Restoration: A Novel (Contemporary / Women's Fiction) (25 page)

Ben filled the gap first.  “I called because I’ve been
curious to find out what you wanted.”

She paused in her internal search for trivial tidbits that
would extend the life of their conversation and concentrated on the puzzle he’d
just presented.

“You called Thanksgiving evening,” he reminded her. 

Thanksgiving seemed like such a long time ago, and so much
had happened since then.  She culled through her memory: backgammon, dinner,
dessert, parlor games, drinks serenaded by Bing Crosby’s Christmas carols,
hiking up the stairs to her old bedroom, feeling sentimental and nostalgic,
missing Ben and then calling him.  She didn’t remember leaving a message, but
her mind was shaky from lack of sleep.

“At least I think that was you calling,” he continued. 
“There was an unfamiliar number with a Florida area code on my caller I.D., but
part of the name was familiar: Glen Olsen.  Either you called or it’s all too
much of a coincidence.”

As he said this, Tess covered her eyes and squeezed her
temple to ease the throbbing that had replaced the haze.  Unfortunately, there
were no coincidences.  She remembered now.  She hadn’t left a message.  She’d denied
him a message because it was him she’d wanted to tell she loved, not his
answering machine.

Tess imagined saying “I love you” and then in the next
breath revealing she’d allowed Kenyon to slip inside of her just hours before. 
Love was irrelevant now.

“I left too many clues,” she said.  “You should’ve been an
investigative reporter instead of a critic.”

“Bingo,” he said, relieved to know it had been her.  “I’ve
wanted to hear your voice ever since.”

“It wasn’t the sort of message to leave on a machine.”

“I’m all ears.”

“Well,” she said and sighed after retrenching and mentally
rehearsing her new lines.  “You’ve been such a good friend to me that I didn’t
want to leave town without letting you know I’m moving.”

“Away from New York?”

A pang rippled through her at hearing the controlled
anxiety in his words.  She closed her eyes while she steadied her nerves,
willing herself not to retreat and complicate matters any further then she
already had.  She told herself a future with Ben couldn’t possibly survive her
past, while another voice lobbied her to try; but in the end, her reasoning
ruled that she couldn’t trade Florence for such an unknown. 

“Yes, Italy.  Florence.”

“Really?  Florence.  Never been there.  Huh.”  His words
limped out of him.  “You don’t have to go, Tess.  Randall Wright will be gone
soon.  Let him leave first.”

“This has nothing to do with him.”

“Then who?”

You.  Me.  Kenyon.  The words were on the edge of her mind
and stayed there, far away from her tongue.  Ben knew anyway; at least the
“you” and “me” part of the equation. 

“I visited Florence during college and never got it out of
my system.  It’s a great city.”

 She tried sounding upbeat, ignoring the disappointment
she heard in his voice.  She told him about the architecture, the piazzas, the
art, the bridges crossing the Arno River, even about the best-tasting gelato
she’d had in all of Italy.  She used her words like a hook and tried grabbing
hold of him to drag him along until he could focus on her gain and not on his
loss.

“It sounds like a beautiful place,” he said without
enthusiasm, putting a stop to her lobbying efforts.  “When do you leave?”

“Two weeks.”

“That soon?”

“For a couple of weeks.  Then I’ll be back for a couple
more to wrap up my move before heading back.”

“This is a surprise.”

“I’m a little surprised, too, but it’s been brewing.  I
just didn’t expect it to happen so quickly.”

“Two weeks isn’t very long.”

“It’s not; too little time and too much to do.”

“Then I shouldn’t keep you.”

“Ben?”  Her voice leapt to catch him before he hung up. 
“I painted.”  She paused, feeling guilty for even revealing this much about her
previous night.  “It’s good, too.  Anyway, I think it is.”

“That’s great, Tess.”  His voice sounded stronger, even
upbeat, or least happy for her in this, even if he couldn’t be for her move to
Florence.

“I owe you a great deal of thanks.”

“I’m glad you regained control over your talent.”

“Thank you for the key.”  She could say more, but having
already thanked Kenyon for being her muse of the moment, more words would make
her feel remorseful instead of thankful. 

“I hope to see your work hanging in a gallery someday.”

“I hope there’s more to come.  Thank you, Ben.”

“Good night, Tess, and good luck.”

