That Month in Tuscany (Take Me There) Page 2

  “But how will I know how you’re doing?”

  “I’ll check in by email, if I have wireless.”

  “You promise?”

  “I promise.”

  “I love you, Lizzy. I’m proud of you.”

  “You’re just saying that because I’m so pathetic.”

  “Pathetic would be you canceling the trip.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Yeah.”

  “And don’t spend all of your time walking through museums and old churches and stuff. Find something fun to do. Someone fun to—”

  “Winn!”

  She laughs. “It would serve him right.”

  “You know that’s not me.”

  “Maybe it should be you.”

  “Like that would fix my life.”

  “Might not fix your life, but it would definitely fix the moment.”

  I smile and shake my head. “You’d make a terrible shrink.”

  “But an excellent friend.”

  “I’ll give you that.”

  “Roanoke won’t be the same without you.”

  “It’s only a month.”

  “Let me hear from you.”

  “I will,” I say, adding, “Be good.”

  “Only if you promise not to be.”

  2

  Ty

  YOU THINK YOU know someone.

  Really know them. Inside and out.

  That’s what being married for twenty years does. You know what your spouse is thinking nearly before she does.

  Except, not this time.

  This time, you have no idea what to make of this out-of-character response to not getting her way. You think of all the times in the past when things hadn’t worked out as originally planned, of how she’d taken it in stride. Understood your work schedule, the competitive nature of your work and how important it was to stay ahead of the pack. To lead or be trampled.

  Okay, so maybe you weren’t completely honest with her about the new case load. How critical it is for you to be in the office during the next few weeks. How the timing could not have been worse.

  But would she have understood? No, and so, you really had no choice but to leave it until the last minute.

  Outside of your closed office door, you hear the voices of assistants and attorneys, the buzz of Finley, Harkington and Crass cases being built, others being taken apart, and you realize that you have no desire to be anywhere other than here.

  This is what fills your tank.

  You don’t need a trip to Italy. You have no desire to see any other part of the world than the one you live in each day, thrive in each day. You love this world. And your vital role in it.

  Not so for Lizzy. But then she’s not a part of your world.

  You’re aware that you’ve put your own needs, your own likes and dislikes above hers, but you’re the breadwinner of the family. And shouldn’t that count for something?

  Shouldn’t your desire to stay on top of your career take precedence over touring a country you’ll never see again once you leave there? A country full of old, crumbling buildings and modern cars trying to make use of archaic cobblestone streets?

  You pick up the iPhone and tap redial for the tenth time in the last few minutes.

  But she’s not answering her phone, and you find this truly amazing. Damn it, you paid for the thing. The least she could do is answer it.

  You feel the heat creep up your neck, settle at the line of your starched shirt collar, as if it has hit a sea wall.

  You lean back in the chair, closing your eyes and counting to ten.

  If there’s anything you’ve never been able to tolerate, it’s ingratitude. Lizzy has never appreciated the life you’ve built for her. For Kylie.

  Always, you’ve felt the unspoken dissatisfaction within her. The sense that the life she lives isn’t the one she’d wanted.

  You’d married her, for crap’s sake. You didn’t have to. You could have left her high and dry to take care of a baby on her own.

  Guilt instantly hits you for the thought. You love Kylie as much as Lizzy loves her. You wouldn’t trade being her father for anything. But it is true that not every guy would do what you did. The right thing. The honorable thing.

  And she’s never given you credit for that.

  You wonder now if the reason you’d finally agreed to go on the anniversary trip in the first place was because of that ever-present dissatisfaction you forever sense in Lizzy. Had you ever intended to follow through?

  You don’t really know the answer to that question.

  Your reason for backing out, however, is a completely legit one. Is it your fault that Lizzy has never understood the word compromise?

  You open the desk drawer, toss the phone inside just so you aren’t tempted to call her again.

  Let her get over there, see what it’s like to be alone, without a man by her side. Maybe then she’ll finally see what it means to have a husband like you. A protector. A gatekeeper.

  A knock sounds at the door. You straighten your tie, open your laptop and pretend to be studying the screen. “Come in.”

  She walks to the desk, lays a file on the stack in the corner. “I went through the brief as you asked me to,” she says, her confident twenty-something gaze meeting yours and holding it.

  You start to look away, but there’s a flicker of something in her eyes that prevents you from doing so. “Great,” you say. “I’ll look over your notes later this afternoon.”

  “If you have any questions, don’t hesitate to buzz me,” she says.

  Your gaze drops from her face to the neckline of her light blue sweater. The amount of skin showing is modest. This is a law firm, of course, and she’s a new associate. But there’s enough skin showing that you know a stab of longing to see if the rest of her is as smooth, as silky.

  Neither of you say anything. You’re processing this surge of attraction you feel for her. She’s processing the fact that you’re attracted to her, deciding, perhaps, if the feeling is mutual.

  You raise your gaze to meet hers and feel the spurt of victory when you see that it is indeed mutual.

  The silence clicks in and holds there. You wonder how long it would take for you to get an invitation to her apartment. Not long, you suspect. You are a partner in the firm, after all. And she’s definitely interested in climbing the ladder.

