The Last Time I Saw Paris (33 page)

Lara's heart was still turning somersaults. “I thought I would die without you.”

“And I was in hell. I couldn't believe I'd left you, that I'd been such a selfish fool. Never again, Lara. I promise.” She hesitated and Dan wondered what was coming next.

“About Bill,” Lara said, because she knew she finally had to get things straight between them. “About the honeymoon. I know now that it was France I was in love with, not Bill. France gilded my memories with sunlight and happiness.” She clutched his hand hopefully. “Don't you see, Dan, I've always had a love affair with France.”

He understood. He picked up her hand and kissed the ring on her finger, making her laugh. “We'll come back,” he promised. “And next time we'll bring the kids.”

“Excuse me?”
Lara's eyes popped. “Did you say
kids?”

He grinned cockily. “Oh, I thought a boy and a girl would be nice.”

And they fell into each other's arms, helpless with laughter.

So there you are, you ‘re young after all.
The inner voice was having the last word.
Soon you'll be a mother again. Only this time with a man who loves you.

Sounds good to me, Lara thought, still laughing as she kissed him.

 

They were so enthralled they didn't hear their flight called and were still sitting at the bar, arms around each other, planning their new lives when the announcement came over the speakers: “Will Madame Lara Lewis and Monsieur Daniel Holland please hurry to gate number seven, where the flight to San Francisco has already boarded and is ready to depart? This is the final call for Madame Lewis and Monsieur Holland.”

Holding hands, they ran through the long hallways. They were out of breath when they finally got to the gate and were shepherded onto the plane by an irate attendant. She slammed the aircraft door behind them and they slunk guiltily to their seats, the late ones, the focus of all eyes.

They were already taxiing down the runway. In seconds they were over Paris, sparkling in the sunlight. Then the plane was in the clouds and it was gone.

Their eyes met. “Do you remember the ending of
Casablanca?”
Dan asked.

Lara looked at him, puzzled, “You mean at the airport
when Ingrid Bergman is about to leave and she says to Bogart, ‘But what about us?' ”

Dan was smiling at her now. “And Bogart replies, ‘I guess we'll always have Paris.' ”

“They can write that in our epitaphs,” Lara said, laughing.

Because she knew, no matter how far away they were, they would always have Paris.

 

 

 

Read on for an excerpt
from Elizabeth Adler's enchanting

 

SUMMER IN TUSCANY

 

Now available from St. Martin's Paperbacks

NONNA

Nonna Jericho was busy cooking that big ritual Sunday lunch. It was what she did best and the preparations kept her busy all week. Right now, though, she wasn't thinking so much about her tomato sauce. She was worrying about Gemma.

She thought Gemma worked too hard, that the hours were too long, that she was under too much stress. Gemma used to be such a joyous, bubbly, flirty girl, full of energy and joie de vivre. There had been many prettier girls in high school, but there was just something about her; all the boys had been after her, and of course she had chosen, and married, the wrong one.

Even that bad experience hadn't gotten Gemma down, though. That had come much later, on a cold winter night three years ago, to be exact. But Gemma never talked about that. Sometimes Nonna wished she would, but Gemma just kept it locked away inside her. Yet what happened that night had taken away the laughing, vital young woman and left only the responsible, dedicated emergency room doctor.

Nonna gave the tomato sauce a thoughtful stir, pushing back a strand of dark hair and bending her face over the pan to catch the aromas of garlic and oregano, as well as of the half bottle of Chianti she had tipped into it to give it some guts. It smelled good. And so it should, it had been brewing for two days. Ten more minutes and she would turn off the heat and let it stand, allowing the flavors to blend and soften.

She straightened up and, quite suddenly, the room was spinning around her. She clutched the wooden kitchen chair, then sank into it, her head in her hands, waiting for the faintness to pass.

This had happened several times in the past few weeks and the doctor had told her she should rest. He had also told her she had a congenital mitral valve condition and that her heart was weak. This was not Dr. Gemma talking, of course. This was her own doctor, the one she hadn't told Gemma about. Anyway, she didn't know whether to believe him or not.
Congenital
meant she'd had this condition since she was born—right? So why hadn't she had any symptoms before?

