Apricot Kisses (23 page)

“My phone tells me when you call.”

“Really? That’s practical.”

I roll my eyes. “How can I help you? I’m in an important meeting right now.”

“But darling! It’s almost nine and you’re still working?”

“Did you call to lecture or do you need something specific?”

“You have one of those laptops, don’t you? The ones you can carry around? We bought one of them for the women’s shelter so we can do the bookkeeping stuff at home. And since Isadora is more or less on bed rest, she’ll have something to do and won’t get depressed, poor dear.”

If I hear Isadora’s name one more time, I’ll explode. “How nice for Isadora. But I assume that your laptop isn’t the reason you’re keeping me from my work, or is it?” It feels good to lay a guilt trip on her.

“Honestly, it is. The nice young man at the electronics store told me that I needed to set up the computer. I already found a good place for it on Papa’s desk. But I have no idea what the next step is, and Papa is at a fusion conference. So I thought I’d ask my clever daughter, who works with these things all day long, if she could come by to help.”

“Mamma, I’m in Italy.”

“What are you doing in Italy?” she asks.

“I told you about it the last time we talked, about ten days ago,” I say with ice in my voice.

“You did? I don’t remember that at all.”

Mamma’s carefree laughter brings tears to my eyes. “Why am I not surprised?”

“Oh, Hanna, don’t be so rigid. We all forget things every now and then. Maybe I was distracted. It happens to all of us,” Mamma says cheerfully.

“But it happens to you all the time! Do you have any idea how it feels to talk to someone whose thoughts are always a million miles away?” I’m almost screaming. And since that feels good and nobody is around, I don’t even try to lower my voice. “Do you know I don’t remember the last time you asked how I am? You’re always talking about people I don’t even know. Why should I care about your stupid Isadora? When did you last hug and kiss me? Or just visit me out of the blue? And you forgot my birthday again. Don’t you think it matters to me?”

“
Carissima
 . . . I didn’t know . . . But I did send you a card. It played music when you opened it. You used to love them.” Mamma sounds shocked.

“I never got that card,” I say, and then the realization hits me. “I moved a year ago. I sent you the new address and you promised you’d make note of it right away.”

“That—” Mamma stops, but I hear her exhale—first a long breath, as if she’d been holding it, and then a series of short ones as she realizes what I just said.

“You could have called,” I mumble and dip my hand deeper into the water, all the way to my elbow. Suddenly I feel hot and feverish and want to slide all the way in. “I’ve got to go now. Somebody is waiting for me. Why don’t you have someone come in and set up the computer for you? You don’t need me for that. And only call me again when you want to talk with your daughter, not when you have some business to discuss. I’ve had it with business deals with people who mean something to me.”

I end the call before my mother can answer, and turn the cell phone off.

Then I hear slow, provocative clapping. It’s Marco. He’s sitting next to me on the fountain, his feet dangling, an ice-cream cone in his hand.

“Bravo, Signora Philipp. That was crystal clear.”

“It’s very impolite to listen to other people’s phone conversations,” I say. “What are you doing here, anyway? Are you following us?” If my tone annoys Marco, he doesn’t show it. Instead, he licks his ice cream, looks toward the Osteria Maria, and grins.

“Let me use your own pretty words. I’m bringing a business deal to its close.”

Fabrizio

I fiddle with the pepper mill as I wait for Hanna. She’s full of surprises: so uptight and arrogant, but warm and tender; smart and proud, but vulnerable. The image she gives off of a strong, independent woman is just that—a facade. Thank god! And she’s beautiful—actually, gorgeous—and I should do what every man would do: just enjoy it. But a strange feeling bothers me, as if something isn’t right. This wedding . . . Then I see a pair of pretty legs. Isn’t Hanna wearing a light-blue dress? I look up.

“Sofia?”

“Here I am.” Sofia slides into Hanna’s chair, grinning like a cat. Confused, I look over at Salvi behind the counter; he helplessly raises both hands. Then he disappears into the kitchen, probably to give the order to take my by-now-tough steak off the stove.

“So I see,” I stammer and silently say good-bye to dinner. I hope Hanna will be on the phone for a while. I don’t understand women, but I’m sure that she won’t be happy to find my ex-fiancée here. Understandably.

Sofia looks like she’s at the Oscars. She gracefully crosses her legs, the slit skirt revealing her thighs. It’s strange to watch her—to see how she shows herself off—without feeling aroused.

