of fragrant cedar and fresh air, or even the hum of the engine as it revved. It all came together into a perfect singularity she felt blessed to be moving toward. At whatever speed.

Being part of an Italian family for a few hours had given her insights into the culture she'd never be able to get from books. Vitale was obviously special to his family. From the dynamics she'd observed, it was an earned place in their hearts and not simply given to him as the privilege of being the only son. Everyone turned to him for advice, and he treated everyone with tenderness and love from the children to his parents.

He was a remarkable young man—and she found herself wishing he'd been born a decade earlier.

“Today was wonderful, Vitale,” she said in an effort to dispel the frivolous thoughts running through her mind. “I had such a marvelous time with your family. It's one of those days I'll remember forever. Thank you.”

He slid her a sidelong glance, and his face relaxed into an easy smile. “They like you.”

Julia gave a self-conscious laugh. “I think most of them liked me. Your mom I'm not so sure about. Did you see her face when you said I'd be staying with you?
Reowr!
” She pawed the air with one hand.

The sound and gesture brought a laugh and a shrug from Vitale. “She is Mama,” he answered simply.

“So, if I stay with you for a couple of days, should I expect a visit from Angelina?”

“No, Mama will not visit.”

Something about the way he said it conjured tension into the space between them. The sensation surrounded Julia and prickled on her skin. “What about the young woman? Francesca? Will she be coming after me?”

His mouth slid into a deep frown and a crease burrowed between his eyebrows. “
Sì,
her name is Francesca, and I think she will not come.”

“You didn't know she was going to show up today, did you?”

“She come the three time. I hope she not to come again.” He sounded sincere. Disgusted even.

“Can't blame a gal for trying.” Vitale's expression indicated this was a sore subject, so Julia kept her tone light. She was curious, though. “When did y'all break up? Quit being together.”

“Six, seven month.”

“And she's still trying to reconcile? Get you back?” The young woman must be very much in love if she was willing to make a scene three times in front of his family. And six months after the breakup? Sheesh!

“She try to make me forgive.” His face clouded as the brooding look fell into place. “She do the very bad thing.”

He didn't elaborate, and Julia didn't pry. She dropped the subject, telling herself it was none of her business.

Still, she couldn't keep from wondering what Vitale would consider to be “the very bad thing.”

* * *

They followed the road they'd taken that morning, which wound its way down through the hills and skirted the edge of Lerici before climbing back up into the hills on the other side.

As they passed the village, it seemed to Julia the population had doubled. No doubt the tours had brought in the mother lode Signor Moretti had been expecting.

Vitale pointed out the hot spots for the tourists—the flashy signs and overdressed waiters were dead giveaways for the places to avoid—and the ones for the locals.

“I show before you leave,” he promised.

Julia cleared her throat, determined to sound authoritative. “About that, I'll try to be out of your hair in a couple of days.”

Vitale's eyebrows buckled in question and his fingers pushed through his hair just before the spark lit his eyes, leaving no doubt where her comment had taken his thoughts. This guy was used to women literally being in his hair.

“I really have to stop using so many idioms in my speech.” She laughed. “I mean that I hope to find somewhere else to stay maybe by Tuesday.”

Vitale brought the car to an abrupt halt on the side of the road and put it in park. He leaned across the console until his face was only inches from hers.

His breath brushed her face and, although hers was coming much faster, no air seemed to be reaching her lungs. Her head pressed hard against the back of the seat

“Julietta, you have the choice to make. You stay with Vitale.” He paused dramatically and brushed his knuckles lightly down her arm. Goose bumps popped up in the wake of his touch. “Or, you stay with Angelina.” The side of his mouth twisted up into a triumphant smirk.

Unwilling to let him win that easily, Julia cocked her head and pretended to think it over. “Well, she
is
a good cook.”

“Vitale is the good cook also. And many other things.” He leaned closer, and his lips touched hers softly.

Julia's brain immediately demanded she pull away, extricate herself from this surreal fantasy she'd fallen into. But her lips whined that these were the first lips they'd touched in two years and the only ones other than Frank's they'd experienced in soooo long, and his felt soooo good, so full, so warm and inviting....

She closed her eyes and leaned closer, allowing the warmth to radiate down her throat and into her lungs and from there to every oxygen-infused cell of her body.

His lips were slightly parted. She kept hers the same. No movement. No tongues involved. Just a tender moment of coming together that lit a candle inside her and ended with a gentle sound of release.

She tried to take a deep breath to feed the fire with oxygen, but her breath hitched in her chest.

“So, I think you choose Vitale, yes?” He nodded in answer to his own question and pulled the car back onto the road.

Julia shook off the lovely warm glow that had started to infuse her and reluctantly shrugged into her cold, battle-worn armor of prudence. This situation had already gone entirely too far. She'd allowed it to get out of hand. “Vitale, my staying with you isn't going to work.”

Vitale released the steering wheel and reached out to cup his hand lightly across her mouth. “Julietta, I tell you no sex unless you want. I am honest. I tell the truth, yes?”

She pushed his hand down and nodded firmly. “Yes, okay. I understand you're leaving it up to me.” She pointed a finger in his direction. “But there
will
be no sex. Understand?”

“Yes.” He mimicked her curt nod and pointed his finger in her direction. “But the kiss, she is my choice.”

He
wanted
to kiss her? Julia's mind reeled. “Why did you kiss me? I mean, what in heaven's name made you
want
to kiss me? I'm a lot older than you, and you can't find me very attractive. I saw Francesca—the type of woman you're used to being with. I'm nothing like that.”

