Tuscan Heat (13 page)

“Pretending? You think I am pretending? How dare you!”

“How dare…? Fuck you, Marco D’Alessandro, fuck you in the left ear and out your backside. I tried to keep it light. I tried to say I was leaving in a few days. You’re the one who’s been pushing and pushing and telling me it was some kind of deathless love affair, and then the minute I finally believed you, you left me standing on the bridge like some kind of idiot, and you send me this
note.
” I grabbed the crumpled bit of hotel stationary out of my purse and threw it at him. He didn’t move.

“Sara, there are some things I need to tell you if you would only be quiet.”

“Oh. Really. You think? Well, you’re a day late and a euro short, asshole. I already found out that you really are the prince of Florence with more money than God. Was it fun, slumming with the stupid American tourist?” I wasn’t crying, but my eyes stung anyway.

The taxi pulled up. I got in. The taxi driver leaned over.
“Buon giorno, Signore D’Alessandro, come sta?”

“Non molto bene.”

“Ah. Donne americana.”

“Oh, shut up,” I growled.

“Sara. Listen to me.”

“What’s the point? There’s nothing you can do to change the fact that I’m leaving in two days. And I’m never going to be a princess or a duchess or whatever it is that Florentine royalty marries. So we end it now or tomorrow.”

“Fine. I guess I failed to understand something. I thought you were the one who would say yes. I thought you would not be the cynic.”

“Guess I failed. Driver, move
on
.”

Marco stepped back and waved.

“Thank you so much for your permission,” I hissed under my breath.

“Che cosa?”
asked the driver.

“Nothing.”

“Ah,
signorina,
it would help if you told me where to drive.”

“Oh. Right. Fiesole, please. The museum with the amphitheater.”

I had my guidebook with me today. While I was flipping to the Fiesole section, I got caught in the “cultural differences” section. I’d read it before, but now every word felt like an ice pick in my heart.

No kidding.

The trip only took fifteen minutes. I fumbled with the change.

“Signorina?”

“Yeah?”

“I have never heard of Signore D’Alessandro apologizing or explaining. He has not had to do so very often.”

“Does everyone here have an opinion about him?”

“Well, Florence is a—”

“Yes. I know.”

I slid out of the cab and headed into the museum. It was small, but nicely done. All the little bits of a vanished civilization sat neatly on shelves, with informative placards saying that basically, the Etruscans had been so completely overrun by the Romans that no one really knew anything about them at all.

I knew the feeling.

After an hour of educational reading in yet another completely deserted museum, I was ready for some fresh air. Compared to the valley below, the air was fresh with a light breeze. Equipped with my orange readmission sticker and instructional pamphlet, I had lunch at a quiet café and returned to the museum to wander the grounds.

The amphitheater and the delicate arches of the Roman baths were clearly re-creations. I had a taste for something a little more authentic, and it was in the older ruins that I finally ran out of steam.

I stood beneath a statue that was so weathered from the wind and sun that she no longer had a face. The other carvings nearby faced away from her. She was the only thing in the world more lost and alone than I was.

She couldn’t cry. I could. The tears came flooding in to replace the rage and in such quantity that I couldn’t bring back the anger no matter how hard I tried. All I could think about was all the time I’d wasted on men who would never do anything that they said they’d do. Wasting my vacation on someone new who also couldn’t be bothered to show up was the kind of bonus I deserved for being so delusional.

I scrubbed at my face to get rid of the tears, but they just kept coming.

What the hell was I even doing in Italy? I’d always wanted to visit, but not alone. I must have looked like a desperate hag. No wonder Marco had bailed on me. Trying to recapture my younger days with a fling was so stupid. I was stupid.

It hadn’t felt like a fling when Marco sang to me.

I stomped on that traitorous thought. I wasn’t going to make any more room in my life for self-delusion. Larry had been nothing but one big exercise in denial. He’d always had such wonderful reasons why I couldn’t come first, why I belonged on the back burner, why his needs and his job and his whole stupid life were all more important than me. He’d never shown up at all. And I made excuses for him. Each one of my needs eventually wound up stuffed into the back of my head until I couldn’t even feel them.

That’s what I was doing in Italy. I’d always wanted to go. I booked the trip for me and Larry thinking just once, just this one time, Larry could do something I chose, something that made me happy.

I honestly hadn’t cared that much when Larry dumped me rather than come to Italy. On some level I must have known he’d rather break up than do anything for me.

