Dating da Vinci (34 page)

I opened the middle drawer to find the usual office accoutrements: pens, paper clips, pennies, and a pledge pin like the one da Vinci had pinned on my poodle pajamas just weeks before. Could it be his?

The larger right-hand drawer contained a dozen notebooks just like the one I'd found in the car. How could anyone keep so many notebooks of calories burned and consumed?

Grabbing the one on the top of the stack, I opened it, expecting more of the same chicken scratches of food and fitness. Instead, I found elegant prose written partially in English, partially in Italian.

I flipped several pages, searching for my name. When I found it, my body became very still.
Why do I fear that Ramona does not feel the same for me as I do for her? Why does she look at me like schoolboy who needs teacher? Why do I fear if she knows I know English better than I have let on that she will dump me? How can I make her know how deep my feelings are for her? I wonder most of all if love can be lost in translation.

“Mona Lisa.” His voice was reprimanding, but not cold. He seemed more shocked to be seeing me there than I had been finding the journal.

“Hello, da Vinci. Leonardo.” I stood and he hesitated, as if not sure how to approach me. A handshake? A hug?

He air-kissed my cheeks. “It's good to see you. You look well. No, better than that. Ravishing.”

I could feel myself blush. “You, too. I found this in the car.” I handed him the notebook I'd brought in.

Da Vinci opened it then tossed it on his desk. “You must think I'm shallow to keep a notebook of such things.”

I studied his features like one might a favorite painting in a museum. He grew more beautiful every time you laid eyes on him. “I think writing things down for posterity is a very good thing.” I gently closed the drawer door with my thigh so he couldn't see I'd found the others.

Crossing one leg over the other, he leaned against the wall. “I am no longer a frat boy. I am, as they say, house dad. You must be twenty-six to apply.”

“I hope you had a happy birthday.”

“I did. Thank you.”

“So you like it here, then?”

“In charge of these crazy Americans. This way I get free room and board and some spending money and can still watch over them. And the work is never tedious.”

I stepped out from the desk, proud of his English. Most frat guys wouldn't use the word 'tedious'. “You care about them, don't you?”

“Everybody needs somebody to look out for them. Like you did for me.”

I could feel the tears wet my cheeks. “I'm sorry, da Vinci. I'm just crying because I'm so happy for you. I mean, look at you. You made it.”

He reached out for my hand. “And look at you. You seem happy. Truly happy.”

“I am. I'm glad things worked out for you here. If you need some place to go for Christmas, I'm sure the boys would like to see you.”

Da Vinci tucked his longer hair behind his ears. It seemed like ages ago that I had done the very thing for him. Like another life. I resisted telling him he could use a haircut.

“I miss William and Bradley. But Chiara is coming for the holiday. I was wrong to believe that distance would make me love her any less.” He pointed to his chest. “Even though I couldn't see her, she was right here all along.”

ANH PLOPPED HER KEYS on the kitchen counter and Vi on my lap. She paced back and forth, and I'd been friends long enough to know not to push her. Finally, she leaned on the kitchen counter and looked me squarely in the eye.

“Who have I become? Really? Because what I'm feeling inside doesn't match who I've always thought I was.”

“Am I really supposed to answer that?'

“Vi's mother wants her back.”

I held Vi closer. “And you don't want to give her back.”

“Is that not the damndest thing? I've been complaining practically since Vi's birth that I don't want to raise her and how I want her parents to be more involved, and when they finally wake up and want her, I can't give her up.” Anh's face screwed into a cry. “I
can't
. She's mine. I never wanted to believe it, but she's my baby. She calls me ‘Mom,‘ which is a helluva lot better than ‘Grandma,‘ by the way, and I know I can give her a good life.”

“Of course you can. So you'll fight for her. You'll fight for what you want.”

“And in the midst of my breakdown, what does my American boyfriend do?”

“Proposes to you.”

“How did you know? So much for an anti-climactic moment.”

“I've been waiting for you to tell me. He told Rachel before Thanksgiving he was going to.”

“And you kept this from me
why
?”

“I wouldn't want to ruin your surprise. It's not often a woman gets proposed to. Wait a minute. I forgot who I'm talking to. So where's the ring?”

“Ring? Ring? I didn't say yes! But saying no felt like lying. Which is why I came here to ask my PhD friend who just did a damn dissertation on love why I wish I would've said yes.”

“Because you love him.”

Anh made a face and went to the pantry to retrieve food—prob-ably junk food, the stuff that I rarely ate anymore. She turned around, her mouth dropped open. “Ohmigod. You finally got rid of the peanut butter.”

“I did. It was time.”

“Good for you.” She motioned to the Christmas tree in the living room. “And you decorated this year.”

“The boys helped.”

“Still.”

“Still. I know. And as for you …”

“I should say yes.”

“Fourth time's a charm.”

“I thought it was the third time? That was my most disastrous marriage yet. Where does that saying come from?”

“America. No one knows exactly, but the precursor to it was Elizabeth Barrett Browning, who in a letter in 1839 said, ‘The luck of the third adventure‘ is proverbial. Then it was spotted in 1912 in a snooty newspaper report about a mature woman getting married for the third time.”

“Women are such optimists. Talk about your American perseverance.”

“We push on. As for love, it's worth the chance, I think.”

“Are we talking about me now, or you?”

“You. Of course. Though I might heed some of the advice.”

Anh grabbed a fistful of Cheetos. Okay, I hadn't gotten rid of the junk food
completely. “
I'm sure the duck house looks splendid this time of year.”

The invitation arrived in the mail the next day, a silver envelope with a crisp white card inside with silver foil lettering.

You are cordially invited to a Christmas Party at the home of Cortland Andrews on Friday, December 23rd at 7 p.m.