Luckily traffic had thinned because, this time, he didn't bother to pull over to the side of the road. He just stopped the car and put it in park. With one arm leaned on the console and the other draped across the steering wheel, he seemed oblivious to the cars going around them. “You are nice. You make me laugh.” His hand reached out and turned her face to his. “I do not see the age. I see only the beautiful woman.” He lowered his voice to a whisper. “I want to kiss you again.”

The way his fingers slid beneath her ear and into her hair sent Julia's body into alert, every nerve ending prickling with anticipation.

His mouth captured hers delicately but firmly, and the hand pressing the back of her head gave no chance of easy escape. With a sigh, she relaxed into him, parting her lips, luxuriating in the feel of his tongue fluttering against them, not demanding entrance, but merely taunting with a promise of what could be. How could such a gentle touch create such an ache inside her?

She kept her eyes closed as he pulled away and the car started to move again. She couldn't contain the smile that broke across her lips when she felt his finger graze over them.

She opened her eyes and studied his strong profile. This wasn't a man who would be easy to say no to.

And he damn well knew that.

But she would have to say no. Sex was out of the question, and in the quiet of the Italian countryside, she finally realized the why of it. It wasn't his age. It was
the perfection
of his age.

At thirty-four, he was perfect. In his prime. Used to perfect women in their prime. Like Francesca.

During the conversation she'd overheard below her balcony, he'd made clear his disdain for fake breasts. And from the afternoon's conversation with the women in his family, it was evident he'd never been exposed to breast cancer or breasts with ugly scars slicing across the middle. Nipples designed from gathered and stitched skin. Tattooed areolas with no sensation whatsoever.

Her new breasts looked amazing covered by clothing.

Bared was another matter altogether.

She squeezed her eyes closed, trying to block out the memory of the repugnance in Frank's eyes. He'd been with her during the early stages and had surely prepared himself somewhat.

How would the sight affect someone who was totally unprepared?

Yeah, hot kisses notwithstanding . . .

Sex was most definitely out of the question.

* * *

Vitale turned the car onto a narrow lane, which wound back through a wooded area and dead-ended at a house sitting by itself near the base of a hill. He stopped the car, came around, and opened her door with a bow. “
Benvenuta a casa Vitale de Luca
.”

“
De Luca,
” she repeated, realizing it was the first time she'd heard his whole name. “Nice.”

“
Sì
.” He chuckled with that low vibrato that trickled down between her shoulder blades. “Much nicer than the Berk-a-weeth.”

“Finally!” She took his hand to ease out of the car. “We agree on something.”

Vitale's house was beautiful in an interesting sort of way. The structure had a distinct masculine feel with sections of massive stones exposed through terra-cotta. Four columns carved from wood surrounded a flagstone entrance that led the way to a pair of ornate, carved doors. Large, paned windows on either side of the entrance lightened the heavy effect.

The yard, the flower beds, the bushes trimmed into interesting shaped topiaries—all of it spoke of pride of ownership.

“What a lovely home, Vitale.” Julia pivoted slowly on the crutch, taking it all in. “This is the perfect setting for this house.”

“Yes? You like?” Vitale beamed. “I make.”

“You built it yourself?” Julia ran an appreciative hand over a lustrous column.

“
Sì.
I build all of it. I lay the stone. I make the columns and the walls from the trees that grow here.”

Julia looked closely at the intricate vine-like carving on the post. “You carved these?”

Vitale nodded. “
Sì
.”

“My goodness, you're an artist!”

“
Sì
.” He opened the door to reveal a white marble floor that ran throughout the house as far as she could see, wringing a gasp of delight from her.

“I buy the not perfect from a church they destroy.” Vitale stooped to point out cracks and deep depressions from years of traffic. “And I do the much work.”

The entryway was a foyer, flanked on the left by a living room and on the right by a dining room. Furniture was sparse but tasteful, all in leather or wood.

He walked her around the entire house, built as a rectangle with an open courtyard in the middle.

The only bedroom took up a back quarter of the house and was designed with a stone fireplace tucked into a corner. A leather love seat was placed close enough to catch the heat, though, with the things Julia could imagine taking place on the love seat, a fire was probably unnecessary. A massive bed sat in the middle of the room facing a wall of French doors, which opened onto a flagstone patio. The bedposts were carved with an elaborate design, reminiscent of the columns out front.

“Did you build the bed?” She tried to jerk her mind out of its musings that all centered around why he needed a bed that looked like it couldn't be jarred by an eruption of Vesuvius. She could almost feel the heat . . . from the lava.

“
Sì.
All of the wood, I build.”

“Everything is so beautiful. You're very talented.”

He scratched the back of his neck and shifted uncomfortably. “
Grazie.
Papà, he teach me when I am very young.”

Julia thought back to the beautiful wooden table they'd dined on at lunch. Probably built by Piero. These men were masters of their art. She started to comment but decided it would sound like gushing, and she didn't want to embarrass him further.

The patio stretched across the back of the house and additional French doors led into the kitchen and dining area. While an area inside had been furnished with a larger dining set that would accommodate several guests, a wrought-iron table with two chairs provided a romantic area for alfresco dining on the patio.

It was obvious Vitale had built the house with two in mind . . . and only two.

The iconic bachelor pad.

The stonemason/carpenter certainly had impeccable taste, too. Sprinkled around each room were art objects in various sizes ranging from a six-foot mahogany palm tree with fronds of hammered copper sheeting to a delicate pair of shell wings that looked like they might have been left behind by a fairy.