To Tuscany with Love (15 page)

Bella turned back to study the faces of the people arriving. She rocked up on her toes and found herself smiling at all the exiting passengers.

A thin, tired-looking man with wire-rimmed glasses appeared in the door. With a suitcase in one hand, a diaper bag slung over his shoulder, and an unusual, folded-up stroller in the other hand, he spanned the width of the doorway. Ten seconds later, a woman, obviously his wife, walked out, a toddler holding one of her hands and a tiny baby cradled in her other arm.

No wonder he’s tired, Bella thought.

After the mother, one, two, and then a third flight attendant exited the gate.

Bella watched the uniformed woman at the door speak into a walkie-talkie. The gate attendant closed the door.

Bella’s face turned cold, her smile frozen in place.

“Bella Rossini?”

The male voice behind Bella made her spin around.

Bella nodded.

A man in his forties handed Bella an envelope. He wore a gray, short-sleeved shirt and matching shorts. The words “Airport Courier” and his name, Walt Smiley, were embroidered on his left chest pocket. He nodded at Bella, then turned and hurried away as if he had just punched out for the weekend.

Bella lowered her head and studied the envelope. She took a deep breath, then opened it. Inside was a piece of paper with a short typed message on it. Key words jumped out.

Didn’t mean to deceive.

Engaged.

Planned to break up.

Business considerations.

Her father ... great opportunity.

Bella read the page twice. The typewriter’s “e” character had a flaw in the top curve, so every “e” had a break in it. She thought it odd that she noticed the broken curve, but then, why wouldn’t she notice? Every word, every letter, burned into her mind.

Forgive me.

Phillip’s name was typed at the bottom, one space below his closing lie. The biggest lie of all.

I’ll always love you.

Bella folded the page into thirds, the same as the letter in her purse. She creased the folds twice with her fingertips. She pulled Phillip’s hand-scrawled letter out of her purse and folded the new, typed missive inside it. Bella pressed her eyes closed, to stop the stinging tears. She felt hot, stale air on her face. When she dared to open her eyes, she tucked the letters into the bottom of her purse.

Bella lifted her chin, swiped her wet cheek with the back of her hand, and swept her hair over her shoulders. Her eyes scanned the terminal filled with strangers.

She, and she alone, would have to cope and somehow survive. But how?

16

Ann Arbor, Michigan

L
ee sat inside the Blue Coffee House with a half-drunk cup of cold coffee. The swarm of students around him had one topic of discussion—the upcoming annual Michigan football game against their archrival, Ohio State University. This year, Lee had no time for football. Having grown used to strong espresso during his summer in Florence, the University coffee tasted weak in comparison. The only good thing about this coffee was the caffeine.

A letter from his mother had arrived this morning. They never changed. The standard letter consisted of three parts.

First, study hard or he wouldn’t get into med school. For as long as Lee could remember, his mother and grandmother demanded that he become a physician.

Second, Lee must learn how to be at the top of his class now, so that he would excel later in med school. Following med school, his mother would remind him, Lee must secure an internship, and then a residency in one of the specialties. Cardiology. Plastic surgery. Anesthesiology. Something that garnered prestige and a high paycheck, restoring the family to their rightful position, which had been lost with his grandfather’s death in World War II.

His mother’s last demand? Write to her more frequently.

Lee concentrated on the Organic Chemistry text open before him. With practiced effort, he tuned out the chatter and laughter around him. Not his ideal study location, but this was where Stillman had suggested they meet. A clap on his back startled Lee; his glasses slipped down his nose with the sudden motion.

Stillman dropped his books on the round table, jostling Lee’s cup. He slid into a chair. “Hey, dude. How’s it going?”

“Shitty. My deadbeat lab partner dropped. Of course, he could have bailed before he’d taken on half the responsibility for our labs.”

Stillman shook his head. “Tough break, man. So did you get his work before he rode off into the sunset?”

