Gaining Visibility (33 page)

She tried to be absorbed by the repartee, but Joe's hand gestures reminded her so much of Vitale's animated way of speaking, even the silky texture of the eggplant spread was difficult to swallow.

When the salads arrived, she shifted the conversation to “What's your favorite type of music?” and Joe launched into a persuasive argument that would've made Grayson Chapman proud on the cross-generational timelessness of the Beatles.

Julia only half-listened as one bite of the balsamic vinaigrette dressing propelled her imagination to Vitale's dinner table . . . and how much more delicious the same mixture had tasted on his tongue when he kissed her.

“How about you?” Joe asked, and her mind tried to zip through a replay to know for sure what he was referring to, but came back fuzzy.

She settled for a coy “What about me?” and took a sip of her wine.

“What kind of music do you like?”

“I'm more of an eighties fan when I listen to rock, but most of the time I keep my dial tuned to country.”

Joe's forehead wrinkled as his eyebrows shot up. “That's a surprise. I pegged you for classical.”

“Because . . . ?”

He gestured toward the strand of pearls around her neck. “You have a refined quality about you. Cultured. Sophisticated.”

Julia grimaced. “Stuffy?”

“Not at all.” His eyes strayed ever-so-briefly to the bit of cleavage displayed by her scoop-neck tunic before meeting hers once again. “Lovely.”

The warmth in his look warned Julia they'd moved into a more serious phase of flirtation, which she wasn't at all comfortable with but could come up with no reason why—except that Joe wasn't Vitale. “Thank you,” she acknowledged the compliment, and, for a moment, old insecurities knocked on her chest wall, reminding her of scars and dead nerve endings stretched across silicone sacs. A memory of Vitale's fingertip tracing the surgical lines followed quickly, bringing with it a surge of heat so strong she reached for the glass of ice water and took a gulp.

This wouldn't do. She had to stop thinking about Vitale. It wasn't fair to her or to Joe, who might misinterpret the rosy hue imbuing her face.

She pushed her salad away, unwilling to let another bite freshen her already too-strong image of the Italian.

Joe's dark brows furrowed. “Is something wrong with your salad?”

Yeah, too much de Luca undressing.
“No, no,” she assured him. “It's delicious. I just don't want to get filled up before the entrée gets here.”

Concentrate on Joe.
She flashed him a smile.
See how the silver turtleneck and black sport coat set off his hair so nicely? Ask him something. Anything.

“Where are you originally from, Joe? Your accent doesn't sound like Kentucky.”
Good girl. Now, lose yourself in his pleasant voice and pray he doesn't answer “Italy.”

Joe finished his bite. “Originally Erie, Pennsylvania. That's where my mom was from. But we moved to Dearborn, Michigan, when I was ten. My dad took a job in the Ford factory.”

Julia's smile grew broader in relief. Nothing Vitale-ish there. She took a sip of wine.

“But he didn't like that. So then we moved to New Madrid, Missouri, where Dad was from, and he went into business with my grandpa building houses.”

Damn! Father and son carpenters! Mayday!
Julia swallowed the mouthful of wine to keep from spewing it, doubting the possibility of finding anything to talk about—or eat or drink or smell or touch or taste or hear—that wouldn't remind her of Vitale. Even the pulse swishing in her ears seemed to be whispering his name.

When the grilled salmon arrived with its sides of wilted spinach and Italian roasted potatoes, she was pretty sure she had her answer. But the dessert choices of homemade gelato and tiramisu convinced her the universe was indeed laughing its ass off at her.

The tension in the back of her neck was going to manifest into a whopper of a headache if she didn't do something fast. She excused herself to the bathroom. Within the privacy of its locked confines, she leaned against the wall, closing her eyes, wobbling her head from side to side to lessen the strain. “Vitale's not here and never will be,” she whispered. Her body tensed, bracing for the pain those words never failed to elicit. The quick punch tightened her chest. “Joe
is
here, and he's a great guy.” Her inhale stopped halfway down, then came back up of its own accord. She pressed on. “Interesting. Handsome.” Opening her eyes, she gave herself a serious look in the mirror as she said the words slowly. “And. Close. To. Your. Age.” The next breath sank deeply into her lungs, her body finally accepting the message her brain was sending.

