The Husband Diet (A Romantic Comedy) (27 page)

BOOK: The Husband Diet (A Romantic Comedy)
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Chapter 40:

Coming Up For Air

J
ulian decided to sell his home and put the money towards buying a farm house with me and some guest annexes to open my business. He’d also added a pool, paddocks, and a tennis court to his wish list. It blew my budget out of the water.

“This is to show you how much I care,” he said, kissing me. “This is my commitment until you decide to let me walk you down the aisle.”

“And you can really afford to buy all this?”

“Of course. Am I not a former sports celebrity?”

“So you’re loaded?” Not that I hadn’t noticed his house was a tad beyond a principal’s salary.

He grinned. “Let’s say you won’t have to worry about anything for the rest of your life.”

“Hello—have we met? I always worry about everything.”

“Not anymore, you won’t.”

I pulled his face to mine and delivered him a whopper of a kiss. “I love you, and not because you’re filthy rich,” I whispered, feeling my eyes burn and moisten. Enough crying. After twelve years, I was finally happy again. I felt like friggin’ Cinderella.

* * *

We threw a leaving dinner party. It was mostly my family, but he invited a couple of colleagues from school and his agent Terry Petersen, who was salivating at the idea of another book, and his parents, Tom, a real English gentleman just like his son, and his mother Maggie, who was thrilled to see me in my clothes this time and chew the breeze with me. She didn’t seem the least perturbed her favorite son was leaving the continent to live with a flasher like me.

“You’re doing the right thing, Erica,” my dad said as he kissed my cheek. “
Follow your dreams
, a wise woman once said to me,
no matter what shape they may take.

I smiled. “
Nonna
told you too? Did you listen to her?”

“No, unfortunately—I married your mother.”

“I heard that,” Marcy drawled as she slurped on her third martini. Dad shrugged his shoulders and winked.

Chapter 41:

Old Continent, New Life

P
aul’s Tuscan friend Roberto Luzzi sent me more listings for Julian and me to view, with the additional extras Julian had asked for. I turned around in my chair to look at my man. “House-hunting is so much more fun with you.”

He bent to kiss me on the lips. “You see? You should’ve asked me sooner. “Oh!” I cried as I flipped the pages. “Look at this one!”

It was in Castellino, in the province of Siena near the border with Umbria, and it looked perfect.

In the space of one week, Julian and I had packed our belongings into a container. Well, not quite
all
of them.

I walked out onto the graveled area of the driveway and threw all my big old clothes into an enormous heap and lit a match. Bonfire time. Here I was, shedding my old skin for a new one. I watched as my heavy past turned to ashes and lifted into the air in tiny embers riding on the early evening breeze. It was going to be a colorful summer. In every way.

I had a new killer wardrobe (Paul’s advice had finally stuck after all those years), with smaller-sized sexy black items, and reds, blues, greens, whites—lots of them—all light textures, because the winter was far from my mind. I had never worn white trousers in my life because black was more slimming. It was also more depressing.

I lifted out of the garbage bag the coat and brown dress I had worn the day I’d met Julian again, in his office. I brought it close to my face and breathed in the smell of mothballs, remembering that day a million years ago and how it really did look like shit on me. The texture—thick and stiff—was all wrong. Plus it belonged to another time, in a galaxy far, far away. So I plopped it onto the fire.

* * *

By week three, Julian and I had both miraculously sold our houses (someone up there was rooting for us) and resigned from our jobs, not without a bit of gossip in the staffroom, nor a bit of a fight from Harold Farthington. My boss hugged me and told me if I ever wanted to come back I was welcome because I was the best manager he’d ever had, and if I was thinking of starting a rival company he’d kill me. I smiled and hugged him back.

* * *

On week four we left the kids with my sister and together Julian and I flew to Sant’Egidio Airport in Umbria, for a quick recon visit to the best farmhouses of the batch and immediately made our decision. It was the house we’d seen in Castellino and it was love at first sight—just like when I’d first met Julian.

The farmhouse was tasteful—
expensively
tasteful—and extremely well-kept, from the gardens to the orchards to the olive groves to the vineyards. It had several fully renovated annexes and a couple that were more rustic. It also had two swimming pools, one for us and one for the guests. It looked like something out of a magazine. Better—out of a dream—my dream. And at the entrance, a beautiful, thriving, healthy rosebush. I couldn’t wait to tell Maddy and Warren. It was perfect. But for one minor detail. I turned to Julian. “It’s two bloody million euros!”

“Just go with it,” he said, putting his arm around me.

“But if you’ve got that kind of money lying around, why do I have to open a B&B? Why don’t we just piss off somewhere, never to be found?”

“Because I know you. You’d get all itchy again and I’d have to put up with you.”

“True,” I sighed. “What did I ever do to deserve this house?”

“You mean to deserve
me
.”

“That, too. What have I ever done for you?”

“You need to ask?”

“Uh, ye-eah?”

Julian took my face in his hands. “You brought me back to life, kicked me out of my hibernation, pushed me to believe in myself again. If it hadn’t been for you I’d have never written another book. Or learned to cook Italian. And...” he kissed me so softly on the lips I could almost taste his soul on them. “I’d still be a very lonely man without you. You have made my life, Erica.”

“And you mine,” I whispered back. “And of course, there’s the farmhouse as well.”

He smacked my bottom and grinned.

That same afternoon we put in an offer that was accepted. We’d be back in one month’s time (which was fast for Italy) to sign the deeds and cough up the dough. The kids would be thrilled.

