Gaining Visibility (32 page)

Such a good problem to have.

He rounded the corner and felt the smile break onto his face at the first sight of the small, but shiny, silver auto. His steps slowed as he recognized the form leaning against it, dressed in a tight red dress that clung to every curve and high heels that accentuated her shapely legs.

Francesca.

She pushed her sunglasses to the top of her head and took a few steps in his direction. “Hello, Vitale.”

His spine stiffened as she neared. “Francesca.”

“I heard you bought an auto. It's very nice.” Her smile was friendly and matched her tone flawlessly.

“Thank you.” He shrugged, loosening the muscles that had tightened in his shoulders at the sight of her. “Having to borrow a vehicle every day was becoming too much of a problem.”

One of her eyebrows arched in question. “From what I hear, your business is doing very well, yes?”

“Yes, it's keeping me busy.”

“I think it's wonderful . . . that you're sharing your success with your family. You're a good man, Vitale.” A long-forgotten sincerity rang in her words, touching his heart and softening some of the edges that had grown so hard against her.

Still, he found her compliment a bit unsettling. “Yes, well . . . I should get back to work now.”

She ran her fingertips along the back door and then leaned her hip against it. Crossing her arms, she looked up at him. “I miss you, Vitale. I know we won't ever again be”—she paused, choosing her words—“what we were. But I would love to be friends again.”

A snort escaped him. What was with all these ex-lovers wanting to be friends? “I don't think that's possible.”

He reached for the door handle, but she uncrossed her arms and laid a palm against the window edge. “You're a successful businessman. People are snatching up your art.” She gave him a friendly grin. “Anything is possible.”

Perhaps it was the sunshine beating down on him, or the wonder leftover from the morning's dealings with Nicolina . . . he wasn't sure. But something warmed him to the idea of reclaiming another lost friendship.

He leaned his forearms against the edge of the roof and felt the heat from it absorb into his body. Is that what forgiveness felt like? Sunshine and warmth permeating the soul?

He relaxed, leaning his head back and stretching his mouth open to release the tension in his jaws. “Maybe you're right.” He dropped his eyes to meet hers. “Maybe it's time to become friends again.”

Her grin stretched into a radiant smile. “That makes me so happy.” She threw an arm around his neck in a quick hug. “Let's celebrate, can we? Take me for a ride.”

He couldn't keep from laughing at her childlike exuberance. Nothing about Francesca had ever seemed childlike to him before. “I'm sorry, but I can't. I really do have work to do.” He'd blocked off this afternoon and the next two days to work on the large piece for Mario. He was so close to completing the model for the mold, he begrudged having to take time away from it.

Her lips thrust out in a pout, but only momentarily. Then her eyes grew large. “Let's go out to dinner. It doesn't have to be anyplace fancy . . . or romantic. Someplace friendly.”

Dinner with Francesca could be dangerous. He hadn't had sex since Julietta left over three months ago, and one slip could put him right back into the shallow rut he'd wallowed in for so long.

But things had gone well with Nicolina and here was Francesca, so perhaps today was the day to mend broken friendships . . . the day he was to learn about the power of forgiveness.

Francesca seemed to sense the battle raging in his mind and she prudently kept quiet.

“I can't go until . . . Saturday.” He eased his way into the suggestion.

Her eyes grew even wider. “Saturday is perfect. Pick me up around seven thirty. We'll go to Simba.” She slipped her glasses back on, but not before he caught the gleam of pleasure shining in her eyes.

Simba was an odd choice. The music was loud and the crowd a bit rowdy, but it was casual, and the food was good for the price.

“All right,” he agreed, but suddenly doubt about this being a good idea gripped his insides. He pushed the apprehension away as he pulled open the door. “Saturday. Seven thirty. Simba.”

“Fabulous!” Francesca threw a kiss on a wave and dashed away . . . before he could change his mind?

The confines of the auto were warm from the sun, but it turned hot as flashes of Francesca's unfaithfulness tumbled through his mind. Anger boiled up inside him, and he felt the burning deep in the pit of his stomach.

What a fool he was. Why in the hell had he agreed to go to dinner with her?