She unlocked the door and hurried back to the table before her heart could demand time for a rebuttal.

Joe suggested an after-dinner stroll to enjoy the murals painted on the floodwall, and she readily agreed. A walk along the river in the fresh night air could make any problem seem fixable. The Ohio wove its spell, and she even allowed Joe to hold her hand as they walked.

She flinched only slightly when he asked about her trip to Italy, and
that
she explained away as the memory of the broken toe.

The light at the end of the tunnel came in the form of the lamp she'd left on in her foyer. Never had home looked so good—her safety zone. But the thought had hardly formed before the damned little voice in her head started preaching she had to invite Joe in. It was doubtful he would ask for a second date if she didn't, which satisfied her heart completely but did nothing toward silencing the little voice. It argued that a second date was required as the next step in her endeavor to get on with her life. She invited Joe in and forced a delighted smile when he accepted.

They sat at the bar and talked over another bottle of wine. She dared not move to any room with a couch that might put them so close they would touch, and the box still stood in the foyer, which expressly vetoed the living room Still, Joe seemed at ease and comfortable, and by the time she walked him to the door, she knew he was going to kiss her good night. She thought she was ready, the chaperoning sculpture notwithstanding.

They stood by the door, her hand on the knob, and Joe said he'd “like to do this again.”

She lied and said it would be nice, although the words
less grueling
were shaped on the tip of her tongue. He leaned toward her and she closed her eyes and his lips pressed against hers, softly, carefully, and thankfully briefly.

A bubble of emotion swelled in her chest, pausing her breath as she closed the door behind him and watched his car pull out of the driveway, never allowing her eyes to drift to the box, which was screaming for attention through its silence. The emotion grew heavier with every step as she turned out the lights and made her way up the stairs. She flipped on the bedroom lamp and sat on the edge of the bed as the bubble grew until it squeezed the air out of her lungs, expanded until it filled her inside and no room remained. She ached from the pressure.

Fireworks exploded in her brain, sending out a volley of concussions, booming the same message repeatedly.

It wasn't the sculpture that haunted her. It was the man.

Joe Proctor was delightful . . . but he wasn't Vitale and never would be.

And neither would anyone else.

Her heartbeat accelerated.

What good was all she'd been through—all the changes—if she never tried anything new? What purpose were these new wings she'd grown if she never allowed herself to fly?

She could stand up to Frank, but not to her own feelings? She could listen to her daughter's joy, but not to the song from her own heart? She could accept Camille's care for her, but not Vitale's?

She'd been hung up on their age difference, letting her prejudice blind her. But logic argued that she couldn't make herself love someone like Joe because he was labeled with a correct number just as she couldn't not love Vitale for the same reason.

Vitale. His parents aptly named him. Life. He brought life to everything he touched. Wood. Marble. Clay. People. She'd never felt more alive than when she was yelling out her very real anger and frustration, or laughing at his funny antics and his petulant manner . . . or loving him with a passion she'd kept hidden for far too long.

Julietta wasn't a fantasy. Julietta was alive and well and her heart was beating wildly in her chest at that very moment.

And she loved a man fourteen years younger than she was.

Love transcended age and race and nationality and religion and politics.

Love filled all the gaps. Her breath came to a standstill.
All the gaps except the ones from the children Vitale won't have if he's with me.

She forced air in and allowed the breath to clear her head.

That was his choice to make—not hers to make for him.

Another bubble swelled in her chest. This one was filled with love for the man, and it was followed by one of hope. They combined and multiplied until she felt like a human bottle of champagne.

And there was only one way to release her cork.

She flew to her computer and sent off a quick e-mail.

Her breathing became ragged as she waited and tore from her lungs when the message returned with a Permanent Delivery Failure notice.

“It's time to put your pride and my prejudice aside, Mr. de Luca. The happy ending's there if we don't close the book too soon.”

With hardly a blink, she called up the Web site for her contingency plan.

* * *

Camille was like a kid at Christmas when Julia rushed in the door the next morning. She actually bounced up and down on her toes. “How did it go?”

“Great,” Julia answered. “How do you feel?”

“Great,” Camille echoed.