  Although if you had her best interests in mind, you would tell her that she should probably stick to the traditional method for getting ahead in this firm: billing every hour she possibly can.

  That is the way you get noticed by the senior partners.

  You should know.

  But then if you had warned some of the others throughout the years, you would most certainly have missed out on some very memorable times.

  She breaks the look first, as if she’s felt the current of your doubt. She takes a step back, her hand fluttering at the neckline of her sweater.

  And you let her go. For now.

  3

  Lizzy

  IT’S TRULY AMAZING how much nicer first class is than coach. I’ve never flown it before, this trip pretty much being the splurge of a lifetime—my lifetime, anyway.

  But an hour into the flight, as I’m sipping champagne and picking at a delicious assortment of olives and nuts, I decide that it is worth every penny. Every penny of Ty’s, that is.

  He’s flown first-class across the country enough times that it’s become no big deal to him. I, on the other hand, am amazed by all the space in front of me and at my sides. The seat next to me, of course, is empty because that is where Ty is supposed to be.

  I’m offered red wine with my dinner, vegetarian as I had requested. I decide that it’s even better than the champagne.

  By the third refill, I am south of tipsy. The movie I’m watching is far funnier than I remember a review giving it credit for. I should add that I’m not a big drinker. I’ve always been known as something of a lightweight. Couple glasses of wine, and I’m good.
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  My reputation is still accurate. Three hours into the flight, I’m in the bathroom depositing my vegetarian dinner into the toilet, the nausea hitting me so suddenly that I almost don’t make it to the bathroom in time.

  Once I’m done, I stand in front of the slightly out of focus mirror, my hands braced on the sink, staring at my reflection. I look alarming. My face has absolutely no color, my lips nearly as pale. My forehead has that glisten of sweat left in the wake of severe nausea.

  I close my eyes and will the last wave of it away, certain there’s nothing left inside of me to throw up.

  Once it passes, I wet a paper towel and wipe my face, fill a cup with water and rinse my mouth. Along with my dinner, I have lost every speck of giddiness loaned to me by the champagne and red wine. My head is beginning to throb like a bass beat. If I can make it back to my seat, I think I’ll be fine.

  I just have no idea how I’m going to get there.

  I take a few moments to gather my courage, then slide the door lock to the vacant position and pull it inward. I start down the aisle and immediately feel as if I’m walking on the deck of a listing ship. Only I’m not sure if it’s the floor or me that’s listing.

  I stumble, reaching to catch myself on a seat back when an arm suddenly shoots out to stop me.

  I don’t fall exactly. It’s more like a collapse onto the lap of the person attached to the arm.

  I squeeze my eyes shut, giving myself one second to pray this didn’t really happen but was merely part of my drunken imagination. As soon as I force my eyes open, I see that it’s not.

  Staring back at me: a pair of blue, very blue eyes. To further my humiliation, they appear to be amused.

  “I am so sorry,” I say, willing myself to get up as I say the words, but finding that my legs feel like spaghetti noodles beneath me, and the plane is doing that listing thing again.

  “I’m glad the stewardess had already taken away my mostly uneaten chicken tetrazzini,” he says. “Otherwise, you would be wearing it on your—”

  He doesn’t say backside, but then he doesn’t need to.

  “I kind of lost my balance,” I say.

  His eyes light up another notch. “I noticed you were having a little trouble with that on the way to the bathroom.”

  My mortification is now at level ten, and the flame of it sets my cheeks on fire. I think if I put my hand to them, they will actually burn me. “I don’t usually . . . I’m not a big—”

  “Drinker?” he finishes for me.

  “No.”

  “It didn’t seem like you had enough to justify a bolt to the bathroom.”

  My vision has begun to lose its blurred edges. His face comes into complete focus. It’s a rather amazing face. Thirtyish. Lean in the way of someone who’s very physical. Running? Cycling? I start to ask him which one under the lingering confidence of inebriation. I curb the impulse and clamp my teeth over my tongue, struggling once again to get up.

  My legs have regained some of their musculature, but at that very moment, the plane jolts hard. A scream pops out of my throat. Before I can stop myself, I am toppling onto his lap once again.

  “Ah, that was a big one,” he says, sounding level-headed when all of a sudden, I’m worried.

  The captain comes on then and says, “Everyone take your seats, please. Flight attendants, take your seats as well. The seat belt light will remain on until further notice.”

  The first-class attendant comes striding by, tossing us both a look of slight disbelief and then, “If you could please take your seat, ma’am.”

  “Yes, of course, I’m going,” I add and then manage to get to my feet, forcing myself not to look at the man whose lap I’ve hijacked. “I’m sorry,” I say. “Really sorry.”

  “Sure you’re okay?” he asks.

  I nod, try for a smile that doesn’t happen and then slink back to my own seat, popping the belt buckle into place. I grab the blanket that I left on the seat beside me, put it over my head and lean against the window, my stomach rising and falling with every leap and dip of the plane.

  I tell myself that could NOT have happened. I don’t do things like this. I can’t even remember the last time I had too much to drink. It’s probably been fifteen years or more.

