A Year at 32 September Way (7 page)

Carlisle knew she and Nicolette made an unlikely pair who probably would not have been friends if they’d met stateside. But it was a different world in Italy, and their circumstances were anything but normal. Over the course of their conversation, Carlisle learned that Nicolette had come just about as far as she had to be in Verona, although for very different reasons. In a way, Nicolette and her husband were coming
to
something in Verona, while Carlisle’s mission was to get away.

They were a pair of opposites to be sure, Carlisle thought as her writer’s mind started viewing herself and her new friend as characters in a book. The two were physical opposites…one was tall, blonde and Hollywood-attractive, and the other was of average height, brunette with wholesome girl-next-door looks that most people described as cute. Carlisle shuddered at the word. She’d been called cute all her life and had thought it was fine until she’d read an article in a magazine during her late twenties that said “cute” was the consolation prize given to women who didn’t qualify as gorgeous, beautiful or pretty.

As for personality traits, Carlisle could see that Nicolette was a bit sarcastic, but she did have a knack for making things funnier with her sarcasm. It was clear the tall blonde would be the center of attention at any party, while Carlisle tended to skirt the perimeter of the room while hovering near the hors d’oeuvres or hiding behind a tall plant. Carlisle’s personality and outlook on life was the glass-half-full type—or at least it had been—while Nicolette was definitely a glass-half-empty woman who seemed to zero in on the negative. Perhaps they could balance each other out nicely, Carlisle had decided by the time they parted ways.

“My husband is in Siena until late Sunday morning,” Nicolette turned to say as she walked back toward her apartment. “If you’d like, we can meet here tomorrow morning and chat over cappuccino. In fact, we could meet regularly.”

“That would be lovely, Nicolette,” Carlisle responded, looking forward to some company and frequent morning chats.

During the day it was still a bit too hot to walk around and explore, so Carlisle often stayed in and daydreamed about the history of her apartment instead. She always did so under the guise of working on her book, but then she’d get lost in thought and, before she knew it, it was time to make dinner, take a siesta or go for an evening walk.

One evening toward the end of her second week there, Carlisle rounded a corner and came to a small piazza. It was an unexpected reward for venturing down a different street rather than retracing her steps back home like she usually did to avoid getting lost. She’d gone that way because of the music in the distance. Her curious nature would never allow her to ignore that if there was time to explore, so she followed the music and now stood at the point where the street opened up into the open area of the piazza.

A crowd of people ringed the entire piazza. In the middle there were four groups of men, marching around with different colored flags, preparing for a flag-throwing contest. One group at a time, they threw their flags high in the air as the drum and trumpet music sounded. The flags appeared to stop in mid-air before plummeting toward the men’s hands as the crowd gasped and cheered. It was easy to get caught up in the excitement and enthusiasm.

Carlisle moved closer to the crowd but, because she was shorter, could no longer see the center of the piazza. She saw three stone steps leading up toward an old building and moved toward them to gain a better vantage point. Several other people had the same idea and gathered on the steps, peering over the crowd at the grand show in the center of the piazza. The crowd clapped and cheered, and the people nudged one another and pointed out their favorite team of flag throwers. But Carlisle’s attention had been drawn away from the festivities, and the band’s music began to fade into the background of her mind as distant memories took over.

There to her left on the stairs stood a tall, handsome man about her age. He’d have never stood out from the crowd except that he had a small butterscotch-haired girl perched on his shoulders who appeared to be about six or seven years old and who looked just like her own little girl. “I like the men with the blue and white flags, Daddy!” she exclaimed.

The man glanced over and nodded a friendly “hello” to Carlisle, but she couldn’t respond. It was as if she was frozen in place, unable to stop staring, unable to turn away, unable to move.

“Oh, sorry,” said a man behind her who’d bumped into her as the crowd shifted. It was enough to jar her out of the momentary catatonic state, and Carlisle seized the opportunity to run down the steps and back toward the street that had led her to the piazza in the first place.

