That Month in Tuscany (Take Me There) Read online

  That Month in Tuscany

  Inglath Cooper

  Fence Free Entertainment, LLC

  That Month in Tuscany Copyright © 2014 by Inglath Cooper. All Rights Reserved.

  Contents

  Copyright

  Books by Inglath Cooper

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  Map of Tuscany

  1. Lizzy

  2. Ty

  3. Lizzy

  4. Ren

  5. Lizzy

  6. Ty

  7. Kylie

  8. Lizzy

  9. Ren

  10. Ty

  11. Lizzy

  12. Ren

  13. Lizzy

  14. Lizzy

  15. Ty

  16. Ren

  17. Kylie

  18. Lizzy

  19. Lizzy

  20. Ren

  21. Lizzy

  22. Ren

  23. Ty

  24. Kylie

  25. Ren

  26. Ty

  27. Lizzy

  28. Kylie

  29. Ren

  30. Lizzy

  31. Lizzy

  32. Ren

  33. Lizzy

  34. Kylie

  35. Lizzy

  36. Ren

  37. Lizzy

  38. Ren

  39. Ty

  40. Ren

  41. Lizzy

  42. Kylie

  43. Ren

  44. Lizzy

  45. Lizzy

  46. Ty

  47. Lizzy

  48. Kylie

  49. Ren

  50. Lizzy

  51. Ren

  52. Kylie

  53. Ty

  54. Ren

  55. Lizzy

  56. Kylie

  57. Lizzy

  58. Lizzy

  59. Ren

  60. Ty

  61. Kylie

  62. Lizzy

  63. Kylie

  64. Lizzy

  65. Lizzy

  66. Ren

  67. Lizzy

  68. Lizzy

  69. Ren

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  About Inglath Cooper

  Copyright

  Published by Fence Free Entertainment, LLC

  Copyright © Inglath Cooper

  Cooper, Inglath

  That Month in Tuscany / Inglath Cooper

  ISBN – 978-0-9973415-2-2

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, write to the publisher at the email address below.

  Fence Free Entertainment, LLC

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  Publisher’s Note

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination. Locales and public names are sometimes used for atmospheric purposes. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, or to businesses, companies, events, institutions, or locales is completely coincidental.

  Books by Inglath Cooper

  That Weekend in Paris

  That Birthday in Barbados

  That Month in Tuscany

  Swerve

  The Heart That Breaks

  My Italian Lover

  Fences – Book Three – Smith Mountain Lake Series

  Dragonfly Summer – Book Two – Smith Mountain Lake Series

  Blue Wide Sky – Book One – Smith Mountain Lake Series

  And Then You Loved Me

  Down a Country Road

  Good Guys Love Dogs

  Truths and Roses

  Nashville – Part Ten – Not Without You

  Nashville – Book Nine – You, Me and a Palm Tree

  Nashville – Book Eight – R U Serious

  Nashville – Book Seven – Commit

  Nashville – Book Six – Sweet Tea and Me

  Nashville – Book Five – Amazed

  Nashville – Book Four – Pleasure in the Rain

  Nashville – Book Three – What We Feel

  Nashville – Book Two – Hammer and a Song

  Nashville – Book One – Ready to Reach

  On Angel’s Wings

  A Gift of Grace

  RITA® Award Winner John Riley’s Girl

  A Woman With Secrets

  Unfinished Business

  A Woman Like Annie

  The Lost Daughter of Pigeon Hollow

  A Year and a Day

  Join Inglath Cooper's Mailing List and Get a FREE book!

  Get a FREE copy of My Italian Lover – by joining Inglath Cooper’s newsletter mailing list! Just click here.

  Map of Tuscany

  1

  Lizzy

  IF I’M HONEST with myself, truly honest, I will admit I knew that in the end, he wouldn’t go.

  But to leave it until the night before: that surprises even me.

  Here I sit on my over-packed suitcase in the foyer of this too large house I’ve spent the past five years decorating and fussing over — picking out paint colors and rugs, which include the exact same shade, and art that can only be hung on the walls if it looks like an original, even if it isn’t.

  I stare at the pair of tickets in my hand, open the folder and read the schedule as I have a dozen times before.

  Departure Charlotte, North Carolina 3:45 PM

  Arrival Rome, Italy 7:30 AM

  Departure Rome, Italy 9:40 AM

  Arrival Florence, Italy 10:45 AM

  My name on one: Millicent Elizabeth Harper. His on the other: Tyler Fraiser Harper.

  I bought the tickets six months ago. Plenty of time to plan how to get away from the office for a month. Make whatever arrangements had to be made. Didn’t people do things like that now and then? Check out of their real lives for a bit? Let others take over in their absence?

  Tyler’s response would be, “Yeah, people who don’t care about their careers. People who don’t mind risking everything they’ve worked for by letting some Ivy League know-it-all step into their shoes long enough to prove that they can fill them.”