He lowered the window to let the heat escape, taking deep breaths of the cooler outside air.

This was all about forgiveness, and this would be the most difficult one of all.

How would he know if he'd grown in that direction if he never accepted the challenge?

He kept the window lowered all the way back home to his studio, needing the constant reminder it was time for him to cool down.

C
HAPTER
30

J
ulia and Camille both went uncharacteristically silent as the last piece of bubble wrap fell away from the iridescent orb and Julia placed it carefully in the opening of the sculpture that resembled a clamshell . . . or a sunburst folded in half.

“So, what do you think?” Julia gave the ball a nudge to set it in motion, watching it glide to the end of the curve and then back to the other end.

“It's . . .” Camille spread a hand over her chest. “It's exquisite.”

“I think it'll be pretty in my front flower bed. Vitale had one set up as a fountain at his house with the orb floating back and forth. But the first one I saw was at the hotel in Lerici. As a matter of fact, it was what I was looking at when the stone fell on my toe.”

Camille gave a snort and elbowed her. “You're sure you want a constant reminder of
that?
”

The tears stinging the backs of Julia's eyes agreed with Camille, though not for the same reason. Buying this particular piece—living every day with the memories it conjured—might've been a mistake after all. She gave some hard blinks and Camille looked up in time to catch them.

“Hey. You okay?”

Opening the sculpture—her own personal Villa de Luca purchase—had unexpectedly exposed a raw spot on Julia's heart. She didn't want to take the chance of making it worse by talking about it . . . about him. “I . . . um . . . have a date Friday night,” she said instead. She'd planned on announcing the news as soon as she got to work, but Bryan had placed the box right beside her desk after she'd left yesterday, too conspicuous to ignore, so she'd put it off until now.

Camille's eyes grew saucer-wide. “You do? Who is it? Is it somebody I know?” Suddenly her eyes narrowed to slits. “It's not Frank, is it, because if it is—”

“It's not Frank,” Julia interrupted before her friend's pregnancy-charged hormones sent her off. “It's with Joe Proctor, the administrator at Hettie's nursing home. Did you meet him at the funeral?”

With the swiftness of the mood swings that had become commonplace lately, Camille's eyes widened again. “Tall guy? Good-looking. . . fiftyish?”

Julia nodded. “That's him.”

“No, I didn't meet him. But . . . yay!” Camille grabbed Julia's hands and danced a little jig in place. “This is so exciting! Did he call you or did you run into him somewhere? Tell me how it all happened.”

“He called last night, and at first I thought it was just PR stuff, but then he asked if I'd like to have dinner with him—”

The door chime rang, and they turned to see Sybil Lancaster bustling through the door in her usual hurried manner. “Hey, y'all, I know I'm early, but I've got ten jillion things to get done before noon, and I thought maybe you'd have those samples already pulled together for me?”

“I do, but I've got them spread out on the table in the back.” Camille was already moving in that direction. “Give me a minute, and I'll pack them up.”

“You need me to do that?” Julia called, but Camille waved her back. Julia turned back to Sybil. “We've got hot, spiced tea.”

Sybil dropped into the chair at Julia's desk. “Only half a cup. I'm having a hot flash.” She grabbed a piece of cardboard and fanned madly toward her face.

Julia moved to the table by the door, purposely placed to surround customers with the homey, cinnamon fragrance as soon as they entered. “Any good prospects on the house yet?” She poured Sybil a generous half cup.

“Not really, and I'm running myself ragged trying to do all this staging stuff myself. Thanks.” Sybil accepted the cup and took a sip. “Mmmm. This is delicious.”

Julia smiled. Hettie's recipe was always a hit.

“The realtor insists the staging will help it sell, but we don't have enough furniture to fill the old house and the new house, too. So I'm running my legs off, begging friends for things they have in storage and trying to find things to rent at a reasonable price to make the old house look fabulous and trying to get the new house livable at the same time. There's a huge need here for staging specialists like they have in big cities. Y'all could make a mint doing that.” Sybil stopped for a breath and took a gulp of tea.