I froze. I’d known. Why else was I so…unhurt by getting dumped? How else could I explain how arriving in Florence felt like throwing off a burden? Was my reaction to Marco a rebound, or was it that I was finally thawing out in the hot Tuscan sun?

Marco hadn’t reacted to me like I was coming across as desperate. He’d treated me with tenderness and respect. He’d taken care of me when I was hurt, solved problems for me, and it seemed like he appeared whenever I most wanted some company. We’d been intimate in every sense of the word.

Marco standing me up after a few days of sex had hurt far worse than Larry ending our relationship of years.

He poured out his heart when he talked about Isabella. That hadn’t felt like a lie.

Was he anything like Larry? Or had I just panicked?

My nose was stuffy and my head hurt. I sighed. It didn’t really matter whether Marco was Larry the Sequel. I was going home in two days, and all his Italian sweet talk couldn’t change that. At most we were going to be pen pals. Probably not even that, since the richest man in Tuscany didn’t exactly need to look for love in a squalid American suburb.

I stared into the valley behind the museum. The Apennine hills rose up softly in the distance, all dimly green through the hazy light of early afternoon. I was hit with a sudden rush of homesickness, but not for my grimy little apartment. With a start, I realized I was already homesick for these mountains. I started crying again.

Then the one thing I’d spent my entire vacation trying to avoid found me. Over the hedge, I saw a plastic daisy on a stick bobbing along, and the bleating of the sheep that followed it.

It was a tour group, hell-bent on following that daisy and the woman wielding it. They were heading right for me.

I don’t weep prettily. There are no diamond tears trickling down a porcelain cheek when I cry. There is blotching. There is mucus. I couldn’t bear being seen in that condition. I had to get out of there. I bolted from the statue garden, through the ruins of the baths and past a row of straggly olive trees. There was a short flight of concrete steps at the end of the path, and I darted down them two at a time. It led to a footpath with a spectacular view facing north.

To the left was a lichen-covered wall. I flung myself into its shade and leaned against the stone, trying to catch my breath. Now I was snuffly and sweaty. Without the adrenaline that had powered my escape, I was exhausted too. I wiped my face and rested my forehead on my arm.

“That’s a Roman wall. You are leaning against something that is more than two thousand years old. If it could talk, it might say some wonderful and terrible things.”

I didn’t look up. I tried to muster up a snarl, but all I could manage was halfhearted irony. “Like there’s nothing new under the sun?”

“Probably.”

“You following me?”

“No, I live here. I was going to the café for something to eat.”

I couldn’t help doing a double take. “Mr. Florence lives in Fiesole?”

Marco cracked a little smile. “It is the only way to see all of Firenze at the same time.”

“I guess that makes sense.”

He jerked his chin at the wall next to me. I nodded.
What the hell.

He sat down and sighed. “I am still not sorry we keep running into each other this way. My grandmother believed in omens. I do not, but I am still glad to have them.”

“It’s pretty funny, anyway. No one will believe me, back in Maryland.”

“Sara?”

“Yeah?”

“You never say ‘back home.’ Or ‘going home.’ Always it is that you are leaving, going back to your state above Virginia.”

“I’ll say this for you, Marco, you’re a good listener.”

“
Grazie.
I try.”

I surprised myself by telling him more. “My folks are gone. I was the late in life surprise baby. Lost them both when I was in college. My friends from school are pretty scattered. I’m a freelancer, always going from gig to gig, so I work alone for the most part.” I shrugged. “I don’t really have any roots. But it’s where I live, and it’s where I’ve got to go.”

“I am sorry about your parents. I cannot imagine being without family.”

“It’s not all bad. No meetings, for one thing.” I was sufficiently recovered to put a little mustard on that shot.

He winced. “Okay. I deserve that. But now that you are too tired to run away, I will explain?”

He made it a question, for the first time. I nodded.

“The purpose of the meeting was for me to leave the family business and start my own. I wanted some of the capital I have contributed, plus the clients my parents would never have taken on without my forcing them to do so.”

I blinked. “And they didn’t know?”

“They did not think I was serious,” he said, a little grimly. “It has been on my mind for several years now, but recently, I realized it was time.”

“Why?”

“Because I do not wish to spend every hour of my life at work. When I am working, I wish to make beauty or restore old beauty. I wish for balance and time enough for love.” He gave me a look and took my hand. “I will not say who was the inspiration if you do not want me to. But it was all very recent. It was as if a princess came and woke me out of my magic sleep. And she is very, very beautiful and dear to me.”

I swallowed. I dug my nails into my palms to keep from falling under the spell he was casting with his gentle, musical voice. “So what happened at the meeting?”