  Our twentieth anniversary is tomorrow. I’d imagined that we would arrive at the Hotel Savoy and celebrate with a bottle of Italian champagne in a room where we could spend the next month getting to know one another again — the way we had once known one another. Traveling around the Tuscan countryside on day trips and eating lunch in small town trattorias. Exploring art museums and local artisan shops.

  I shared all of this with him, and he had done a fine job of making me believe that he found it as appealing as I did. It felt as if we again had a common interest after years of a life divided into his and hers, yours and mine.

  Then, a little over a week ago, he’d begun to plant the seeds of back-pedaling. I had just finished putting together a salad for our dinner when my cell phone rang.

  It lay buzzing on the kitchen counter, and something in my stomach, even at that moment, told me that he would back out.

  I started not to answer, as if that would change the course of the demolition he was about to execute on the trip I had been dreaming of our entire
married life. Actually, maybe the trip was a metaphor for what I had hoped would be the resurrection of our marriage during a month away together. The two of us, Ty and me like it used to be when we first started dating, and it didn’t matter what we were doing as long as we did it together.

  Ironically, we’ve had the house to ourselves for almost two years now. It’s hard to believe that Kylie’s been away at college for that long, but she has. Almost two years during which I’ve continued to wait for Ty’s promises of less time at the office and more time at home to actually bear fruit; only they never have.

  And I guess this is what it has taken to make me see that they never will.

  Me, sitting on a suitcase, alone in our house, waiting for something that’s not going to happen. Waiting for Ty to realize that we hardly even know each other anymore; waiting for him to remember how much he had once loved me; waiting for him to miss me.

  I feel my phone vibrate in the pocket of my jacket. I know without looking that it’s Ty. Calling to make sure I’ve canceled our tickets and gotten as much of a refund as I can, considering that it’s last minute. I know that he’ll also want to make sure I’m back to my cheerful self. He’ll be waiting for the note of impending forgiveness in my voice, the one that tells him he doesn’t need to feel guilty. I’ll be here, as I always have. Things happen. Plans get changed. Buck up, and move on.

  I pull the phone from my pocket, stare at his name on the screen.

  I lift my thumb to tap Answer. I’m poised to do every one of the things that Ty expects of me. I really am. Then I picture myself alone in this house every day from six-thirty to eight o’clock at night. And I just can’t stand the thought of it.

  I actually feel physically ill. I realize in that moment that I am at a crossroad. Stay and lose myself forever to someone I had never imagined I would be. Go and maybe, maybe, start to resurrect the real me. Or find out if she is actually gone forever.

  The moment hangs. My stomach drops under the weight of my decision. I hit End Call and put the phone back in my pocket. And without looking back, I pick up my suitcase and walk out the door.

  ~

  I PARK IN THE long-term lot and not in the back, either, where Ty would insist that I leave the BMW. I park it smack dab up front, tight in between a well-dented mini-van and a Ford Taurus with peeling paint. It is the very last parking space Ty would pick and petty as it sounds, I get enormous pleasure from the fact that my door has to touch the other vehicle in order for me to squeeze out.

  I get my suitcase out of the trunk, letting it drop to the pavement with a hard thunk. I roll it to the white airport shuttle waiting at the curb. An older man with a kind face gets out and takes my bag from me, lifting it up the stairs with enough effort that I wish he’d let me do it myself.

  Then he smiles at me, and I realize he doesn’t mind.

  There are two people already on the shuttle, sitting in the back. They are absorbed in each other, the woman laughing at something the man has said. I deliberately don’t look at them, keeping my gaze focused over the shoulder of the driver who is now whistling softly.

  “What gate, ma’am?” he asks, looking up at me in the rearview mirror.

  “United,” I answer.

  “You got it,” he says, and goes back to his whistling.

  I feel my phone vibrating in the pocket of my black coat. I try to resist the urge to look at who’s calling, but my hand reaches for it automatically.

  Ty. It’s the third time he’s called since I left the house. I put the phone back in my pocket.

  When we arrive at the United gate, the whistling driver again helps me with my suitcase. I drop a tip in the cup by the door and thank him.

  “You’re most welcome, dear. Where you headed?”

  “Italy,” I say.

  He lifts his eyebrows and says, “I always wanted to see that place. You going by yourself?”

  “Yes,” I answer. It’s only then that I’m absolutely sure I am really doing this.

  I am doing this.

  ~

  THE CHECK-IN process is lengthy. When the woman behind the desk asks me about my husband’s ticket, I tell her that he will be along shortly. Lying isn’t something I’m in the habit of doing, but I don’t think I can admit to her that he isn’t coming without unraveling an explanation that might keep us both here way past the plane’s departure time.

  “Hopefully, he’ll be here soon,” she says. “Don’t want to cut it too close. These international flights leave promptly.”

