Her Italian Millionaire (6 page)

The very pretty, very young bride wore a white lace dress and a veil that covered her long, dark hair. The groom was tall and thin. His black tie was askew and he was smiling nervously. He reached for his bride's hand and they looked at each other with such an intense look of love, Anne Marie had to turn away. It was too private a moment for an outsider to intrude on.

The church and the wedding and the bells and the organ music that flowed out the front doors of the church all combined to remind her of another wedding, across an ocean, in another time zone. With a glance at her watch, she realized that her ex-husband was getting married at that very moment to a woman a little more than half his age who he thought would cure him of his mid-life crisis. Anne Marie almost doubled up from the pain in her heart.

She hadn't thought it would bother her that much, but it did. It was not the loss of Dan; she'd come to realize that they'd grown apart years ago. Even if he changed his mind or if his fiancée walked out on him, she and her ex-husband were no longer soul mates, nor had they ever been. No, it was the loss of her marriage that hurt. Of an institution she believed in, of a dream she'd once had. It was a reminder that she'd failed at one of the most important things in her life.

Did anyone in that church across the ocean wonder where she was? She hoped so. She hoped they found out, too, because she was having the time of her life. Yes, she was.

She forced her feet to move away from the church, away from the unhappy vision of another church in another town with another bride. She walked through the streets without knowing where she was going for a while, then stopped at a small square and pulled out her map.

By chance, she had arrived at the Vista Dei Mare, pleased to see it was right where it was supposed to be, tucked away between two low-rise apartment buildings with a small sign on the door. When she opened the door, she smelled rich tomato sauce simmering and olive oil. She was fifteen minutes late, but they seated her right away at a small table with her back to the wall so she could look at the other customers who were all Italian. She ordered minestrone and a
pasta arrabbiata
with no idea of what it was, and a glass of house wine. At least that's what she hoped she'd ordered; the waiter spoke no English.

A young boy came out of the kitchen, poured her wine and set a plate of toasted bread on her table. Then he rubbed fresh garlic on it.

“But I didn't order this,” she protested. He smiled and went back to the kitchen. This was the kind of place the guidebooks said to look for, she thought with satisfaction. Family restaurants where the locals ate. She nibbled at the bread, trying to get the image of the California wedding out of her mind. She knew how the church would look with the plain wooden pews and the dark red carpet. She knew the flowers would smell sweet and cloying. She knew the organist would play the traditional march and the music would float out the front doors open to the early autumn sunshine.

She knew, because that's exactly what happened when she was married there. How dare Dan have his second marriage there, too? Couldn't he have come up with something more original? All he was doing was repeating what he'd done twenty years ago. And he thought she was boring! No, he was the one who was boring. Funny she'd never seen it before. She felt her throat clog with angry tears.

The waiter brought her a huge bowl of soup and sprinkled cheese on top of it. Steam rose from the bowl and brought the smell of broth and herbs, beans and vegetables to her nose. She tried to concentrate on the food. On Italy and not California. She crumpled her napkin in her hand and looked around the room. She was the only one there alone. Everyone else had come with someone else. The couple in the corner, the family at the table by the door. The men at the bar. Everyone had someone. But it didn't matter. It did not matter.

She bit her lip to keep it from trembling. She tried to think of anything but Dan's wedding. She thought about Giovanni, she thought about the Greek temples she was going to see, and she thought about her library and the patrons who would ask about her and miss her when she wasn't there. But none of those thoughts were strong enough to erase the image of the end of her marriage. It was one thing to get a divorce, to divide up the assets and sign the papers. But to know that your husband was marrying someone else made it seem even more final and made her feel more alone than she ever had. Her sinuses hurt; her throat ached, and she could no longer hold back the tears. They rolled down her cheeks and into her minestrone. The waiter stopped abruptly on his way to another table with a platter of mussels in white wine sauce held high in one hand and stared at her.

“
Signora, cosa succede?
” he said.

She couldn't speak. She didn't know what he said, but even if she did, she couldn't answer. She could only shake her head. The tears continued to pour out of her eyes and down her face. Now other people were looking at her. The old couple that had just sat down at the next table both turned around to see what was wrong.

Oh, God, she didn't know what to do. She wanted to fall through a trap door and disappear. She could get up and leave, but she didn't think her legs would hold her.

The waiter disappeared into the kitchen and the cook appeared at her table, his white apron smeared with sauce and a worried frown on his face.

“Che cosa ha magiato
?” he asked. He pointed to the soup. “La ministra?”

She looked up at him, but the concern on his face only made her cry harder. They were joined by a woman in an apron.

“
Indigestione
?” she asked.

Anne Marie shook her head.

The woman turned around and beckoned frantically. “Marco,” she called to a man in the corner who was eating with a dark-haired, statuesque Italian woman in a red dress. “
Lei viene. La signora ave bisogno de traduzione en inglesi
.”

The next thing she knew Marco, who was the same Marco from the hotel, and the woman who looked like an Italian movie star were standing at her table looking down at her.