Julia's breath simply stopped.

Staging specialist
.

The air in her lungs released on a gasp. “There
is
a dearth here!” How many times had she and Camille loaned pieces to help people out? Or made suggestions about what was needed? But no one around here took on all the leg work for the homeowner for the entire project.

Sybil didn't seem to notice the stir she'd created. She lifted the hair off her neck and fanned wildly again. “Furniture stores in the cities are competitive about being used for staging projects. People like the way the house is furnished and sometimes just buy everything exactly the way it's set up. It's a win-win for everybody, if you ask me.”

Sybil's hot flash must have been contagious because Julia had one of her own as she looked around. No need for a warehouse or up-front costs—she could work from home. All she needed was a trustworthy reputation and an eye for detailed perfection.

She was blessed with both.

Camille appeared from the back with a plastic crate. Julia started toward her, but she shook her head. “Not heavy. Just bulky.”

Sybil finished her drink with a huge gulp and jumped up to grab the container. “Thanks so much. You're a doll for getting these done so quickly. See y'all soon.” She was off in a whoosh.

Camille grinned at Julia and shook her head. “Woman's always on a mission.” Then she shrugged her eyebrows. “But I'm glad she was in a hurry 'cause I'm dying to hear the rest of what happened between you and Joe Proctor when he called.”

Julia nodded, trying to still her breath enough to speak cohesively. “I'll finish that in a minute.” She pointed to the chair. “Sit down, though. I've got something really important I need to discuss with you first. Sybil just gave me an idea for what I can do with the business when you leave. . . .”

She laughed as she took Camille's hands and repeated her friend's jig steps from a few minutes earlier.

Her heart did a jig all its own.

* * *

Although Camille's first reaction to Julia's announcement of her upcoming date was teenage excitement, as the week progressed, her business partner had taken on the personal project of preparing Julia for what Camille assumed to be her first sexual encounter since the divorce.

Julia didn't bother to correct her. Oh, in the beginning she protested sex on the first date was unthinkable. But Camille had countered with “Why not?” and a list of reasons why one should always be prepared for the unexpected.

Eventually, Julia had listened politely and glanced studiously over the numerous Internet articles Camille referred her to each day revolving around sex after breast cancer, sex after bilateral mastectomy, sex after breast reconstruction, sex after menopause, ad nauseam. Some of those people in the help groups had way too much time on their hands.

Bless her heart, Camille meant well. And when Julia protested, Camille had patiently explained, “When you care for someone, you take care of them when they need it. That's what the term means.”

As Julia sat enjoying the shiatsu chair and the foot massage that was part of the mani-pedi Camille paid for and arranged for Friday afternoon, she had to admit being cared for and pampered felt pretty good—another lesson she would've learned from Hettie if she hadn't allowed her stubborn self-sufficiency to blind her.

But not anymore. Her eyes were wide open now and she was determined to view the world with a broader scope. The new business would require it.

Staging specialist—
she'd been trying the title on for several days now and had decided it was a custom fit. She could see herself happy in that role for the rest of her life.

When her phone rang, she actually groaned at the intrusion and considered not answering until she saw Melissa's number. A call from her daughter on Friday afternoon was unusual. She answered with a wary “Hello?”

“Mom!” Melissa's voice was breathless. “Michael's home!”

Julia took her cue from Melissa's obviously excited tone. “That's wonderful, sweetheart. When did this happen?”

“He called me about an hour ago. Some famous Russian scientist requested a chance to be on the research team. They didn't want to turn him down, but their provisions didn't allow for anyone else to be added. They asked for volunteers to leave the team and Michael volunteered!”

She was talking fast. Julia waited for a chance to get a question in, but Melissa came up for only a quick breath before plunging in again. “He said he'd been miserable the entire time without me. Being away from me had been pure hell, and he never wanted to be away from me again.”

The voice on the other line shook and Julia felt the vibration in her own heart. “How do you feel about that?”

“I love him, Mom,” Melissa whispered. “I mean, I knew I loved him, but I didn't know how much until I heard him saying those things. I've taken the afternoon off, and I'm headed to his place now. I can't wait to get there.”