  I simply nod. She asks to see my passport, compares the picture with my face, and types a whole bunch of things into the computer. What, I cannot imagine because they already have all my information. A full five minutes tick by before she hands me the boarding pass.

  Taking it from her feels like the closing of a door that I will not be able to reopen. As metaphors go, I have to think it’s pretty accurate.

  The security process is almost reason enough for me to stop flying altogether. If I could get to Italy by car, I would most certainly drive.

  The underwire in my bra instigates a pat-down by a woman who looks as if she’s no happier about the procedure than I am. She asks me in a cigarette-roughened voice if I would rather have this conducted in a private room. Since I suppose that means she and I would be the only two occupants, I choose public embarrassment instead.

  Once my bra passes the feel-up check, I am directed through the booth where I have to spread my legs and raise my arms in the same posture criminals are told to take by their arresting officer. Not for the first time, I resent the heck out of the bad people who caused all of us trying-hard-to-be-good ones to have to go through this.

  An oversize purse is my only carry-on and once my laptop and camera come through the conveyor belt, I stick them back inside.

  I head for the concourse that my plane will be leaving from. Boarding begins in less than an hour, so I buy a few snacks and use the ladies room. I find a seat in the chairs by the gate. It looks as if the flight will be full, based on the number of people already here. The thought of an overbooked, way-too-full flight makes my stomach drop.

  I cannot remember the last time I went anywhere by myself. I’m used to Ty carrying the tickets, checking in the luggage while Kylie and I hover in the background, handing over our identification when prompted, and checking email on our phones.

  I pull out my phone now and glance at the screen, noticing a text message. I click in and see that it’s from Winn.

  Lizzy!!! U and Ty have the time of your lives. I CANNOT wait to hear all about it. I just know u 2 are going to come back like newlyweds. Shoot, Ty might even leave the firm, and y’all can travel around indefinitely the way u always dreamed about.

  The message blurs before my eyes, the tears there before I can even think to will them away. I tap in a response.

  Ty’s not going.

  I hit send, and it seems as if the reply is nearly instantaneous.

  What?!!?

  The phone vibrates. Winn’s name pops up on the screen. I hit answer and put it to my ear. “Yes, I know. I was a fool to think he really would.”

  “Lizzy.” My name is drawn out into at least six syllables. I hear her devastation. It’s nearly as thick and heartbroken as my own. “What? Why?”

  “A new case,” I say.

  “Are you kidding me?” she asks, the question lit with instant fury. While there’s really nothing to be gained from it, it kind of feels nice to have someone see things from my point of view.

  “I can’t believe he would do this to you. It’s your twentieth anniversary.”

  “Yes,” I say. “It is.”

  “He doesn’t deserve you, Lizzy. He never did.”

  “You’re just saying that because you’re mad. No one wanted us to be together more than you.”

  “Well, I was wrong. I’m a big enough person to admit that.”

  I almost smile at this. Ty has never had a bigger fan than Winn. In fact, I think she’s be
en a little secretly in love with him since the day we both met him in English Lit at UVa.

  “And what do you mean,” she asks suddenly, “Ty’s not going? Are you going?”

  I glance around at the other passengers, and the whole thing feels surreal, like a dream I’m going to wake up from at any moment. “Yes,” I say, again making my decision reality.

  At least three seconds of silence tick by before she says, “Wow.”

  “You think I’m crazy.”

  “I think you’re right. It’s exactly what you should do. But I can’t believe you’re actually going to.”

  “There’s something in there that should make me feel less than good.”

  “You know what I mean. How many times has he done this to you? That trip to the Caribbean after our ten-year reunion. The ski trip last winter—”

  “I know,” I say, stopping her. “I don’t need to hear the list of times Ty has disappointed me. Because if I do, I’m also going to remember that I’ve pretty much been a doormat for him to wipe his feet on.”

  “I wish I could go with you,” Winn says. “Are you staying the whole month?”

  “That’s my plan.”

  And then as if she remembers the reason I’m going alone, she says, “I’m really sorry, Lizzy. You don’t deserve this. You deserve so much better.”

  “Spilled milk and all that,” I say.

  “It’s his loss. One day, he’s going to realize that. What did he say when you said you were going without him?”

  “Um, he doesn’t know yet.”

  Again, silence, processing, and then, “Are you sure this is Lizzy Harper?”

  I actually laugh at this.

  “I am incredulous. It’s what you should have done a long time ago, you know,” she says softly.

  “Probably no denying that.”

  “He needs a good wake-up call.”

  “You know, Winn, it’s not even about that. I’m doing this for me.”

  “Good. Good,” she repeats. “How do I get in touch with you?”

  “Once I leave the states, my phone will be useless. I didn’t sign up for the international plan because I thought it would be nice for the two of us to cut off all communications from home for the time we were there. Ironic, isn’t it?”