He rolled his eyes. “You will think, oh, these Italians, so like the stereotype. There was screaming and there were tears. My mother says I do not care for the family, my father says I must pay back my college tuition, and my brothers say ‘where is your client list, can we see it?’ I would rather have been with you.”

“Sounds like it.”

“It went on from the time I left you until two in the morning. If I left, it would have started over from scratch today. I wanted to tell…that princess…that the matter was settled.”

“Is it?”

“Not quite. The sticking issue is of the capital. We Tuscans put family above all else, but we did not build empires by being careless with money. Right now I will have to sell a few things if I want to keep my business running.” He grinned. “But I do not care. I have some room to move.”

I snorted. I stretched my legs out in front of me. “Take it from another small business owner, you’ll care in a big damned hurry if a single client fails to pay on time.”

“Perhaps.”

“Why did you have to do it right now?”

“I told you.”

“Besides that.”

“You are my inspiration, and if you really are going to go back to the United States, I was afraid.”

“Of what?”

“That I would not be inspired.” He put his hand on my leg. “Serafina, after years of so little, I wanted to be like you. I wanted to stand up and say yes.”

I looked at him straight in the eyes. “What the hell was that note?”

He shut his eyes for a second. “That was one of my brothers. He meant no harm. But he did not study in America and his English is very formal. I should have written the note myself. I did not think, and that was the problem. I am so sorry, my Sara. I have been selfish for a long time. Charm is easy. Thinking of others and how they will see a situation is not. I promise that I am always thinking of you, even if I do not do the correct thing.”

I pulled my knees back to my chest. “Marco, I’m sorry. I was hurt and angry. I’m also sorry you’re going to so much trouble.”

“You are not glad for the trouble?”

“It doesn’t matter! It’s all for nothing, because I’m about to leave and not come back! Haven’t you heard a word I’ve said in the last three days? Four days? Whatever the hell it’s been.”

“And I am saying to you that the number of days does not matter. It is caring that matters. I tell you that I care for you, and I know you care for me or my poor thinking would not hurt you so badly.” He tried to smooth my wild, tangled hair.

I twisted away. “That was a coincidence. Standing me up was the one thing you could do that might upset me, that’s all. You just got lucky. Or unlucky, depending. It’s nothing.”

“Nothing? You are this upset for nothing?”

“All right, it’s not just that. Why didn’t you tell me you were…you were…”

“Rich?”

“You’re not just rich.”

“I am not. I am quite poor.”

“Oh, you’re so full of it.”

“I have nothing that really matters. Also, most of what is so impressive to people belongs to my family. Not to me, personally. And my mother and father are in wonderful health. I will not inherit anything for many years to come. Besides, I am the second son. The island will go to my brother, for example.”

“The island?” My voice cracked.

He waved his hand. “This is not the point. The point is that we are not so apart, you and I.”

Oh, God, I wanted to believe him. “You’re a hell of a lot higher up the class food chain than I am. You don’t think that’s a problem?”

“No.”

“You’re wrong, and it doesn’t matter. I don’t really care about any of this, anyway.”

He raised an eyebrow at me. “You are full of it.”

“So what if I am? This isn’t going to end with magical twittering birds flying overhead while we ride your bike into the sunset. You don’t believe in omens, and neither do I.”

He stood up and took a few steps away from me. He clenched his fists and turned back. “I do not believe in omens, but that does not mean I do not believe in anything. Do you not believe the things you feel? How can you not believe in love?”

“Don’t say—”

“Yes! I will say it, and you cannot stop me. Love. This is what love feels like.”

“How can you possibly know that?”

We stared at each other for a moment. I looked down and realized I’d gotten to my feet.

“Wait here,” he finally said. He strode away to the east. A few minutes later he pulled up on the motorcycle. He offered me the little helmet and the jacket I thought of as mine with a confident gesture and a faintly pleading expression. I shrugged and accepted the gear.

It was hard to stay angry, holding onto his warm body and leaning our way down the twisty narrow road together. We didn’t go into the center of the old city, but skirted around to the east on roads that felt less medieval, but still magical with leafy trees. We drove by several ancient towers, remnants of the old city walls, before we crossed the river and began climbing into the Oltrarno hills.

We passed the tour buses milling around like cattle near the Piazza Michelangelo. While we waited for one of them to finish inching into the pen, I leaned forward and shouted over the engine noise, “I’ve heard the view from here is good.”