“Good night.”

She hung up the phone wondering if she’d made the right
choice between Ben and Florence, but she knew whichever one she chose, she’d
would wonder the same thing.  Someday, she’d know the answer.  She just hoped
she’d gotten it right. 

When Tess came through the doors of Mazzaro Brothers,
Sharon followed her to her desk, asking her about her Thanksgiving.  Francesca
was already entrenched at her work space.  She looked up when she heard them
approaching and exchanged fond smiles with Tess.

“It is nice to see you again,” Francesca said.

“Sorry to give you both so much concern yesterday.”

“We are just glad to know you are fine.”

“Fine, just forgetful.  Sorry I didn’t call.”  Tess
slipped out of her coat and settled herself into her chair.

Sharon hovered in the empty space between their desks,
embracing an oversized coffee cup.  “At least it was a false alarm.  Who’s
going to keep track of you in Florence?”

“I don’t know.  Francesca, do they have a Sharon in the
Florence office?”

She peered over her glasses.  “Donatella.  She thinks she
is the boss.  So do not get out of line there.”

“There, Sharon, you don’t have to worry.”

“You’re so lucky to be going to Florence.  That would be
awesome living in a foreign country for a few years.  And Florence of all
places.  Just seeing pictures of it makes me envious.  It looks so romantic. 
Old European cities like that always do.  New York is exciting but too modern. 
Oh Francesca, did I tell you that Conner and I might be doing some traveling
together?  It’s not exactly Florence, but I may be going to Dublin this summer
to meet his family.”

“You will like it there.  Dublin has much charm,”
Francesca said.  “And the countryside beyond Dublin rivals Tuscany.”

“When Conner talks about showing me some of Dublin’s
famous statues nicknamed the Tart with the Cart and the Floozy in the Jacuzzi,
that just doesn’t seem as alluring as visiting the statue of David or the
Uffizi Gallery.”

Francesca chuckled.  “The Irish have a sense of humor
about themselves that Italians do not.”

“That’s for sure.  Conner is always joking around.  In
fact, when he asked me to go with him to Dublin in the summer I thought he
must’ve been joking.  That’s months away and we barely know each other.  What
do you make of that?”

“He likes you.”

Sharon pursed her lips thoughtfully until a broad grin
finally spread her lips apart.  “Yes, he does.  And I have to admit, I do fancy
my Irishman.” 

“Bravo for you, Sharon,” Francesca said.

“I think he may be a keeper.  Tess, before you leave for Florence
you have to come out to lunch with me at the pub where Conner works.  You’d
like it there.”

“I’m sure I would” was her detached reply as she organized
her worktable.

“I know the two of you didn’t get to spend much time
visiting at Francesca’s party, but he liked you.”

Tess caught herself grimacing.  She grabbed a nearby memo
and pretended it was what had caused her expression.

“Is your boyfriend going to Florence with you?”  Sharon
asked.

“No.”

“It’s not that serious, then?  Somehow, I thought it was.”

Tess tossed the memo and rummaged through paintbrushes and
pigment vials on the worktable she’d just organized.  “No.”

“Oh well,” Sharon said, disappointed, her chin hovering
over the steam rising from her cup.  “I’d better get back up front before Mr.
Mazzaro notices I’m gone.”

From her desk, Francesca said to Tess as Sharon left the
studio, “I think our Sharon is in love.”

With her back to Francesca, Tess replied, “I wouldn’t
know.  I’m not an expert on the subject.”

She heard Francesca’s footsteps behind her.  “What is
wrong, Tess?  You are going to Florence just as you wanted.  Yesterday, you
tell me, you painted for the first time in years.  Two momentous things happen
in your life and yet you are so sullen.”

Tess rested her palms on the worktable and gently tapped
them against the surface.  With a resolute nod of her head she said, “You’re
right.  Two great things are happening in my life, and things happen in
threes.  Randall Wright’s execution will make the third.  I’ve a lot to
celebrate.”

“I was not scolding you to feel grateful when it is clear
you are unhappy.”

She forced a smile.  “I’ll be fine.”

Francesca squatted down beside Tess and looked up at her
profile.  “Why do you not trust me enough to tell me the truth?”

“I trust you, Francesca, more than I’ve ever trusted
anyone.”

“I cannot tell.”

