Gaining Visibility (31 page)

“We had too many years, Jules. Your love for me wouldn't simply evaporate.”

“You're right about that,” she admitted, able to think straight again. “My love for you didn't ‘simply evaporate' in a matter of days or weeks or months. It took a long time and a lot of tears. And maybe it didn't go away. Maybe the tears carved it into a different shape, or maybe the pain sculp . . . sculpted it.” She stammered, immediately regretting her word choices. “All I know is it evolved into something else.” A settling calmness stole over her as the words rang true in her soul. She cleared her throat, wanting her voice to be strong and sure so there would be no mistaking what she said. “I don't love you, Frank. Not that way. Not anymore.”

His face contorted with pain. “Yes, you do. You're only saying that to hurt me the same way I hurt you.”

She searched her heart, and it told her he was wrong. “No, I have no desire to hurt you. I used to, but it's gone now.” Her reasons seemed so logical to her now—crystal clear, as though she were viewing them under a magnifying glass. “That's why I could let you stay here. That's why I've been careful about what I said about my personal life around you.” Her voice vibrated with growing emotion. “I don't
need
to hurt you. There was no threat of any old feelings reappearing because those feelings have vanished.”

He shook his head more vehemently. “You can get the feelings back. They're there.”

“You're not hearing me, Frank, and you
need
to hear me. I still have feelings for you, but they're not the same kind of feelings I used to have. You're like an old friend. Like Earl.” Her eyes pleaded with him to understand. “I don't want to hurt you, but I also don't
want
you. The desire I felt for you is gone. I want you to be happy, yes, but I want me to be happy more. I wouldn't be happy with you. I'm sorry.” She could feel his pain, but it was only that—
his pain
.

Frank's eyes clouded. He dropped his gaze before letting out a sigh that shook his core. “You have nothing to be sorry for. You gave me everything. Melissa. Your love. Your loyalty. I'm the one who's sorry.” His eyes found hers again. “I'm sorry for leaving you when you needed me most. Sorry for distracting your attention when you should've been concentrating on your health. Can you forgive me?”

Her heart twisted. She wasn't to that point. “Someday, maybe. But not yet.”

His chin quivered, but he nodded. “Jules, I'm sorry for making you feel like anything less than the beautiful person you are.”

“You never even saw me before.” Emotion strangled her words to a whisper. “I was invisible to you.”

Frank's eyes remained locked on hers. “Well, you're not invisible to me now. I see you clearly, and you're beautiful. Inside and out.”

“I don't know about beautiful.” She shrugged. “But I'm interesting. I'll always be a work-in-progress, I think.”

Frank gave her a tender smile. “A masterpiece.” His voice was husky with emotion. He cleared his throat and clapped his hands together. “Well, I'd best be getting out of here.” He took her hand, clasping it between his. “Thanks for taking me in.”

She nodded. “You earned your keep. Thanks for all the cooking and handiwork you did around here.”

He patted her hand and gave a long, dramatic sigh. “Well, like I said before, that's it.”

She watched him leave, scanning her heart for any sign of disappointment or remorse, but there was none.

Only a sense of profound relief.

* * *

“The molds are loaded . . . so whenever you're ready.” Vitale walked up behind Adrianna, who was hunched over the computer. He laid his hands on her shoulders, pressing his thumbs into the tight muscles and massaging them. She winced at even the small amount of pressure he applied, which made him wince inwardly at how hard he'd been driving her lately. “And take tomorrow off. You're going to be bent over like an old woman if you keep this up.”

She rolled her shoulders forward and back a few times and leaned her head to both sides to stretch her neck. “I have seen computer desks that will raise and lower so you can stand or sit. Maybe we should get one? And I think I'll bring one of those stability balls to sit on. I have read doing that will keep your core muscles engaged.”

The image of his sister sitting on a ball to work brought a chuckle. “Whatever you want to buy is fine with me. I want to keep my assistant happy.”

Not having to worry about the cost, as long as it was within reason, was fabulously freeing. They were making a good living. Not getting rich by any means. But he was comfortable, and he was keeping his family comfortable. Even Papà's attitude had shifted and he'd started to show an interest in the business, which was causing Vitale to think in terms of how to use his father's carpentry skills in his designs. Structures to provide shade . . . benches or different types of seating . . . platforms that could place sculptures at different heights for optimum viewing—Papà would be a master at that type of work. And it would allow him to move away from the backbreaking work taking its toll on his aging body.