Michael left the project. Melissa was leaving work. “Then that's where you need to be.” She caught her bottom lip between her teeth to stop it from trembling as a wave of emotion engulfed her.

Melissa agreed. “Yeah, it is.” A moment of silence was cut short by the sound of a car honking and then “Damn it!” exploded in Julia's ear, followed quickly by “Sorry, Mom. I better hang up before I cause an accident.”

“Melissa, are you okay?”

“I'm fine. Just too excited to be talking and driving at the same time. I cut off a guy in a Hummer.”

“Hang up the phone this instant, young lady.”

“Okay. Love you. Bye.”

Julia sank back into the massage chair and tried to allow the expert hands on her feet to lull her back into relaxed oblivion again after Melissa's call had caused her blood pressure to spike. She was on the verge of calling up her
Calm
playlist when a thought made her pause. This was exactly what Hettie had warned her about—she needed to embrace life's experience, not cut it off.

Melissa was in love. Camille was pregnant with a healthy child. She herself had an eye on the future . . . and a date tonight.

Her heart pounded faster and she did nothing to slow it—just enjoyed the feeling and let it do its own thing until it ran out of steam and slowed to its normal rhythm.

* * *

It was the simple solution to her problem—and Julia hoped Joe liked the idea as much as she did. She had a feeling he would.

Joe Proctor was a delight.

The perfect gentleman, he'd complimented her on her outfit and her hair as soon as she'd invited him in, and the past five minutes had been filled with easy conversation about Hettie, which gave a perfect time for this transition.

“Joe, before we go to dinner, I'd like to show you something and see what you think.”

He gave her a quizzical look and nodded. “Sure.”

She led him to the foyer, and after taking a deep breath, lifted the box and set it to the side.

Buying the Villa de Luca sculpture had been a mistake. She knew that now. She'd brought it home, thinking—hoping—she would grow used to it and her insides wouldn't throb with need every time she looked at it. So far, that hadn't happened, and she was beginning to doubt that it ever would. So, there it had sat for three days. In her foyer where she'd dropped the box over it to keep her eyes from being drawn to it.

“I would like to have this fountain set up in the garden at the nursing home in Hettie's memory if you think it would be okay.”

A smile split Joe's handsome face from ear to ear. “Be okay? I think it's a wonderful idea, and so generous of you.” He stooped down and ran his hand across the fine detailing, set the ball to rolling—and Julia's stomach, in turn. She swallowed repeatedly, fighting the emotions that were suddenly causing an upheaval. “Hettie loved that garden,” he went on. “This will be a fitting memorial.”

“I'll get all the arrangements made, then. As soon as possible.” Julia pretended to look at her watch, although her eyes were too blurred to make out the time. “We probably need to be going.”

Joe patted her shoulder, obviously seeing her tears and thinking they were because of Hettie.

Julia dropped the box back over the sculpture, but it was an action that was too little and too late.

She'd already been infected with a bad case of the Vitales.

* * *

Joe didn't seem to notice anything was amiss, or if he did, he accredited it to first-date jitters. He asked polite, innocuous questions about her business and the interior decorating work in general, none of which was remotely related to Vitale, but nonetheless didn't keep him from constantly flashing to Julia's frontal lobe.

She told herself the attack of the Vitales would pass soon, but she had the same feeling she always had when she talked to someone with a bit of food on his face. The more she concentrated on not seeing it, the larger it loomed. And Vitale was huge.

Once cocktails had Joe and her relaxed—or as relaxed as she was going to be—conversation moved smoothly into the “What's your favorite . . . ?” phase. She chose the topic of favorite authors carefully because she and Vitale had never talked much about books.

The eggplant spread appetizer made a perfect prop for the discussion. Not having to use utensils lent an informal air, and Joe animated his defense of Thomas Hardy by showing how a whole pita point could cut smoothly through the thick concoction with no waste of energy. Julia countered by demonstrating how a torn pita with jagged edges, symbolic of William Faulkner's stream of consciousness, grasped and held on to more of the substance. It required more work to get through, but the payoff was greater.