Camille didn't lie well, and Julia searched her face for any signs of strain. “Well enough to handle the office for a week without me?”

“Absolutely.” Camille's forehead wrinkled. “But why would I need to do that?”

“Because I've got some unfinished business I have to take care of in Italy.”

“What?” Camille's tone implied she hadn't heard; then she repeated the word as though she had. “What?”

“I'm in love with Vitale de Luca, Camille. I've got to know if he still feels the same way.” Julia was at her desk now, pulling out the files she needed to take with her to work on.

“If he
still
feels the same way? What in the hell happened the las—”

“I don't have time to explain.” Julia stuffed the files in her briefcase. “My plane leaves St. Louis in six hours and that's a three-hour drive.” She gave her friend a hug and headed toward the door. “I'll call you when I get on the road and explain everything.”

She was taking a huge risk, flying all the way to Italy, not sure if Vitale would speak to her or even see her when she got there. But Mr. Moretti, the hotel owner, had assured her Vitale was in town—he'd seen him that morning.

So Vitale might not speak to her, but he would hear her.

And, one way or another, he would see her.

She refused to ever again be invisible.

To anyone.

C
HAPTER
31

C
oming to Italy might not be the stupidest thing she'd ever done, but it was the most impetuous.

Julia was convinced now that the stupidest thing she'd ever done was letting Mr. Moretti talk her into allowing his son to drive her to Vitale's. When he said he'd arrange for a car, she'd assumed a rental. What she'd gotten was an eighteen-year-old Jeff Gordon wannabe whose primary goal in life was to waste as much gasoline as possible.

After throwing on the brakes to creep around a curve, he once again slammed the accelerator down. His driving made that first ride with Vitale seem like gliding across ice.

Julia held the dashboard in a death grip and spoke through gritted teeth. “Slow down!”

Lino grinned and shook his head. “My father says I should drive very fast to get to Vitale's before he leaves.”

A flair of apprehension shot through Julia's system. Did Mr. Moretti know something he didn't tell her? He hadn't been very forthcoming with any details about Vitale. Only that he saw Vitale often because he'd commissioned another sculpture for the pool area of the hotel and Vitale had been hard at work on it for some time. “Why would he leave? Does he know I'm coming?”

“I do not know, signora. But he always has lunch with his family on Sunday.”

“Oh geez! Sunday family lunch,” she whined, pounding her head against the seatback a few times. “I was in such a hurry to get here, I didn't think about the hazards of arriving on Sunday morning.” But if they caught Vitale before he left his house, it would certainly make things easier. “Can't you go any faster?” she snapped.

Lino laughed and stomped the accelerator to the floor. “Vitale teach me to drive. I go very fast.”

Julia snorted as she braced herself. “Well, that explains it.”

Her body eventually adapted to the movement to the point where she felt like she could let go. Between lurches, she attempted to freshen her makeup and hair again. On the train, she'd had a chance to tidy up a little and change clothes, but the dark circles under her eyes required a new coat of concealer and powder. Another coat of mascara was out of the question with Lino's driving, though. She wanted to arrive with both eyes intact.

They pulled into the long, winding drive that led to Vitale's house. Her pulse quickened as she watched a whisper of smoke rising over the trees.

Lino must have noticed it, too. His dark eyes danced with merriment. “A fire in the fireplace? That is a good sign, yes?”

“I hope so,” Julia muttered.

The house came into view. How could such a tranquil scene cause such trepidation in her soul?

Before Lino brought the car to a complete stop, she was already getting out.

“I wait,” Lino called after her.

She strode to the door and knocked, then stepped back and waited, holding her breath.

This was taking a chance. It had been three months. He might be with someone else. Maybe in bed with her right then. Maybe Francesca.

Julia blinked away the image and pounded on the door so hard her knuckles hurt.

She'd prepared herself for Vitale with someone else. She'd gone over and over the scenario a thousand times in her mind on the plane. If it came to a choice and he chose someone else, that would be okay. It would hurt like hell, but it would be okay. She was a survivor.

Never having the choice was the option she couldn't live with the rest of her life.

When no answer came, she hurried around to the back door and peered through the glass.

The kitchen area was empty.