* * *

We slept in a hotel—or, rather, made love and ate, made love and plans all night long, all day long, for three whole days.

On the final morning of our stay, he wrapped a blindfold over my eyes.

“Mmm,” I murmured. “That’s a side of you I didn’t know.”

He chuckled. “Come on, insatiable. Come with me.” And led me to our rental. I felt the steep inclination as we went uphill. What the hell was he planning?

“Okay, princess, step out. Keep the blindfold on—easy, take my hand.”

The sun was warm, but the air was much breezier up there.

“You haven’t followed me all this way across the world to push me over a cliff, have you?” I asked, and heard him chuckle.

“Okay, step up—one step, that’s it. When I say so, you open your eyes. Got it?”

I could hear the joy in his voice. “Got it.”


Okay!
Open your eyes now.”

I obeyed. And almost had a coronary on the spot.

We were standing inside a hot-air balloon, bright red and filling up with gas.

Inside there was an easel, sketching material and paints.

“Oh, my God,” I whispered over and over. “I can’t believe you did this for me. Thank you so much, Julian.” I turned in his embrace and faced him, covering him with loud kisses.

“Ready then?”

Ready? I was excited, anxious, not knowing where to feast first. “Oh, yes!” I breathed. “I didn’t know you knew how to pilot one of these things, Julian!”

“I don’t. But
you
do.”

“How did you know?”

“I have my secret informers.”

I watched him as he secured the door and leaned back. “Ready when you are, then,” he said. “Fly me to the moon.”

I looked at him blankly. “You trust me?”

“Of course. Why wouldn’t I? I have every confidence in you, Erica.”

“Cool!” I said.

“Cool,” he agreed.

Though unaccustomed as I was to such a statement, you can imagine how gratifying it was for me. With one last glance in his direction, just to make sure he wasn’t turning green, I began my maneuvers. He stood back and watched me, his hands behind his back, probably to fight the instinct to jump out.

Once upon a time I’d have joked that I was a basket case in a basket. Or a blimp in a blimp. But from now on I’d be kinder to myself and ease up a little on the self-effacing sarcasm.

It was heaven, soaring above treetops and fields ranging from yellow to green to brown, weightless for once in my life, not having to worry about how many people were allowed in the elevator or how many kilos it held. And Julian by my side. What a beautiful country we’d chosen to live in.

Then I felt him move. I turned to look at him and saw his face was flushed as he bent over. My God, he was ill and hadn’t said anything.

“Julian? Julian, are you okay?” I asked, tugging at him to pull him up.

“I’m fine,” he said, bending to his knee, another little box in his hand.
Uh-oh.

I swallowed as the wind whipped at my face. “Are you proposing this time?”

“Uh-huh…” he said, radiant.

“In a balloon? Cool.”

“Not so cool if you don’t say yes this time.”

I didn’t need to think about it. I looked at him, and he became serious. “I love you so much,” I whispered. “You won’t mind if I keep my maiden name? Not that Foxham isn’t nice, but—”

“Okay, okay,” he chuckled and cupped my chin to kiss me. I had always loved Erica Cantelli. Only I didn’t know it.

I remembered my
nonna
’s words.
Don’t let go of your dreams, Erica—whatever shape they take, just hang onto them…

Julian had helped me realize three of them (I’d postponed my ticket to Paris and bought three more for the following August).

I was flying over the Tuscan countryside in a balloon with a box of paints at my feet, and I had someone to share it all with.

And the joy of it was that, after all the heartache and diets, I had managed to be myself again and steer my life where I wanted it to go. After all this time I’d finally realized that my best diet had been
love.

EPILOGUE

J
ulian had been right—he really
was
a heavy sleeper, so he never complained about my snoring or midnight monologues. But if I needed him awake at, say, three a.m., which was basically always for one reason, all I had to do was pull the right chord—yes,
that
one—and he’d be instantly alert.

Ah, the joys of sex in the wee hours. It’s the best—you’re rested, relaxed and warm, and then you can go back to sleep again without worrying about rushing off to work. Not that I would be rushing anywhere in Tuscany. We even arranged for the school bus to pick the kids up, starting in the new school year. Year. Wow. I hadn’t known Julian for a year and here we were. I must have been really nuts.

And guess what—I wasn’t grinding my teeth or having my apnea episodes anymore. Even my migraines were gone. It just goes to show you what a bit of serenity can do. No longer did I wake up in the middle of the night gasping for breath, unless Julian’s tongue was running down my body.

We give ourselves completely in the hope of being happy. But sometimes, no matter how hard we try, it all goes wrong. Too many commitments, too many sacrifices, the “growing apart emotionally” thing, etc. We invest the best years of our lives in order to pursue this dream. But in the meantime we have also forgotten about who
we
are, and what our original aspirations were.

Only lucky people get all their love back and live the dream of a great relationship. And if you’re really lucky, like me, there’s enough love to spare for yourself as well.

Oh, and if you’re
still
wondering who left those flowers and that shy note at my front door on Quincy Drive a thousand years ago, look up to the sky and you’ll see him kissing the luckiest girl in the world in a hot-air balloon.

THE END

Caveat:

To all so-so husbands out there: Pick up your socks because your Erica might find a Julian.

To all Ericas: Have faith. You don’t have to put up with it. Julians do exist out there if you believe in yourself.

To all Julians: You make life worth living. Keep up the good work, guys!

* * *

Visit Nancy at
www.nancybarone.com

BOOK: The Husband Diet (A Romantic Comedy)
6.41Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

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