Gasps and sobs escaped from her mouth as she scurried toward home, all the while trying to remain invisible to the others who casually strolled along the streets for some evening
window shopping. As she hurried down the street, the memories she’d pushed out of her mind for the last years welled up in her chest, and then climbed to her throat where she felt they might strangle the life out of her. “Oh my god, no, no, no,” she whispered as she realized she couldn’t overcome them tonight.

It was a lost cause, and Carlisle knew it; she felt herself plummeting backward through some sort of wormhole in time, being pulled back by the thoughts and feelings she’d refused to acknowledge for nearly seven years. In her mind, the shops on either side of the street morphed into the warm yellow interior of her small house in Portland, Oregon while the cobblestone streets of Verona became the honey-colored laminate floor of her living room. “My horoscope says to avoid road trips,” she could hear herself reading aloud to him in a half-joking manner. The scene began to play out in her mind like a movie she didn’t want to watch but was powerless to stop.

“Your horoscope,” William had replied, as he grabbed the newspaper and playfully rapped her on the head with it. “That’s
your
horoscope, and you know I don’t believe in that stuff. Besides, Anna has been waiting to see the redwoods again for months. It’s our best chance—the weather is beautiful, I’ve got time and you have a novel to work on, my beautiful author of a wife!”

There had been no arguing with him that morning, and William was right; she needed to stay home and work on her novel or she faced the risk of missing her deadline from the publisher. Carlisle had relented and helped their six-year-old daughter Anna
get
ready while William loaded up the car for their overnight camping trip. She’d been brushing her daughter’s freshly washed butterscotch-colored hair when her husband came back in and started rustling around in the kitchen. She heard him mutter a few choice words under his breath and knew something was wrong. “Finish brushing this section, Anna,” she instructed her daughter, “let me see what Daddy’s doing.”

By the time she reached William, he was back outside, lying on the ground beside the car. Immediately, she saw the source of his frustration.
“Oh no, not a flat tire!
What horrible timing; I’m so sorry, sweetheart.”

“Yeah, unfortunately, it’s not just one flat tire,” he responded. “It’s two, one on each side.”

Carlisle froze in fear when she heard his words as she remembered the warning delivered that morning in her horoscope. “William, I think it’s a bad idea to go on this trip. I just have a feeling.
First, the horoscope and now, two flat tires.
Maybe it’s a sign. I mean, what are the odds, right? Do you think you could just postpone the camping trip? We could enjoy the weekend together, and it won’t hurt if I put off my writing for two more days.” As the words rapidly spilled forth, Carlisle could feel the butterflies multiplying in her stomach.

“Car, c’mon.
I don’t believe in signs; you know that. And you don’t either! The flat tires are a hassle and a crappy way to start off the day, but they’re not reason enough to cancel the whole trip. Anna would be so disappointed.” Will turned his attention back to the tires.

Carlisle went back in the house and shook off the bad feeling, telling the butterflies in her stomach to go away. By the time she’d kissed them both
goodbye
, she was laughing at her own silliness and mentally planning the next two days’ worth of writing. She’d carry her trusty laptop and comfortable seat cushion out to the deck where she could let her eyes and ears feast on the sights and sounds of the white pine forest surrounding their rural home. She was lucky; she was very lucky.

She got right to work, and the thoughts began to flow onto the computer screen. It was an easy part of the story to write, centered on a young couple in their early thirties who were madly in love and thinking about adding child number two to their happy family. She’d miss Will and Anna while they were away on their camping trip, but it was oh so nice to have some peace and quiet to concentrate on her writing. She got so engrossed in it that she lost track of time, and then she could hear the distant sound of the telephone ringing from inside the kitchen. Carlisle glanced at the time on the lower right corner of her computer screen. Four o’clock. It was probably Will calling to let her know they’d set up camp and were getting ready to take a pre-dinner walk through the redwood forest. She smiled as she nearly skipped to the phone, ready to hear the excitement in her husband and daughter’s voices.