Lee’s disgusted look answered the question. “Zip. Nothing but piss and promises.”

“That sucks. You know, it freaks us out now, but someday we’ll be living the life of rich doctors driving fancy cars, and O Chem will be ancient history.” Stillman leaned back in his chair and eyed the large-chested co-ed at the counter. “Have you talked to Meghan since the summer?”

Lee looked away. “Nah. You know, MCATs this year, plus this friggin’ organic.” He shrugged. “I miss her, though. Who knows? Maybe I’ll call her.”

Stillman, motionless, seemed to be studying Lee as if he were an alien to be wary of.

“How ’bout you? Have you talked to anybody? You were pretty tight with Bella.” He was fishing.

Stillman pursed his lips and gave one decisive shake of his head. “Not really.”

“But I thought for sure you two did it before she and Phillip became an item. I remember you guys burning the midnight oil at least once or twice alone together. Plus, of course, the train.” Lee leered at him. He remembered how Bella and Karen had shared berths with Stillman and Rune out of fear of their Middle Eastern couchette-mates. “Those couchettes were something, weren’t they?”

“I haven’t spoken to her since we left Italy.” Stillman’s thumb rubbed the binding of his organic book. “She and Phillip were going to keep dating in the States.”

“Really? I never caught that.”

“Guess it was hard to see anything beyond Meghan’s tits.” Stillman chuckled.

Lee wanted to snap back. He cared about Meghan. He really did. It just wasn’t their time. Not with MCATs and then med school applications looming. But he knew Stillman spoke the truth. During those last weeks, his world had consisted of Meghan and Florence, two beauties he had hated to leave. He grinned. “Guess I’m guilty.”

Stillman straightened his stack of books on the table, as meticulously as if he were being graded on it. Expressionless, he looked up and his eyes caught Lee’s. “What’re you going to do about the labs? The final project with all the lab results from the semester is worth thirty percent.”

Lee’s posture stiffened. “Can I tag with you and your partner? I’ve lost some ground but I’ll do most of the work from wherever you are if you’ll share data with me. There’s no way I can start from scratch and finish in time. How ’bout it?”

Stillman pursed his lips and leaned back, the perfect study of contemplation. “Nah.”

Stillman collected his books and pushed away from the table. “I’m sorry. You know I’d do it, but it won’t fly with my partner. Every one of us is competing for the top grade and those coveted med school slots. He won’t share. He’s paranoid about the competition for grades. I don’t even trust him to give me the full analyses. I use his data and write my own.”

He clapped the back of Lee’s shoulder again. “Hey, good luck, man. I wish I could help you. You have natural luck with the ladies. Maybe one of them will share their labs.”

Without a word, Lee watched Stillman duck through the crowd of wind-chapped faces that entered the coffee shop.

Three weeks later, finals loomed as if they were a phantom lurking around the campus. The campus pubs, normally overflowing at night, were as empty as ghost towns. Only a handful of fraternities hadn’t broken stride in their social schedule.

The library reigned as the campus hot spot. Lee sat in his regular top-floor cubicle, his head buried in the messy stack of papers and printouts in front of him. He returned, for the twentieth time, to the chart of lab results he had checked and rechecked. Suddenly he slammed one fist against the laminated cubicle desk, scattering his papers in a tornado to the floor. The noise drew angry whispers from the cloistered students at neighboring study desks.

Lee dropped his head into his hands in frustration. The final lab report was due by four o’clock the next afternoon. He opened his backpack and stuffed his lab results, charts, notes, and rough draft inside, oblivious to the sound of wrinkling paper.

Then he methodically started his rounds, covering every floor, cubicle, table, and low-slung chair in the library. Finally, he caught Stillman charming the girl who staffed the checkout desk, his backpack slung over one shoulder and a smile on his face. Lee waited until the proper moment, then fell in step beside Stillman as he left the building.