She could see the door to the bedroom slightly ajar and beyond it to the bed. Her eyes misted over and a small cry erupted from her lips.

The bed was empty. Already made.

She pounded on the glass, but there was no movement anywhere to answer her knock.

Vitale wasn't there. He must have left the embers smoldering so they'd be easy to stir back up.

Now she had a decision. She could wait for him to come home. Wait for hours probably. She could go back to the hotel and come back later. Her heart was pounding so fast and so hard, she wasn't sure it could take hours of this. She needed to do this and get it over with. As quickly as possible.

She retraced her steps back to the car and got in. “He's not here.”

Without waiting for further instruction, Lino shrugged and threw the car into gear. “I have been to Piero and Angelina's house many times, signora. I know the way.”

* * *

Vitale was three bites into his gnocchi when the question came. He'd been waiting for it . . . making wagers in his mind on who would be brave enough to bring up a subject sure to incite his anger. It was Giada's husband, Michele, who took the dare.

“How did you get the big dent across the hood of your new car, Vitale?”

All talking at the table ceased. If Vitale wasn't mistaken, someone even dropped his or her fork.

“A limb hit it as I left Francesca's last night,” he answered, and took another bite to keep from smiling.

“Oh, that's right. You and Francesca were at Simba together last night.” Michele grinned around the glass he held poised at his lips. “You were eating and dancing. And the word in town is a reconciliation is in the works.”

“Is this true, Vitale?” Mama's voice held an excited, hopeful note. “Have you and Francesca gotten back together?”

Vitale took his time answering, first wiping his mouth on his napkin, then replacing it in his lap and smoothing it out. He wanted his answer to be slow and deliberate and heard by everyone so it couldn't be misconstrued. “Yes, Francesca and I were at Simba together last night. Yes, we ate and danced. No.” He spread his eye contact around the table. “We are not getting back together. We were finished long ago.”

“But why, Vitale?” Mama again, this time with a much more impatient tone. “Francesca is a beautiful woman. Such beautiful children you would have.”

“Francesca is not the type of woman I see myself marrying and having a family with.” Vitale took another bite of his food, hoping he had put an end to the conversation for good.

“I cannot imagine why not.” Obviously Mama was not going to let it go so easily today. “What more could you want? She is beautiful and nice, and she gets along with our family well. . . .”

Vitale had grown weary of this same conversation, week after week. Month after month. There was only one way to put a stop to it. Mama had left him with no alternative. “Nice women do not see other men behind my back. She is unfaithful.”

This time, there was no doubt whose fork fell. Vitale watched Mama's clatter to the table as her mouth dropped open in surprise—not only at the information about Francesca, but also that he would announce such news at the Sunday family gathering.

Her eyes fixed on him, wide and horror-stricken, and he watched as they softened in sympathy toward him and hatred toward Francesca all at the same time. He wouldn't want to be Francesca the next time she ran into Angelina.

He turned his attention back to his gnocchi, remembering the events as they'd played out last night—how quickly things on the ride home had shifted when Francesca informed him he needed to get a phone.

“I do not like phones,” he'd said. “They disturb my work.”

She ran a finger around the outside of his ear. “But you could call me, and I could say all kinds of hot things to you when we're not together.”

He'd realized Francesca was seeing this hookup as the beginning of something more permanent rather than what it actually was.

Casual sex.

No promise of tomorrow.

His conscience had niggled that he wasn't being honest . . . but she hadn't been honest with him about her intentions for the night either.

“You're so old-school.” She'd laughed, and he had to admit to himself she was right.

And then she said something else. “I was afraid that old woman you were with . . . what was her name? Julietta?”

Old woman? Julietta?
His foot involuntarily pressed the gas pedal.

“I was afraid she'd make you even worse, but apparently I was wrong.”

“Yes, you were wrong. Julietta was very good for me.” The words punched him in the chest even now. She
had
been good for him . . . in so many ways. He'd been a different man when he was with Julietta.

A better man.

Francesca's hand had smoothed down his side and between his legs, where she'd stroked him again. “I'm glad to see some things haven't changed, though.”

Again, her words burned into him.

Some things hadn't changed. That much was true. He
was
still old-school about many matters in his life. Having a telephone was only one.

