Dating da Vinci (19 page)

Getting away from Austin was like shedding a protective skin. As da Vinci and I walked along the shoreline after dinner, I realized I wasn't the same person at all. I still didn't know who I was, but getting outside of my comfort zone, my wall of imprisoned grief, I let myself smile again and really, really meant it. I let him hold my hand in public and didn't mind being seen by others. I could see the way other women looked at him, how they all wondered what I'd done to get a man as striking as him. They probably assumed I had money, though I didn't look it, or I was incredibly famous to land a boy toy such as this, though I saw him as so much more than a handsome man on my arm.

If I had been feeling poetic, I could have thought of him as my savior, my rescue pilot, my wake-up call. Mostly, though I just thought of him as da Vinci, the man I taught English to who taught me about so much more.

I sat next to him, our arms touching as we ate ice cream on the dock while we watched boats coming into the harbor. The night smelled salty and sweet, and I breathed in the air as if I'd never get enough of it. “What do you think?”

He raised his brows. Most of the time I was still too vague with him, even for a teacher. “Think of life? Love? Galveston?”

“Yes. All of it. Every last bit of it. Tell me everything.”

Da Vinci's eyes crinkled in the moonlight, and I couldn't believe how romantic he looked under the stars. I wanted to capture the moment and put it on postcard and mail it to every woman I knew to tell them I was doing okay. Ramona Griffen would survive.
Look what I did.
Otherwise, would they ever believe me? I couldn't believe it myself.

“All of it, yes? Okay, then. I like this place very much. This beach is breathtaking. I like your place very much. Your shower nice. Your bed is lumpy. Your pancakes not hold candle to my pancakes. I like school, so-so, but am learning. What I like most about America so far, though,” he said, leaning toward me, “is my Mona Lisa.”

He kissed me softly, and I threw my ice cream into the lake, and he did the same. Then I heard two teenagers yell, “Get a room.”

“What a marvelous idea! Our room,” I said, relishing the sound of it, and we went back to the suite and drank champagne until I got tipsy, which didn't take but one glass because I never drink it. Champagne is for celebrations, and I hadn't felt like celebrating in so long. I'd forgotten how much I like the taste of it, the bubbly sweetness that feels like little fireworks in my mouth. The room began to spin when da Vinci lay on top of me, making love to me again. I was overwhelmed with his scent, the feel of his soft skin and hard muscles and the beat of his heart against mine that told me he was very much alive and very much mine for the moment.

Between kisses, he gazed into my eyes and clearly whispered, “
Tiamo,
” and though my translation is sluggish when I'm inebriated, I am fairly certain that da Vinci had told me that he loved me.

My cell phone blared “Bootylicious,” awaking me the next morning. The song was a cruel practical joke Bradley pulled on me after I'd told him and his brother to stop singing it in the car one day. He'd taken my cell phone, and for the past six months, his tech-idiot mother couldn't figure out how to reprogram it. Like so many other things about widowhood, I didn't ask someone to do it for me.

The bedside alarm clock blinked its red digits—7:30 a.m. Not
my
bedside alarm clock—the one Joel bought me for our fifth anniversary from Pottery Barn—but a boring, old brown one better suited for a cheap hotel than a pricey suite. No one ever calls me in the morning, so I assumed the worst. Something had happened to my boys, or Anh and Vi had actually caught the bird flu and were in ICU, or my boss was calling me to fire me because he'd found out da Vinci and I had gone on a sexcapade.

“Hello?” I mumbled as the morning sun cut through the hotel blinds, my head pounding from the champagne. I remembered where I was, which caught me by surprise, and yet there lay the proof: da Vinci in gorgeous sleep. He didn't even snore. My life couldn't get any better.

I began to recall that da Vinci had said he loved me when the voice on the other end spoke. “Ramona? Hi. I hope it's not too early to call, but I'm actually in the airport and thought I'd return your call before I'm on my long flight.”

“I'm sorry,” I said, still dreary from sleep. “Who is this?”

“Oh, I apologize. Silly me. It's Monica Blevins. Returning your call.”

My pounding head pounded harder, my mouth so dry I couldn't speak. I had to get water before I could respond.

“Are you there? Ramona?”

While downing a glass of water in the bathroom, I stared at my naked frame, vowing to double my sit-up regimen from zero to at
least ten per day, then covered up with a towel and sat on the toilet lid. I couldn't talk to Monica while naked, if I could speak to her at all. Composure seemed impossible. “No. I mean, yes, I'm here. I'm just surprised is all. I mean, it's early. Yes. I'm out of town.”

“Is it a bad time, then? I can call you back at a later date.”

A later date? Would
any
time be better? Maybe after a cup of joe, some bacon and eggs, and a good hour-long meditation to prepare for her call? “No, it's fine.” I told myself to calm down. To think clearly. I wanted to sound composed and smart and not embarrass Joel. After all, he'd married me and not her. She'd probably downed two cups of Starbucks and looked smashing in another designer suit. But it didn't matter. It was only the phone. What was I so afraid of?

Monica continued. “Okay, then. So you said you wanted to speak with me. It was good to hear from you, actually. I've been wondering how you and the boys have been.”

I blinked back tears, trying hard not to dissect her every word. She'd really been thinking about us or is that something that you just say to widows? To the family your fiancé creates after you've dumped him? “I did want to talk to you, but it's really not important now. I thought it was, but I guess it's not. It's fine. I'm sorry to have bothered you, really.”