Lee braced himself against the frigid north wind that gusted through campus. “How’s it going?”

“Same as you, I’m sure. Lots of worry, too much caffeine, and damn near a stranger to my bed.” Stillman grinned at him. His eyes showed no evidence of exhaustion.

“Got your O Chem done?” Lee couldn’t help himself. No sense making idle chatter since that’s all anyone in the class talked about.

“Yep. Gonna turn the packet in tomorrow morning. Sherry’s typing up the report and lab data for me. How about you?”

Lee felt as if he’d been punched in the stomach. He had flown through the labs because of the compressed time schedule. Now he lacked confidence in his conclusions, since his data wasn’t complete. With the deadline looming, he had no time to rerun labs.

Although it was a long shot, maybe Stillman would let him read his finished lab packet before turning it in. No doubt, Stillman had aced it. If Lee knew the correct conclusions, he could do what the students called “dry lab”—tweak the data to match the conclusion.

Could he convince Stillman to share his report? Sometimes, lying was necessary. “My packet, at least, is going great. I do final changes tonight. Only I’m doing my own typing tomorrow. Guess those years of piano lessons paid off for something.”

Lee had seen the flyers on his dorm bulletin board for Sherry’s typing services. Poor thing, he’d met her once—major acne plus headgear braces. No life, but a fat bank account.

“You done for the night?”

“Nah.” Stillman stopped at the junction of two sidewalks. “I’m studying for my Art History final with a girl over in West Quad.” Stillman winked at him. “How’s your quota on tail these days?”

“Hah. My steady date is O Chem.”

“And she’s butt ugly. But at least you pulled it out.” Stillman rubbed his gloved hands together. “I gotta get out of this cold.”

Lee went for it. “Think I could read your packet before you turn it in? I would love to double-check my conclusions, since I had to rush the labs. I could look at your paper first thing in the morning, and you could turn it in afterwards.”

Stillman frowned. “Sounds like you want to dry lab. I can’t do it. That would be cheating. After growing up in a Bible-beating preacher’s house, there’s no way I could lie, cheat, or steal. You’re so conscientious, Lee, I’ll bet your paper’s great the way it is.” He motioned toward the Quads. “I gotta go now. After Christmas, let’s grab a beer.”

Shit. Lee felt as if someone had punched him in the stomach, but he couldn’t let Stillman know it. “Nah, I wouldn’t know how to dry lab. I just thought it’d be good to compare our reports.” He shrugged to indicate that it didn’t matter, although the polar opposite was true.

Lee clapped Stillman on the shoulder. “Right. You’re on for a beer when we return from break. But now, I need fuel. Thought I’d grab a burger, then bury myself back in the library.”

“Later.” Stillman bowed his head against the wind and moved in the direction of the West Quad without waiting for Lee’s reply.

Lee pulled up the hood of his coat and started in the direction of the university beer and burger hangout two blocks off campus. By the time he reached the edge of campus, the anxiety consuming him had taken over.

His lab results were sketchy; he could massage them all night, but it wouldn’t help. He needed to ace the paper to save a decent grade in Organic Chemistry. Everything he’d ever worked for rode on this class. Everything. His family was counting on him, and failure was not an option.

He staggered off the sidewalk to the line of lonely, barren trees. Lee clutched his midsection and bent over with nausea. The remnants of food and coffee in his stomach spewed out onto the ground. He vomited again and again until he had nothing left. Still, dry heaves racked his body. A jackhammer pounded in his head, and his belly ached. Shivers of cold and exhaustion shook him. He wiped his mouth across the sleeve of his coat. Tears burned his eyes.

It wasn’t fair.

He had done his part, and his lab partner had dumped on him. He knew it was fruitless to appeal to “One Letter Grade Johnson,” his O Chem prof. Late, even one minute late, turning in an assignment cost you one letter grade. Excuses cost you one letter grade. More than one grammatical error in an assignment cost you one letter grade.