Gaining Visibility (11 page)

And each room they passed through had a different scent. She noticed rosemary in the kitchen, lemon balm in the living room, lavender in the bedroom. Each room had a door across the narrow hallway that opened to the courtyard with small knot gardens of herbs. The ones strategically planted near the doors caught the breeze, allowing their fragrances to suffuse the nearest area inside.

At the center of the garden was a fountain that gained Julia's immediate attention. It was a match to the sculpture she'd admired so much at the hotel, but the iris of this one floated leisurely back and forth on a stream of water that alternated from each side before cascading down into a marble trough.

“This is like the one at the hotel, except smaller,” she remarked, once again amazed with the beauty of the piece.

“
Sì,
I make this one first. Mario, he like. He want one for the hotel.”

Julia turned to him. Had she understood him correctly? “You made this? And the one at the hotel?”

“
Sì
.”

“You're an artist!”

“
Sì.
You say before. I tell you yes.”

“But I just thought you did the stonework really well. These pieces”—she waved her hand toward the house—“all these fascinating pieces I see throughout the house, they're yours?”

“
Sì.
I make. I, um, how you say? Sculpt? Many different materials.” He seemed as proud of the word he'd used as he was of his incredible artistic ability.

The house contained pieces created in vastly different mediums. Bronze, wood, marble, clay—and to think that this man had created them all boggled the mind. When he told her he was very good with his hands, she'd thought he was just flirting. She didn't know the half of it.

Her own hands shook with excitement as she picked up a bronze abstract of a female figure. “Vitale, I came to Italy to find some sources for home decorating. I can sell some of your pieces. I'm sure I can. In fact, I think I could sell quite a lot of it.”

His demeanor grew somber. “I hope I sell already. I write the letter to the gallery in Firenze. They show the interest, so I send the photographs. If they buy, I make the much money and I spend the time creating rather than breaking the stone to walk on. I hear from them very soon, I think.”

He became more animated as he spoke. Clearly this was his chosen profession. The stonework was a means of making a living. Sculpting was his passion. “I have the studio in the garden.” He flipped a thumb toward the back door.

Julia remembered a nondescript shed at the base of the property. A humble beginning for work with such panache.

“I show you, but I think we eat first.” His gaze dropped to her hand, which still held the bronze piece. “This one, she is very special.” He traced its form delicately with a fingertip. “She is the favorite of my wife.”

Julia's eyes widened involuntarily with shock, and she jerked them up to meet his as the figure trembled beneath his touch. He placed his hands around hers and held firmly, obviously to keep her from dropping the piece.

“Your wife?” Her vocal cords strained at the words.

“
Sì.
My wife. Luciana.” He closed his eyes in a long blink.

“But you told me you weren't married. Oh my God! I let you kiss me.” Accusation etched Julia's tone like acid on glass.

“I do not marry for the ten years,” he explained. “Luciana, she die.”

A widower! She'd have never guessed. Another shocked tremble ran through her arm and gave him reason to ease the bronze piece from her grasp. He placed it back on the table while she gathered her wits.

“I'm sorry, Vitale.” She laid a hand on his warm arm, her touch drawing his eyes back to her. “It's just that . . . I mean . . . you're still so young. It's hard to imagine you lost your wife. And at twenty-four?”

“Luciana, she is twenty-two. She has the
aneurisma
. The . . . blood in the brain.” He bunched his fingers at his forehead and spread them quickly, adding an explosion sound effect.

Julia nodded her understanding. “Aneurysm. Such a tragedy. You obviously loved her very much.”

“Yes, very much.” He gave her a sad smile, suddenly looking much older than five minutes ago. “It is nice to speak about my Luciana. Most people do not speak of her to me.” He paused, and Julia remained quiet, encouraging him to go on, which he did. “The name Luciana, she mean ‘the light,' and she bring the light into my life. After she die, I live in the darkness for the many years. I do not see the friends. Only
la famiglia.
I build the house and do the sculpt.” He waved his arm at their surroundings. “I work and work, and, at last, the darkness, she break, and I return to the world of the life.”

Julia's eyes dropped to the bronze once more. Luciana's favorite—a piece cherished and guarded by him. She took a deep breath and squeezed his arm, patted it lightly before she removed her hand.

When she looked back up at him, something had changed. The superficial veil she'd been looking at him through had dropped away, and she saw him no longer as Adonis, the demigod, but as Vitale de Luca, a man with a soul as deep as his laugh and a heart that could be broken.

“We eat now?”

She smiled and gave a quick nod; then she swiveled on her crutch and gave an awkward little hop to turn. His gaze dropped to her arm thrown over the crutch. He reached out and traced a red welt where the rubber top had chafed her skin, causing her to flinch. “She is no good. She hurt you.”

Before she could protest, he slipped the crutch from beneath her arm and slid into its place, arm around her, pulling her firmly against his side, forcing her to weave her arm around his waist.

He took a step and almost lifted her completely off her feet.

“Whoa.” She laughed. “Maybe, if I held your arm.”

He gave her a sheepish grin and let his arm slide back around so she could grasp it. They took a few hesitant steps.

“This
is
easier than the crutch,” she admitted. “If I keep my weight back on my heel and point my toe up, the pain's not too bad.”

He laid his hand on top of hers and gave it a squeeze. “You no need the crutch. You need the Vitale.”

She snorted. “That's sort of trading one crutch for another.”

* * *

Vitale de Luca was a man full of surprises.

And the gorgeous hunk had told the truth—he could cook!

Fifteen minutes after he started preparing a light supper, they were nibbling on Pecorino cheese and various sweet pickled rinds, a zesty salad of fresh baby greens from his garden tossed with cannellini beans, tuna, and a balsamic dressing, and washing it all down with a crisp pinot grigio.