But he was also still old-school in his belief that faithfulness was the foundation in a relationship. That once trust had left, it was gone for good. That sex without love was an empty and meaningless act.

That forgiveness was no good unless it could be followed by forgetting.

His feelings for the woman in the seat beside him had taken shape with one blow of the hammer. He didn't love her and never would. He wasn't even sure he liked her.

They'd pulled into her drive. He stopped the car, got out, went around and opened her door.

She got out and pushed herself against him, clasping her arms around his neck.

He reached up and loosened her hands, and said, “Thank you for dinner, Francesca. I had a nice time.”

She'd stepped back and looked at him, confusion evident in her eyes. “Aren't you coming in?”

“No,” he answered. “Not tonight and not ever. We're finished.”

He'd gone back around to the driver's side, hearing the strangled frustration when it left her throat. And as he started the engine, she rushed over to a fallen limb lying on the ground and snatched it up.

He backed up quickly, but not before the limb came smashing down across the shiny silver hood.

He probably should be angry—the old Vitale would be—but instead, he couldn't hold back the laugh at the bizarre scene.

He'd waved as he pulled away, seeing her reflection in his rear-view mirror, still holding the limb over her head, prepared to inflict another blow. Even in the darkness he could make out the dent across the hood, marring the newness.

The image settled in his chest.

His auto wasn't new anymore. It was old-school like him. And the dent Francesca left on it was a small price to pay considering the one she would have left on his heart.

The rest of the table was quiet, and Vitale was so caught up in the memory, he didn't bother to look at the sound of the auto coming to a stop in front of the house.

It wouldn't dare be Francesca . . . and no one else's presence could throw his world into chaos.

“Vitale.” Adrianna touched him softly on the arm.

He looked up and followed her gaze to the window.

“Julietta!” The name exploded from his mouth as the world around him lost all of its defining parameters.

He stood up with such force his chair creaked as it slid across the wooden floor.

Breathing slowly in and pushing out each breath, he made his way to the front door.

* * *

Lino slammed on the brakes, bringing the car to a screeching halt in front of the home of Vitale's parents.

Julia scanned the yard. Autumn had brought little change to the cedar trees and rosemary bushes. A prickle of déjà vu raised goose bumps on her arms, but she pushed away the memory of her first visit here.

No more dwelling in the past, She'd reached the point of no return. If Vitale rejected her—and he had every right to do that—she would leave and not look back.

No regrets.

She pulled the handle of the door, felt the latch loosen. Pushing it open took all her strength, and she stood on wobbly legs.

She turned back and leaned down to meet Lino's wide-eyed stare. “Wait for me,” she instructed.

He nodded solemnly.

Her legs moved faster than her mind thought prudent with the uneven paving stones beneath her feet. She ordered her legs to slow down, but the adrenaline pumping into her system insisted on an outlet. Halfway up the walkway, she saw the great front door swing open, and Vitale stepped out.

Everything—breath, strength, logic—left in a rush as the jolt of seeing him again slammed into her. She became aware she'd stopped moving after the fact. Their eyes locked, and she watched his darken and narrow in unspoken question, saw his bottom lip droop into that brooding pout.

“Hello, Vitale.”

“
Buon giorno,
Julietta.”

The actual sound of his voice after so many months vibrated through her, shaking her center of gravity. She waited for him to say something else, show his surprise, order her away.

He remained silent. Stoic.

Not the welcome she'd imagined in her fantasy world, but he was here in the flesh, so it wasn't her nightmare either. Nevertheless, perspiration broke out across her upper lip. She faked a cough and dabbed it away. “I know this is crazy . . . the craziest thing I've ever done . . . coming all this way and surprising you like this, but you don't have a phone and you keep bouncing my e-mails, and I had to know if you still love me, and if you still want to try to make things work for us as a couple.”

She was aware of talking much too fast, but she'd wrestled control from her brain and given it to her heart, and she wouldn't stop now.

“I know I wrote you that I want to be friends. But I lied. I was letting my perspective of the world dictate my life. I don't want to just be your friend. I want to be the person you love. And I know it might be over between us, but I can't love anyone else unless I know for sure that it is.” He moved forward, and her chest seized. Her speech stopped on a ragged intake of breath.