Instead, it was a woman’s voice on the phone, Officer Somebody-or-Other. Carlisle could take in only bits and phrases: “Mrs.
Everdeen
…so sorry to inform…fallen tree…not visible from around the curve…it wo
uld have been instantaneous;
they suffered no pain.”

Carlisle sobbed as she sat on the floor with her back against the rough-textured stucco of her Verona apartment, remembering that she’d done exactly the same thing in Anna’s bedroom seven years ago. Her daughter’s pale pink bedroom with the gingham comforter was a source of pain and comfort all at the same time, yet Carlisle often found herself sitting in the small bedroom, not knowing how she’d gotten there.  And now, somehow or another, she’d managed to get back home to her apartment in Verona despite the onslaught of memories triggered by seeing the little girl and her father at the piazza.

“Home,” she heard her own tired, raspy voice whisper. But the home she longed for was gone. Home, her husband, her daughter, their dreams of another baby and growing old together…they had all died the day she lost Will and Anna. She’d ignored the signs. The warnings had been clear, and she’d let herself be talked out of heeding them. Now she was suffering the consequences.
If only she’d listened to the signs that day…if only she’d been more adamant with Will.
But she hadn’t, and now they were gone; it was all her fault. Her beautiful baby girl and the love of her life were both gone.

***

A knock at the door awoke Charles from a deep slumber. He opened one eye enough to adjust to the light in the room and determined that it was sometime around noon. Rolling from one side to the other, he began drifting back to sleep when he was jolted awake by another knock at the door.

Bleary-eyed, he stumbled toward the door, not unlike someone who’d had too much to drink. “Who is it?” he mumbled through his sleep-induced stupor.

“Charles,
it’s
Sofia! I’m in town and thought I’d come by to see how you’re getting on.”

“Good god”, he thought to himself, “not Sofia.” Although he’d normally have been happy to see her, he wanted no colleague or employee to see him in this state. He let out a forced cough. “I’ve been ill; I’m afraid it’s not a good time.”

“Charles, your neighbors said they haven’t even seen you. I’m a bit concerned; let me in, please.”

That wasn’t true. He had run into the tall blond woman on his way back from a quick run to the grocery store. She’d eyed him up and down and looked at him like he was some kind of a crazed maniac, but she’d seen him. And then he’d seen the woman’s husband from his window, but they hadn’t had the chance to meet. Plus, he knew there was another neighbor because he could hear her coming and going every morning. He’d seen the neighbors; he just wasn’t up to socializing with them yet. Nor with anyone else for that matter; not even his friendly assistant.

Sofia knocked again. “I won’t leave until you open the door, Charles.”

It was clear she wasn’t going to go, and Charles knew he had no other choice. Reluctantly, he turned the brass knob and cracked the door just wide enough for one eye to peer through the opening. It was enough for Sofia to see that the man inside the apartment was nothing like the one she’d worked for in London only two weeks ago. Instead of seeing the fastidious and stylish man she knew, the glimpse into the apartment revealed an unkempt person with dirty, disheveled hair, two weeks’ worth of beard and a mild odor coming from the thick gray jacket that clung to him.

“How did you know where to find me?”

“I helped you find this apartment, remember? Charles, my god, what’s happened to you?” Sofia gently pushed the door open. The stench was enough to make her want to turn on her heels and leave, but she could see that something was desperately wrong, and she couldn’t possibly turn her back on the man who’d been so kind and helpful to her when she’d first started working in London. 

Charles stepped aside as she entered the apartment and caught sight of
himself
in the mirror hanging next to the door. His typically groomed short wavy hair looked more like a cropped version of Albert Einstein’s hairdo. He normally kept a clean-shaven face, even on his days off at home, but he now sported a short, unkempt beard. Worse yet was the soil and sweat stains covering his favorite charcoal gray suit jacket and the odor that emanated from it. It was his most special jacket, the one he’d put on and felt safe in that first day he’d arrived in Verona. He had no idea how long he’d been wearing it. Moving his eyes over to the kitchen table, he could see that the date on the open leather-bound agenda read “September 13
th
.” He’d been here for thirteen days.