“It is. But I have another idea,” Marco replied. He moved his hand from the handlebars and patted my arm. I surrendered. I gave him a squeeze in return, hoping he would understand. I was along for the ride. I was only going to stop and get off because I had to, not because I wanted to.

We climbed higher into the hills, leaving behind the chaos of the overlook. We had to pull over to allow a lumbering busload of German tourists to get down, but when we got to the
top, we found the tiny parking lot surprisingly empty. Only a few cars were there, and they bore the plates and stickers of local vehicles, not rentals.

Marco cut the engine and dismounted. I loved watching him shake his hair into place after taking off the helmet. I hoped I would always remember the way he smiled.

“As you see, my timing is excellent. There is always a pause in the tourists right now. They think there is nothing to see.” He took my hand and helped me off the bike. After he locked down the helmets, he led me through the gate.

The little passageway opened up into a wide, flat terrace in front of a church. “San Miniato?” I asked.

“Yes. It is one of the oldest churches. Santa Trinita might be a bit older in parts, but more of this church is original. Perhaps later we will go inside. There is much to enjoy.”

While he talked, we strolled forward. I turned to my right and gasped. “Oh, Marco.”

Florence lay at my feet, in the most perfect postcard view I’d ever seen. I could see the teeming masses in the piazza below, but all I could hear was the distant rumble of diesel engines. Beyond the piazza lay the sleepy green river and the old city itself. I stood in my old wall calendar beneath a perfect azure sky.

I turned to Marco to thank him. At that moment, angels began to sing. Something like that, anyway.

“Sanctus, sanctus, sanctus…Dominus deus Sabaoth, pleni sunt caeli et terra gloria tua.”

I didn’t see anyone, but the sound of men with their voices lifted in a song of prayer filled the world for a moment, and faded away. A moment later, there was the muffled sound of someone delivering a lecture, and the rumble of a large group of men laughing. The song started again and I gave Marco an inquiring glance.

“The monks. At this time of day they practice. The tourists do not know this, but I do. I like to hear them. It…settles me.”

“Are you religious?”

“In Italy, everyone is, a little. You cannot help it.”

We stood with our arms around each other, listening to the music. At last the rehearsal ended. A small door in the brown stone building to the right of the San Miniato facade burst open, and a small gaggle of monks in white habits emerged like friendly geese, their regular voices not at all unearthly.

I was glad I hadn’t broken the spell. A little of the magic remained in the smile Marco gave me. I returned it.

“What you felt when you heard the music, with my arm around you, was love. It is sacred. It cannot be faked.”

“Can’t it?”

His voice was tender. “Must you argue,
Americana?
I can see in your eyes that you felt it too.”

“Whatever it was that I felt, it won’t get me a refund on my plane ticket or another night in the hotel.” I was so tired. Tired of fighting my feelings, tired of arguing, tired of trying to be the sensible one in a relationship. I had a spark of sympathy for Larry all of a sudden, which proved that Florence was getting to me. But the spark went out, leaving me completely drained.

“I have to leave, Marco, and you’re just making it harder.”

“Then I will follow you.”

That woke me up. “What?”

He grinned at me. “Do you want to know what the song means?”

“Don’t change the subject.”

“I am doing no such thing. It is very much the subject.”

I threw my arms in the air. “Sure. If we’re going to be completely unmoored from reality, let’s take a detour through song lyrics. Why not?” I flopped down on the terrace with my back against the low wall.

The crazy man just stood up a little straighter and began to sing. Amused Italian faces turned toward us, and there was a smattering of applause at the rich sound he made.
“Con te partirò—”

He stopped and looked at me. “It means, with you I will go.”

He continued.
“Paesi che non ho mai veduto e vissuto con te adesso, si, li vivrò
—to countries I have never seen or experienced, with you, yes, now I will live them. So. You see, Serafina, it is the subject. If you will not stay, I will go with you.”

I couldn’t breathe. “You can’t mean it,” I choked out. “You can’t be serious.”

He knelt beside me. Again he sang, this time for my ears alone.
“Quando sei lontana sogno all'orizzonte e mancan le parole e io si lo so che sei con me, con me
…When you are far away, I dream on the horizon and words fail, and I do know that you are with me, with me…”

He leaned forward and kissed away the tears. That broke me, and I threw my arms around his neck. “You can’t leave Florence, you can’t. You would hate it,” I wept.

“We would come back for many visits.”

“You’re starting your business. You can’t possibly understand how hard that would be for you in America.”

“You do not know anything of Italian bureaucracy. There is nothing your Maryland can possibly do that is worse.”