It happens, the doctor had told her, when you get to your age.
Mamma mia,
she was sixty and he was talking like she was an antique! Anyhow, she certainly was not taking to her bed and becoming an invalid. She would take daily medication and continue as though nothing were any different. And she wasn't telling anybody about it, especially not Gemma. Life would go on, day by day, as it always had. Until one day it didn't.

The blue airmail envelope was on the table in front of her. She ran her finger slowly over the familiar postmark, the foreign stamp, the carefully written address. Then she took out The Letter, pushed her glasses up on her nose, and began to read it. One more time.

 

GEMMA

The smell of garlicky roasting meats wafted down Nonna's street as we got out of the car. Livvie sniffed the air eagerly, like a hound at the hunt. She reached into the backseat to get Sinbad, who always came with us on his lavender, rhinestone-studded leash—
Livvie's choice, not mine, and certainly not, I'm sure, big butch Sinbad's.

She tugged her miniskirt down to a more acceptable level before she went in to see her grandmother, and of course she also tucked that eternal cell phone into her jacket pocket, still hoping, I knew, for a call from the “dream date,” who might turn out to be only a dream. Then, with Sinbad under her arm, she ran up the steps to Grandma's house.

The rain clouds had cleared, and a cold sun was peeking through. I noticed a black Jeep Cherokee parked across the road. My friend Patty and her husband, Jeff, had beaten us to it. My spirits lifted. I always loved to see them, and I also loved these Sundays “at home.”

Livvie bounced through the kitchen door—nobody ever used the front door at Nonna's; the kitchen was where the action was. Then she was enfolded in Nonna's bosomy hug and kisses were showered on her face.

“Carina,”
Nonna said, smiling, and Livvie beamed back; her faux grown-up defenses were down, and she was just a little kid again. “I missed you this week, Nonna,” she murmured, still hugging.

“And I missed you,
ragazza.”

This was their usual preliminary. Later, the sparks would fly, as they always did when the two of them met. One young, one old, both opinionated and stubborn—what else could it be?

I was next in line for the hug, then Nonna pushed me back and took a good long look at me. This was what she always did and I knew exactly what was coming.

“You look tired.” She pronounced her usual verdiet,
and I replied, as I always did, “Yes, Mom, I am tired, I've had about four hours' sleep.” Then I waited for the inevitable lecture on how I should quit the trauma ward and think more about myself and about Livvie, get my hair done, and buy some new clothes. But today, surprisingly, it did not come.

Patty was putting plates and silverware on the table, and Jeff was leaning against the sink, sipping Chianti, watching. I went over and gave them both a kiss. Then, as always, I was drawn like a magnet to the stove. I lifted pot lids, checking with my nose on what they contained, then I tore off a crust of hard Italian bread, dunked it in the tomato sauce, and tasted it. Forget gourmet restaurants, this was my idea of gastronomic heaven.

Steam clouded my glasses and I took them off and wiped them on a towel, glancing nearsightedly around. I caught Patty in the act of checking me out. She said, “You don't look like a hag to me, honey,” and we laughed remembering last night, but I could tell from her eyes that she thought I looked beat.

Jeff poured the Chianti, his smoothly shaven cheeks already pink from the heat of the kitchen, and Nonna flung open the window, to let out the steam, she said, but Patty said she'd bet it was so her neighbors would get an envious whiff of that roast and know that Sophia Jericho had done it again.

Watching them together, I knew Jeff was Patty's soul mate. No doubt about it. They even looked alike, both with red hair, though his was paler than Patty's, and with the ginger lashes like Sinbad's, who, by the way, had established a beachhead close to the wooden cutting board where the roast leg of lamb drizzled succulent juices into the grooves.

Jeff is a UPS driver and that's how Patty met him,
on his regular daily stop delivering parcels to the hospital. She'd told me he was tall and hunky in his brown shorts and crisp shirt, and it was immediate head-over-heels time. They were still holding hands now, seven years later, and even as I watched, Jeff dropped a kiss on Patty's upturned face.