“Relax, Fabrizio. You don’t need to say anything. I’m glad you are reconsidering the matter.”

“I’m doing what?” I probably look like old Benito did when Stefano mowed down his fence with his tuned-up Fiat. Sofia grabs my hand and strokes my wrist with her thumb. I gape at her red nails. What the hell is she doing here?

Before I even finish the thought, I remember Marco coming out of the distillery, the phone at his ear. Of course! His look should have tipped me off. The little shit. I withdraw my hand from Sofia’s grip. “I don’t want to embarrass you, Sofia. I’m here with Hanna,” I say calmly.

Sofia laughs. “Good try.”

“She just stepped out to make a call.”

Sofia’s eyes roam the room and return to me with a coquettish look. “In that case, you have time to talk with me.”

“The way you look, you didn’t come to talk.”

“Do you like what you see?” She sounds uncertain, though, which I’ve never heard before.

“It doesn’t matter.” I add, a little more gently, “Whoever asked you to come here, it wasn’t me.”

Sofia pouts. “I’m here to fight for you, Fabrizio. Marco told me that you still love me.”

So I was right. A fine brother Marco is, messing with other people’s lives. “He lied to you. Marco is trying to prevent me from marrying Hanna because he wants to get Tre Camini for himself. But he won’t succeed, no matter what ammunition he uses.”

Sofia’s eyes widen and her mouth opens, but she says nothing, just blinks.

“I’m sorry,” I say, leaning back.

“But I could apologize to you.” She throws back her hair. “Let’s forget what happened and start anew. And you’ll get the estate.”

I can’t help it—all my patience evaporates. I propel myself across the table and grab the back of her neck. “Just a minute. What is it you want to apologize for?”

“Don’t be cruel, Fabrizio. And let go. You’re hurting me.”

But I pull her even closer. Her breath smells of cigarettes and alcohol, as if she had a drink before she came, to boost her courage. “I’m not being cruel, just curious. Where do you want to begin? When you left me standing at the altar? Or when you forgot to leave a good-bye letter before starting a new life in Milan? Or should we go further back? Do you want to apologize for your affair with that guy from the model agency? Oh, but he came after the cigar smoker from Florence, didn’t he?”

“I was young and stupid, Fabrizio.”

I laugh out loud. “That’s one thing I can’t accuse you of—stupidity.” Then I let go of her. She sits back and looks at me like a wounded deer. “You are beautiful and very smart. You even used to be nice. You were so nice that Lucia was your friend, along with some others whom you so badly insulted that today rather than
say
your name, they
spit
it.”

“I’ve changed.”

“I hope so, for your sake.”

“You have no idea what I’ve gone through these past few years,” she says.

“It doesn’t interest me.”

“That’s too bad.” She purses her lips.

“What did you expect?”

Sofia stares at her fingers, flat on the table, for a long time. “Maybe I really don’t deserve your sympathy,” she finally sniffles, and I’m fascinated to see tears filling her beautiful eyes. “It would have been easier. I mean, coming back, with you at my side. A new beginning that would heal old wounds.”

My hands form fists under the table. I almost believed her. But Sofia never changes and she loves only one person on this planet: herself. I suddenly pity her.

“The easiest way is not always the best,” I say. “Maybe you could start by becoming someone people like.”

“But nobody here gives me a chance,” she sobs, and I try not to roll my eyes. “The way they look at me—the traitor who thought she was too good for village life, now crawling back because she didn’t make it in the city. Disgraceful—and the mayor’s daughter, too. That’s what they whisper behind my back, but loud enough that I can hear it.”

“Well, Montesimo is a village, and there’s always gossip in villages. They’ll forget about you as soon as they find something else to bitch about.”

“That’s a small comfort.”

“But it’s all I can offer you.”

Her body language tells me that she finally understands. Her tears dry up as quickly as they appeared. She slumps down a little and looks at her folded hands. “Do you remember when you bought that rusty bicycle from old Benito? Using your pocket money?” she whispers. I nod, irritated at the abrupt change of subject. Her smile creates tiny wrinkles around her mouth and sparkles in her eyes. I hold my breath in surprise. I had forgotten that enchanting smile. “It took you two weeks to repair it. Then you painted it red and gave it to me as a birthday present.”