  With that thought comes another.

  How long has it been since I sat on the lap of an attractive man who wasn’t my husband? Of course, I don’t remember the last time I sat on Ty’s lap either. But I know I’m not supposed to be feeling this almost painful physical awareness in the pit of my stomach.

  My victim’s seat is across the aisle from mine. There is absolutely no way I can take this blanket off my head until the plane lands in Rome. I lift an edge close to the window so that I can breathe and then pray that I fall asleep. Or even pass out. At this point, that would be okay, too.

  ~

  I COME AWAKE to the flight attendant announcing our arrival in Rome.

  Somehow, I’ve managed to sleep through the remainder of the flight and the actual landing.

  I remove the blanket from my head, squinting against the onslaught of light. My mouth has that haven’t-brushed-your-teeth-in-forever feeling, and I long for a toothbrush.

  A bell dings, and the sound of seat belts being unbuckled in unison prompts me to undo my own and stand on somewhat shaky legs. Memory hits me in full assault just as my gaze lands on the guy across the aisle.

  He’s watching me with those reluctantly amused blue eyes I now remember from the vantage point of his lap. His smile is slightly crooked and his voice low when he says, “How’re you doing?”

  “Ah, fine,” I say in utter denial of the headache pounding against my temples like a Conga drum.

  “Good,” he answers.

  “I . . . about the . . . I’m really sorry,” I say, hoping I won’t be required to finish the sentence.

  “Hey,” he says. “It was no big deal.”

  During this exchange, part of me is nodding and looking appreciative while the other part of me is processing details about him that I wish I could deny being intrigued by.

  His hair, which I remember noticing last night, even through my drunken fog, is thick and longish. It’s dark, the contrast to his eyes a distinct one.

  Winn might tag him Beautiful Male Watching. As an art history major, she developed a habit of categorizing the guys we met in college by painting possibilities. She usually nailed them, too. Arrogant Guy Lying. Suspicious Guy Stalking. And in Ty’s case, Gorgeous While Knowing It.

  Beautiful Male Watching breaks the moment by standing, and it is only then that I realize how tall he is. Six-three, anyway, judging the distance he must duck in order to keep from banging his head on the storage bin above his seat.

  He opens it, reaches up to pull out a backpack and says over his shoulder, “Is Rome your final stop?”

  “No,” I say. “I’m headed to Florence.”

  “Have you been before?”

  “No,” I say, reaching beneath the seat to pull out my bag. “Have you?”

  “Yeah. It’s pretty amazing.”

  “I can imagine. Have imagined,” I say and then mentally wince at the lameness of my response.

  “How long are you planning to be there?” he asks.

  I’m struck mute by the question because I suddenly realize that I have no idea. The original plan was for a month, but now that I’m on the other side of the Atlantic, thinking without the confidence-building qualities of champagne, it seems ridiculous that I am here at all.

  “I’m not really sure yet,” I say. He’s fully facing me now and having moved out into the aisle, standing straight, he’s as tall as I had originally guessed.

  There is something about him that seems vaguely familiar in the way of someone I might have seen before. Although I think I would have remembered him, married or not. I decide my dehydrated brain is not an accurate barometer of memory or much of anything else at the moment.

  “Where are you staying?” he asks.


  I feel the tilt of interest in the question. Or maybe it’s only politeness. The part of me that hasn’t known that feeling in a very long time threatens to send out banners of gratitude and reciprocal interest. There is weight in the moment, heavy like a pendulum that might or might not give in to the swing.

  I decide that his question is merely polite conversation and the fact that I would consider the possibility that it is anything other than that is a fairly good indicator of my own parched ego. “The Hotel Savoy,” I say, quickly and on the low side so that he leans in a bit as if to make sure he heard me correctly.

  “Very nice,” he says. “You’ll enjoy it.”

  The departure shuffle has begun, the people behind us moving forward in small but determined steps. The plane door has been opened, and the rows of passengers at the front begin to file out.

  I smooth my hand across my hair, aware suddenly that I must look an utter mess. We catch gazes again, the moment hanging there like a possibility that I know cannot exist.

  It’s my turn to file out. I try for a smile and say, “Well, enjoy your trip. And thanks for your . . . patience.”

  His smile is warmth-inducing. I think I actually feel its effect in my nerve endings. “Not a problem,” he says. “You take care, okay?”

  “I will,” I say, and then leave the plane without looking back, putting my focus on the walkway that leads to the customs terminal. I can’t deny a feeling of letdown, as if I’m driving by a scenic overlook to a beautiful place but have passed the turnoff and have no choice but to keep going.

  I spot the sign that says “Baggage Claim”—Italian above, English below. I head in that direction and notice my reflection in a window.

  My suspicions of horror are confirmed. My hair looks as if I slept with a blanket over my head. My face is completely devoid of any makeup. My clothes look like I’ve been wearing them for a week.

  I repair the damage as best I can and walk to the luggage area. It takes several minutes for me to get there and when I do, I realize that most of the other passengers on the plane have beaten me to it.