They shared stories about growing up and realized that, despite their age and nationality differences, they really were quite alike. Both had grown up in middle-class families, had doting grandparents, and voted vacations spent on the beach as their favorite. They had similar tastes in artwork, though Vitale was a human storehouse of information on Italian artists she'd never heard of.

Julia found herself talking a lot about Melissa. Being with a family had kept her daughter on her mind today, and like Vitale's Luciana, Melissa was the light in Julia's life. It was nice to be able to brag about her to a stranger, although Vitale no longer seemed like one. He was funny and charming and kept up his end of a spirited conversation about the state of the world economy. And he loved “
calcio
” and enjoyed watching it and playing it, but work left him little time.

Julia noticed when she tried to draw him into telling about his stonework or his woodwork he became dispassionate and changed the subject.

“What do you want to do?” she asked.

“Do?” His eyebrows shot up. “What do I want to do tonight?” His mouth twisted up at one end in insinuation.

“Not that—and get it out of your head. It's not gonna happen.” Julia sipped her wine, eyeing him over the top of her glass. “What do you want to do for the rest of your life? Will you continue to build and do stonework or what?”

Vitale swirled the wine in his glass and stared into it as if he could read the future there. “I work with Papà until I am twenty-eight. He want me to work with him forever, but I cannot. The houses and the furniture, they are fine, but they are not the life. I want the statue, the figure, the thing I see in my head and make with my hand.”

“Your creations. You want to make your living as a sculptor.”

“
Sì.
Papà, he do not like. He say no money. But I sell and make the money. For three years, I”—he waved his hand toward the house—“a . . . a group of things.”

“A collection? You gathered a collection of your work?”

“
Sì,
the collection.” His eyes were on her, but they seemed to be seeing something else. “Luciana, she love the work. She very proud. But Mama and Papà. They not proud. I do not become the man they want. I think if I sell, Mama and Papà will be proud like Luciana.”

Julia could hear the pain in his voice. “I think you're too hard on yourself. Your parents seem
very
proud of you. In fact, your whole family adores you.”

He wagged his finger in the air. “Mama, she no like that I do not marry again and have the children.”

“Well, it's not like you're over the—um, I mean, you're still young. There's plenty of time.”

He shrugged. “But the future, she is blind, yes?”

“You got that right.” Julia nodded. “We never know what's out there ahead of us.”

Vitale cocked his head slightly, studying her. “What about you, Julietta? Do you become the woman your parents want?”

“I hope so.” She ran her finger around the rim of her wineglass, gathering her thoughts. No one had asked about her parents in a long time. “My parents died in a boating accident when I was in college. A drunk guy in a speedboat ran over my father's fishing boat.”

“Ah,
mi dispiace.
”

“No, it's okay. It's nice to talk about them . . . like for you with Luciana.” It
did
feel good—fitting. They would've liked this place. Would've liked this man who held his family close to his heart. “I still miss them terribly, but I feel so fortunate to have had them as parents. I decided a long time ago to be glad for the time I had with them, not to dwell on what I missed.”

“
Bellissimo
.” His gaze held hers for a moment before he raised his glass in a toast. “Mama and Papà.”

She raised her glass in answer. “Mom and Dad.”

Quietness gathered around them for a while. Not an awkward quiet—a relaxed quiet. Julia thought back over the day. “Vitale, I can't remember the last time I had such a perfect day.” She yawned, which drew a chuckle from him.

“I think we wait until tomorrow to show the work, yes?”

She wanted to be able to take her time and give a thorough inspection to his sculptures. And she was much too mellow to look at anything with a critical eye at the moment. “That would probably be better. What time do you get up?”

“I must return the automobile to Mario very early. But please, do not get up then. Sleep. Enjoy your holiday.”

They continued their easy conversation as they started clearing the table, but when it became evident bedtime was fast approaching, Julia's insides jerked into a knot. She stacked his plate on top of hers along with the silverware, but when she picked them up, her hands shook and the knives and forks clattered around as though there'd been an earthquake.

Vitale gave her a knowing smile and set the wineglasses back down on the table. He took the plates from her, placed them on the table, and took her hands in his.

“Julietta, you sleep in the bed.”

Her mouth flew open in protest, but he laid a finger on her lips to silence her. “You are the guest. You sleep in the bed, and I sleep on the couch.”

“But . . .”

“No, no. No but. I say it.” He raised her hands to his mouth and pressed a kiss on them.

Julia had never experienced a more romantic moment. Were she the woman she was before the cancer, she would've ignored the voice of reason and had sex with him right there in the moonlight on the patio.

No, she wouldn't have. The woman she was before the cancer would still be married to Frank and holding faithfully to that union.

But she wasn't that woman any longer either.

Maybe this trip was about finding out who she had become.

She gave his fingers a squeeze. “Thanks.”

“And thank you for this.” He let go of her hands to cup her face gently. His mouth connected to hers in a kiss that flooded her with enough heat to melt her insides and burn away the logical cells in her brain, leaving only one thought in her mind—would it be possible to have sex and keep her shirt on?

When he straightened, his hands dropped to her shoulders to hold her steady, so he was obviously aware of the effect his kiss had. One look in his dark eyes confirmed it.

“You need to stop doing that.” She lowered her eyes to camouflage the conflict she felt inside.

He lifted her chin with his finger and waited until she looked him in the eye. “I do not do because I need. I do because I want.”

She locked her knees to keep them from buckling.

* * *

Warm morning sunshine streaming through the French doors woke Julia. Apparently, curtains were superfluous when the nearest neighbor lived a quarter of a mile away. That morning had broken was proof last night's kiss hadn't stopped the earth from spinning. It was only a kiss after all, even though she still felt the heat from it these hours later.