“No. I'm glad you did,” she said. “I've been meaning to call you, too, and I didn't have the nerve to do it. I want to set some things straight about Joel, and I have a few questions that only you can answer.”

In my hangover haze, I wasn't sure if she'd said the words I had intended to say. SHE-SLUT had questions for
me
? Questions only
I
could answer? What was going on here? “You do?”

“It would mean a lot to me. Oh, shoot. They just called us to board. Can we get together for coffee when I get back from Tokyo?”

I slumped over the toilet and held up my head with my hand. I didn't even sound like myself when I said, “Absolutely. Let's have coffee when you get back from Japan.”

I'm not going to lie. Monica Blevins
ruined
my Fantasy Sex Weekend. My sexcapade was officially over the very moment booty-licious Beyoncé sang. Even my young hot Italian couldn't improve my mood. Which is too bad, really. Because I had moved on. Until.
She
wanted to “set some things straight.” She had Questions and not just The Answer?

I had exactly 149 questions formulated in my mind that
she
might ask me. They went from bad to worse:

• Did Joel tell you we went to Cabo that long weekend he said he was at a conference in D.C.?
  
• Did you find the receipt for the hotel rooms we rented Friday afternoons?
  
• Did Joel tell you he was leaving you to come back to me?
  
• Did he tell you he never loved you as much as he loved me?
  

The last one really got me. I could barely eat lunch over that one.
No,
I would tell her.
He said he loved me and only me.
He was lying.

Da Vinci did his best to take my mind off the call. Not just making love to me again, but his insistence on making the most of every moment: going sailing, feeding the birds, buying me a balloon with a big yellow happy face on it. Okay. I finally smiled. I laughed even. But
She
was never far from my mind.

I wanted to be happy for me because da Vinci had told me he loved me, or I was fairly sure he'd said it, but I didn't have the nerve to ask him to repeat it, and I knew, call or no call, that I wasn't ready to say it back.

With nearly 7,000 languages in the world, there are nearly as many ways to say, “I love you.”

Albanian: “
Te dua.
”
Chinese: “
Wo ie ni.
”
Dutch: “
Ik hou van jou.
”
Greek: “
S' agapo.
”
Italian: “
Ti amo.
”
Zuni: “
Tom ho' ichema.
”

The words may be different, but scientists say the chemistry behind the words is the same. Love is, in effect, a chemical reaction. The cuddling chemical is known as oxytocin, linked to milk production in women, making both men and women calmer and more sensitive to others. Oxytocin levels are highest for women just after childbirth, which can explain how moms are able to cope with screaming newborns and care for them.

The hormone also plays a huge role in romantic love during sexual arousal, prompting couples to pair up and cuddle before, during, and after lovemaking. Production of this love hormone can come from both emotional and physical cues, including the loved one's voice and look or even just thinking about the lover.

So, what? The Duke of Milan's
hormones
made him drop his royal drawers for every blushing countess he had chemistry with?
Sorry, lovey, the oxytocin made me do it!
Right.

Oxytocin then passes the love baton to a new group of hormones, morphine-like opiates that calm and reassure lovers with intimacy, dependability, warmth, and experiences.

These steady hormones are more addictive, explaining why the longer two people have been married, the more likely they will stay married. Staying together becomes addictive, with lovers relying on the endorphins and marital serenity they bring one another. Absent lovers yearn for each other when they are apart because, like a drug, they yearn for the steady high endorphins bring. Similarly, the absence of endorphins plays a part in grief over the death of a spouse.

I lifted my hands from the keyboard and noticed they were shaking. So I wasn't crazy after all. It was those pesky absent endorphins making me miss him so. Making all those absent lovers write such eloquent love letters across the miles.
How long?
I wondered. How long does it take to come down off of a lover's high? After I had been bonded, addicted to Joel for so many years? If a part of my grief was chemical, then could falling in love cure me of my grief once and for all?

I stared at the date on the calendar, Joel's death date, and yearned for my boys to return home from my parents so I could hug them. I couldn't even go hug da Vinci because he was gone again at another temp job and then to a study group with kids his own age. There I go again, calling him a kid. If our age difference wasn't a big deal to him, why did I think of it at all?

I took a sip of hot tea and picked up the album Cortland helped me create on Joel's computer. It arrived while I was gone with da Vinci in Galveston. I tried not to be sad that I wasn't here when the postman delivered it. I didn't want him to think I didn't care about the delivery, that the album meant nothing, because in fact, it meant everything. Of course the “him” I was referring to wasn't the postman at all, but Joel.

I had carefully laid copies of the book on the pillows of the boys' beds to surprise them when they returned. I took my own copy and lay with it on Lumpy, a bed I knew I had to replace sooner rather
than later, and carefully looked through its glossy four-color pages at the happy family we had been. By the tenth time I viewed it, I saw the pictures through clear eyes, the tears dried, and my heart was full once again.

When I returned to the computer, I could finish the section, now three-quarters complete. Besides, I had to know about the Monogamy drug, and even more so, if my husband had it in his system when he'd died.

Only three percent of mammals are monogamous, and scientists say humans are not among them.
Monogamous: mating and bonding with one partner for life.
Scientists claim a drug called vasopressin would help. It is called the monogamy chemical.