I traced my fingers over the lettering. I'd only seen him twice in the last month, our schedules for coming and going out of sync, which was for the best. Every day I thought of him—every hour, though I wouldn't admit it—and I had so much I wanted to tell him but ended up calling up someone else instead to share the news. But instead of feeling satisfied, the things piled up inside of me: that I had accepted the job at UT to teach three days a week in the liberal arts program, that William had won the local chess tournament, that I had now organized every drawer and closet in the entire house and the boys were miraculously keeping their rooms clean.

The little things, too, things that only Cortland might appreciate: that I'd completed the
New York Times
crossword in record time the day before, that I'd seen four ducks walking in front of his house last week on their way to a local pond, and they had stopped and looked at his house as if they knew they were welcome there.

The invitation did not ask for an RSVP, so I decided I would just drop by. He had probably invited all the neighbors, though many would already be out of town visiting relatives, and it would be rude not to wish him happy holidays in his first Christmas in his home.

More than ever, I felt Joel's presence in our home. As I removed the clutter, peace fell over me, the anxiety washed away. I missed him
all the same, but as Deacon Friar had suggested, I felt Joel in my heart instead of pushing him out. Thinking of him had transitioned from hurt to comfort.

This would be my first Christmas After with
la vita allegra.
I'd baked Joel's favorite Christmas foods—banana nut bread and peanut butter cookies—and doled them out to the neighbors. I had taken the boys to the ATO house to deliver four dozen cookies to da Vinci to share with his guys, and another three dozen to the Panchal Center. I had saved one loaf back to take to Cortland's party.

Judith and Barbara took the boys to a Christmas party at Life so I could go to Cortland's party alone. I walked across the street at 7:05 p.m., not wanting to be the first one there, but no other cars were in the driveway. As I rang the doorbell, I heard Christmas music coming from the inside—the classics, Frank Sinatra. I wondered if the other neighbors had done as I had and simply walked over, though there were no other footprints on the snowy sidewalk.

Cortland answered the door, wearing a red sweater and pressed slacks, handsomely festive. He took the banana bread I offered him. “You came,” he said as if he couldn't believe it.

“Merry Christmas.”

“Merry Christmas. Oh, come in. Let me show you around.”

“Wow.” The place was completely transformed. New tile, new paint, new granite and stainless steel kitchen, just as he'd described. I admired his vision for change. “It's all so different.”

“You like it?”

“Like it? I love it. Wait 'til all the other neighbors get here. They'll be jealous.”

He took my coat and hung it in the entry closet. I followed him to the kitchen and sat on the black bar stool and noticed two martini glasses on the counter. Two and not ten, twenty?

“Can I pour you a Christmastini?”

“A what-ey?”

“It's pomegranate juice. Nice holiday drink. Pretty tasty, too. And full of antioxidants.”

“And vodka, I presume.”

“Well, that, too.”

“One can't hurt.”

He shook the martini mixer and poured me a glass, the rich, red liquid filling it temptingly. “So congratulations on your new post at the university,
Dr
. Griffen.”

“How did you know? Wait a minute. Noble, Judith, my mom. You probably know everything that's been going on with me. And I had so much to tell you.” I caught myself, too revealing.

“I'd much rather hear it from the horse's mouth. Not that you're a horse, of course.”

I drank one, two, three Christmastinis and told him everything that had been bottled up inside of me, beginning with the mundane and getting more and more personal, about how I broke up with da Vinci the night before Thanksgiving and how I'd found his journals and how the boys had wanted to play matchmaker to make me happy again.

We moved from the kitchen to the living room on the plush leather couches and Dean Martin sang to us as we ate the appetizers that seemed like an awful lot of food for two people. I'd been enjoying the party so much I hadn't noticed the time, or that no one else had joined us.

“Where are the people?” I asked.

Cortland looked around. “What people?”

“The party people. Where is everyone you invited to your party?”

“They're all here.”

“They're all … wait a minute. You threw a party and invited one person?”

“That's right.”

“So it's not a party at all, but more like a date.”

Cortland shook his head, playing innocent. “Nope. This has all the ingredients for a party: music, food, drinks. I think even you can't refute that this is a party.”

“A party of two.”

“Does it really matter what we call it?”

“Of course it matters. Terminology matters very much.”

“Well, I, for one, think whatever it is we're doing here is going pretty well.” He leaned closer, then noticed the snow falling outside. “Thank you, Jesus.” Cortland bounced off the seat.

“Did you just thank the Lord for the snow?”

“Yep. It's the one party ingredient I couldn't pick up at the store. I needed it to snow so I could show you this.” He grabbed my hand and led me outside, down the path, the snowflakes tickling our faces as we walked hand in hand to the swing. He'd placed little red scarves on the duck statues in the garden.

“Nice touch,” I had to admit.

We held hands and swung back and forth, watching the flakes fall onto the trees, the oak, the evergreen, the tops of the ducks' heads. I rested my head on his shoulder. “You do know how to throw a good party,” I said finally.

“If you like this, just wait and see what I'm like on a date.”

“Dating is for the birds. I feel too old to date.”

“We could probably find a word you liked better. Mating?”

I turned up my nose. “Eww. No.”

“I've always liked the word ‘rendezvous.‘ It's fun to say:
ron-daaaaaayvooooo
.”

“I suppose we could rendezvous, though I'll need clarification on your definition.”

“Why don't we make it up as we go along?”

He leaned in again to kiss me, and I backed away. “I make it a habit not to kiss on my first party. And I better get back and finish wrapping some gifts for the boys.”

Cortland snapped his fingers. “I'm glad you reminded me. I have a gift for you. Nope. Scratch that. It's not a gift at all, but a party favor.”