“I’m sorry, but it’s been awhile since I’ve had a real
friend.  Donna Kringel, to be exact.  We met in second grade and parted when
that newspaper article about my mother came out.  I guess you could say I
banished Donna.  I sometimes wonder if she really told Neil Palmer, the
reporter, anything.  Someone did.  I didn’t even think to ask him.  I mean,
what good would it do me now?  To hear him say yes would only confirm my theory
of isolation, and to hear him say no…”

Tess shook her head, lost for a moment in what might’ve
been, her eyes wandering her desk, her mouth gaping open.  She clutched the
charm Francesca gave her and glanced down at her.

“Saying this, I’m suddenly realizing that I have to give you
up, too.”

Francesca squeezed Tess’s arm.  “No.  I will not give you
up.  You do not have to give me up.  That is not how it works.  I told you
before the rules for lovers and friends are different.  It is him who you are
giving up.”

“Jesus,” she groaned.

“Are you sure about Florence?”

“Yes.”

“You say that without much conviction.”

“I’m sure once I’m in Florence any doubts about my choice
will quickly fade.”

“Tess, when you return to her, you will fall in love again
with Florence just as you did before, but she cannot love you back in the way
that he can.”

“Francesca,” Tess whispered.  “I don’t know that I’m able
to love Ben in the way he deserves to be loved.”

“Have you tried?”

She leaned her head back, staring at the ceiling, steeling
herself for her confession.  “I slept with another man the night before last. 
How can I love one man and give myself so easily to another?  Does that sound
like love to you?” 

“It sounds like you are trying hard to resist it.”

“It sounds to me like Ben deserves better than that.”

“And you deserve nothing?”

“He deserves better.  And so does Sharon.”  She clenched
her teeth.  “I just wish I could somehow tell her.”

“Sharon is embracing love.  You should do the same.”

Tess hurried out her words, “I slept with Conner, too.”

Francesca pursed her lips and dipped her head.  “I see.”

“A rip-roaring, one-night stand.  No cards, flowers or
candy.  Just sex.”  She gazed at the top of Francesca’s bowed head.  “You don’t
have to be too disgusted with me.  It was just before she started dating him. 
Still, if she knew, I’m sure it would be awkward.”

“I am sure.”  Francesca looked up again.  “You think
because he slept with you without loving you it is the same with Sharon?”

“There’s a saying, ‘If you want to see where you’re headed
with someone, look at where they’ve been.’ ”

“How can I argue with your fortune cookie philosophy?” 
Francesca said regretfully, patted Tess’s knee and stood up.

“I’m sure he won’t tell Sharon about us.”

“And why should he?  We all bring our pasts with us, but the
objective is to learn from them and, in some cases, look back on them fondly
and not live simultaneously with them in the present.”

Usually, she would’ve mulled through Francesca’s bits of
wisdom, but with less than two weeks before her move to Florence, considering
them presented too many complications.  Tess rolled her chair over to a cabinet
where she stored pigment and other supplies.  Tucked away in the back of a
drawer was a headset she occasionally used while working.  She slipped the
speaker pads over her ears.  When she pressed the power button, she flinched at
the thunderous music screeching out and hurried to lower the volume.  There,
now it sounded like music instead of noise. 

She settled on jazz.  Classical was too emotional, and she
chanced engaging her mind in other thoughts besides work if she listened to pop
or rock and especially country with its sometimes sappy lyrics.  With her mind
filled with the soothing sound of jazz, Tess went about organizing her work. 

***

Tess fumbled with her keys.  It took a few stabs at the
lock before her quaking hand lined up the key and inserted it.  She clutched an
oversized blue and white Express Mail shipping envelope against her chest that
her postal carrier had left in her mailbox in the apartment’s downstairs
foyer.  She hoped it was Randall Wright’s final gift to her.

She switched the envelope to her other hand as she
shrugged off her coat while searching for the tab that would open the package. 
She tossed her coat over the back of the sofa and carried the envelope into the
kitchen.  Finding the thumbnail-sized flap, she picked at it and finally
grabbed hold of it and pulled.  She slipped her hand into the cardboard
envelope and retrieved a handwritten note on stationary bearing Neil Palmer’s name. 
Disappointed, she set the letter on the breakfast bar along with two other
pages and began reading.