“What's wrong?” he asked. “Is it the soup?”

“No, no,” she said, blotting the tears on her face with her napkin. “It's fine. It's nothing.”

“Nothing?” he asked, raising his eyebrows. “You have upset the whole restaurant with your crying. The cook thinks you don't like his soup. And he takes this very personally.”

“I'm sorry,” she said. She pushed her chair back and started to get up. “Maybe I'd better go.”

“Go? You can't go now. Unless you're sick.”

“I'm not sick. I'm fine. I just don't want to cause any more trouble.”

“Then sit down and eat your dinner. And stop crying.” He handed her his handkerchief.

Anne Marie dabbed at her cheeks, then stuffed his handkerchief into her bag and looked from his stern face to the woman who now had her arms crossed under her sizable breasts and was glaring at her.

“Thank you,” she said stiffly. “I'll do that.” She picked up her spoon and dipped it into the soup. She looked up. He was still standing there with the very attractive, very annoyed woman. “You can go now,” she said. Please go. Please everyone, stop staring and leave me alone.”

“Are you sure?” he asked.

Before Anne Marie could answer, the woman turned to Marco and began to speak loudly in Italian. Anne Marie didn't know what she was saying, she only knew she was angry about something. She just hoped it didn't have anything to do with her. But it must have, because she kept gesturing toward her and raising her voice. Marco said a few words and the woman slapped him across the face, spun around on the high heels of her open-toed sandals and walked out of the restaurant, her head held high, her nose in the air.

For a moment no one spoke. No one moved. The whole restaurant fell silent. If Anne Marie thought such things happened often between volatile Italians, she must be mistaken. Everyone else seemed just as shocked as she was. Then just as suddenly, the scene came to life again. The cooks returned to the kitchen, the waiter began serving food, and the customers resumed talking, laughing and eating.

Only Marco stayed where he was, standing motionless next to her table. She looked up, her eyes dry, her self pity forgotten. There was a red mark on his cheek, and she almost felt sorry for him, until he pulled out a chair and sat down across from her. He turned an empty wine glass right-side up and beckoned to the waiter. She put her spoon down and gazed into those green-brown eyes.

“Surely, even in Italy,” she said as coolly as possible, “you are supposed to ask if you can join me.”

“Would you have said yes?” he asked.

“No.” How could she eat with this Italian exuding machismo across from her?

“Then why bother to ask?” he said.

The waiter brought a candle to the table and the flickering light softened the hard planes of Marco's face. Next he filled Marco's wine glass and set his plate of pasta in front of him. Everything was done so calmly, so smoothly, it was as if customers had shouting matches and then changed tables every night. Maybe they did. Maybe this was quintessential Italy at dinner hour. If so, she’d better get used to it. Marco turned his attention from her to his food. He ate with such gusto he must have forgotten the violent incident with his date. Maybe they argued often, flew into rages, stormed out of restaurants and got it out of their system.

Maybe it was a better way to deal with disagreements than years of silence, of bottled up resentments and hard feelings until it was too late to salvage a relationship. She stole a glance across the table, watching with admiration as he expertly twirled the pasta around his fork. But if Marco intended to eat in silence, why had he bothered to sit with her? Was it because it was improper for a woman to eat alone?

 Whatever his reason, it was such a relief to have the attention shift away from her, she was almost able to forget the scene she'd made, which seemed minor compared to the one he and his companion had made, and eat her soup and the pasta that followed. After all, if he could do it, she could too. But she wondered who was the woman he was eating with? What was the argument about? Why did she leave?

Maybe it was something serious. Perhaps Marco had broken up with her or she with him. Maybe she wanted him to give up his job and stop showing foreign women the sights of Italy and devote himself to her. With her looks, she could be a model or a movie star who needed him to be her permanent escort. Or maybe she was just an ordinary woman who was madly in love with him and he'd cheated on her. She'd just found out tonight at dinner, which was why she'd slapped him and stormed out.

From time to time Marco refilled Anne Marie's wine glass from the carafe on the table. From time to time she glanced over at him. Once he caught her eye and their glances held for a long moment. That was the time to ask the questions, but when she opened her mouth, no words came out. They remained unspoken. The waiter came with some grated cheese for her pasta and the brief moment was over.

When he finished eating, Marco leaned back in his chair and observed her carefully. “No more tears,” he said with satisfaction. “No more sadness.”

“No,” she said, but the vision of her husband's wedding across the ocean pushed its way back into her mind and her attempt at a smile failed miserably. He noticed.

“I know what will cheer you up,” he said when she'd finished her dinner and he'd laid a pile of bills on the table. “Come with me.” He took her arm and before she could dig into her money belt and insist on paying for her own dinner, they were out on the street, his hand still wrapped tightly around her arm.

“You don't mind walking?” he asked with a glance at her low-heeled shoes. She knew what he must be thinking - so American, so sensible, so unflattering to the leg, compared to the high heels she'd been admiring on the local women. “It's not far.”