“And a week later you sold it to Stefano, and he rode it into a ditch somewhere.”

She looks dejected. “I never thanked you . . . I mean, for the bicycle. I shouldn’t have sold it. That wasn’t . . . nice.”

“Well, at least for a week I was the happiest boy in Italy,” I say dryly and wave it aside. “That was a long time ago.”

“You really are a nice guy, you know.”

“Don’t tell anyone. I have a reputation to consider.” Now I grin, and that’s all the encouragement Sofia needs.

“Would you help me? Could you be the first to forget what I did?” she murmurs, and grabs my hand again. I don’t pull it away this time. Water under the bridge. Why not? I’m tired of holding a grudge against her.

“I could do that.”

“Friends?” She leans forward and offers her cheek. With a sigh, I plant a kiss on her cheek.

“Go home now. I don’t want Hanna to see you.”

Sofia nods, pushes back the chair, and gets up. I notice guiltily how rumpled her hair is, but I don’t apologize for being rough before.

“One more question,” she says in a low voice.

“Hm?”

“This Hanna . . . you really care for her, don’t you?”

“I just realized how much.”

Hanna

I turn around and soundlessly sneak back out the door of the Osteria Maria just when Fabrizio leans toward Sofia and pulls her closer by the back of her neck. I stop at the top of the stairs and hold on to the rusty railing. Trying to breathe, I imagine how he is kissing her—with soft, warm lips that I can still feel on mine. My entire body tenses. So this is lovesickness.

Marco, ice cream gone now, is leaning against the wall with crossed arms. A smug smile wins over his faked compassion. He really thinks that he orchestrated this farce. Have I been blind? Is Marco so sure about what’s happening inside because it’s just common knowledge? Am I so wrong about Fabrizio? Was this all just an illusion leading me to a future that doesn’t exist?

As if it isn’t bad enough, Marco shoves me harder into reality.

“Now you’ve seen it, Hanna, the difference between a business deal and true love. Fabrizio might be holding your hand and screwing you, but his soul is still attached to Sofia. You’re just a little distraction. You mean next to nothing to him, and it’ll all be over as soon as Fabrizio gets his inheritance and puts you on the next plane back to Germany. His words.”

“I don’t believe it,” I say. But my trembling hands clutching the railing aren’t very convincing. Marco’s expression softens. He pushes himself off the wall and comes closer.

“You’re not doing him any favors with this wedding. You’re just keeping him from making the right choice. He belongs to another woman. You must see that, at least. Or do you need more evidence?”

If I answer now, I’ll start to cry. I refuse to give Marco that satisfaction—I’d rather die. In a daze, I look down the street. It’s as empty as I feel.

“I’ll drive you to wherever you want.” Marco points to his car, parked a few houses down.

“Thanks. I’d rather walk.”

He shrugs and strolls away, kicking a stone. The Ford drives by a few minutes later and Marco honks his horn. Watching him disappear, I consider retrieving my jacket from the wardrobe back at the osteria, but decide not to.

The sun has set by now, and twilight paints gray shadows on the houses. Lights glow in some of the windows, and a TV blares somewhere. I crouch down with a sigh and undo the straps of my sandals. I didn’t anticipate a two-mile march this evening, but things never go like you think they will, do they? I force myself to walk barefoot down the steps, avoiding the seams between the tiles—and continue from cobblestone to cobblestone until the path merges with the paved street.

Soon after the city-limits sign, after the last yellow-brick house, a grassy utility road veers off the main street. A faded sign hangs on a fence: “Footpath to Tre Camini—Approximately 2.1 km.” Not very assuring, but all I want is privacy, and on the main road I might be discovered by crazy Carlo, talkative Ernesto, or even Fabrizio.

“Let’s see what ‘approximately’ means in Montesimo,” I mumble to myself. I start down the grassy median, walking fast, and soon I’m running. The gathering darkness swallows the road behind me.

By the time the silhouettes of the estate buildings appear in front of me, I’ve lost all sense of time. I recognize the back of the barn and the distillery. Breathing heavily, I crouch and rest my arms on my thighs. Unbelievable: I actually ran the entire distance. My muscles are trembling from the exertion, my lungs whistling and my chest about to burst, but otherwise I feel fine, strangely detached. But my euphoria lasts only a few moments. When I see the brightly lit manor house, my eyes fill with tears. Not a good sign.