I turned away, sighing enviously. “What can I do to help, Mom?”

“First thing is you can remove that cat from my table.” Nonna glared at Sinbad, who stared back unfazed. He yowled piteously, though, when I picked him up and dumped him on the floor.

“And Patty, you two stop smooching,” Nonna added. “Jeff, I need you to lift this pot.”

“Si,
signora.”
Jeff grinned, and Patty smoothed down her skirt like a guilty teenager caught making out.

Livvie came in from the porch, letting the screen door slam behind her.
“Madonnina mia!”
Nonna snapped. “All these years, Olivia, and you still haven't learned to close a screen door properly?”

“Sorry, Nonna.” Livvie slumped into a chair and hauled Sinbad onto her lap. “Poor kitty, did Nonna shout at you then?” she asked in a loud whisper, giggling as her grandmother snorted.

I carved the lamb while Jeff and Nonna and Patty served up the ravioli in that famous sauce
and
the
vitello tonnato and
the baked eggplant with mozzarella
and
the little potatoes roasted with fresh rosemary
and
the salad
and
that crusty bread I loved so much. More wine was poured and Cokes were popped open. Conversation rattled around, about the usual things—work, food, wine, school, boy bands, neighbors—while Livvie surreptitiously fed Sinbad under the table.

Then the
torta della norma,
the “grandmother's cake” with the special chocolate filling, which I think Livvie still believed was a cake only
her
Nonna made, was placed on the table, on the same gaudy red-and green-flowered plate we had used for at least thirty years. Ice cream was fetched from the freezer, the coffee set to brew, and the
vin santo
poured.

Everything was exactly the same as it always was. You could print out a scenario of our Sundays at Nonna's and use it every week of the year. Nothing ever changed. At least, not until now.

“Allora, bambini,”
Nonna said.

I glanced suspiciously at her. She only ever called us
bambini
when she was up to something.

“I have a surprise for you.” She pulled a crumpled pale-blue airmail envelope from her apron pocket and held it up for us to see. “A letter,” she said, as though we hadn't already guessed. “From Bella Piacere,” she added, smiling proudly.

Livvie and I glanced at each other, brows raised. Bella Piacere was Nonna's old village. We didn't even know that she knew anyone there anymore.

“Attenzione!”
She adjusted her glasses and looked sternly over the tops to make sure she had our attention. Then slowly and carefully she unfolded The Letter and began to read.

“
Signora, sono Dom Vincenzo Arrici, padre della porrocchia di Santa Caterina nel vostro villagio domestico e il mio honore da scriver vi voi con questo notizie
—”

“Mom,” I said, “we don't speak Italian.” She threw me an irritated glare.

“Huh,” she said. “Maybe I should have married an
Italian after all. Then you would have spoken. And Livvie, please remove that cat from the table.”

Livvie grabbed Sinbad. “Oh, go
on,
Nonna,” she said.

“ ‘
I am Dom Vincenzo Arrici, priest of the parish of Santa Catarina in your home village,' ”
Nonna read. “
‘It has taken several years for us to find you,
Signora
Sophia, and I am the one chosen to have the honor of telling you the good news about your inheritance. You have been left some property by an old family acquaintance. It is in your interest,
Signora
Sophia, to come to Bella Piacere immediately and collect what is rightfully yours. Before it is too late.' ”

We looked at each other, amazed. Then Livvie said, “Does that mean you're going to be rich?”

Nonna smiled back at her. “Possibly,” she said, and my heart sank, because somehow I knew she thought this was true.

Nonna refolded The Letter carefully, but I could tell from its crumpled state she had read it many times. She pushed up her glasses again and looked at us.

“I came to New York when I was thirteen years old,” she said. “Before that, I had never left Bella Piacere. I had never seen Florence, let alone Rome or Venice.
Alorra.
Now I am going home. I'm going to Italy to collect my inheritance. I intend to see Bella Piacere one last time. Before I die.”