“Are you sure you don't want to go with me?” Adrianna stood and stretched her arms over her head. “It would do you good to get out . . . away from here for a while.”

Much as he'd like to go, the trip to the foundry near Pisa would take the entire day, and Vitale didn't have the time to spare.

He shook his head and pointed to the spreadsheet she'd been working on. “The orders are pouring in too quickly for me to keep up with production now. Orabella and Cesare are coming by for training this afternoon. And Papà and I are going to work on their greenhouses tomorrow.” The fact his father had asked him when he would be available rather than scheduling the work and telling Vitale after the fact spoke volumes.

With autumn in the air, the young couple's landscaping business had started to wane. Papà had come up with the idea to build them greenhouses so they could save money by starting their own plants from seed. And Vitale had decided to employ them through the winter months to help him with finishing his artwork. He always hand-sanded the small bronze pieces. It was delicate work, but until now he had the time—something he found in short supply these days.

But that was fine. Staying busy kept his mind off Julietta. Until he went to bed. Even with his body exhausted and begging for sleep, memories often kept him awake.

What plagued him the most was not knowing whether or not she'd gone back to Frank.

It was difficult to imagine her doing that, considering the way her ex had devastated her, and Vitale hoped she had not. Hoped she had seen herself worthy of better treatment than that.

And so, when he pictured her in his head at night, she was sleeping alone . . . fitfully. Dreaming of him and the time they shared.

It kept his heart softened toward her enough that he could do what needed to be done, although it fell just short of forgiveness.

He had never been good at that—Luciana's only complaint about his character.

“Learn to forgive, Vitale,” she would whisper against his pouting lips. “Not for the other person. For you.”

Like his art, he was still a work-in-progress, as evidenced by the envelope addressed to Julietta Adrianna held up.

“Are you sure you want to do this?” Her eyes flashed the message she was giving him one last chance to reconsider, and the angry edge to her tone caused his jaw muscles to tighten. Adrianna was the one sibling he seldom argued with, but the discussion over this particular decision had been as heated as any he could recall.

“Yes.” He hoped his tone brokered no more discussion.

“With nothing from you directly. No note. No kiss-my-ass. No anything.”

“Yes.” He kept his answers to one word and his tongue caged firmly behind his teeth.

“There is an old saying about burning bridges, you know.” She slapped the stack of envelopes against his chest, and the
smack
echoed in his heart.

“But the bridge from Italy to America is too far, yes? A bridge that can never be crossed is of no use to anyone.”

She glared at him for a moment longer, then, with a final disgusted huff, she turned and left.

He stared at the spreadsheet on the screen but didn't really see it.

Perhaps he had been too hasty in his actions, but Julietta had made it clear that the type of relationship he wanted was over.

It was she who set fire to the bridge.

He just hoped to hell the fire in his heart would burn itself out quickly.

* * *

Eleven days had passed since Frank had moved out, and this morning was the first time Julia had woken without sniffing for the scent of bacon. She'd read somewhere that it took eleven times to make something a habit. Perhaps it was true after all.

She'd gotten up with one goal in mind—to get her life back to normal and to start making firm plans about the business. The events of the summer had taken their toll on her both emotionally and physically. She went to the office, prepared to do battle with the pile of paperwork threatening to take control of her desk. And she was determined to go to the gym after work or go for a run.

The self-pity wallow had gone on long enough.

Camille was fabric shopping for dining room chair covers with Madge Poindexter, and Bryan was obviously overjoyed to be tinkering with Camille's computer in her absence. He was a pleasant kid, eager to please, and his computer skills were proving to be an additional boon.

Already, he'd made suggestions and installed software that improved their bookkeeping system. Now, in his spare time, he was designing spreadsheets for their inventory.

With the trashcan at her side, Julia sorted through the pile of mail Camille had left on her desk. There was very little of interest, mostly advertisements and credit card offers, until her eyes fell on the return address of Lerici, Italy.

The handwriting on the envelope wasn't Vitale's, but the address was. In one quick movement, the letter opener sliced through the heavy paper. Inside, she found a sheet of paper and a check, and her eyes flew to the signature first. Adrianna. Not Vitale.

Ouch!
He couldn't write her himself? That stung.

The check was for more than she paid for the development of the Web site. The itemization showed that he'd also paid her for the hours she spent photographing his pieces.

She didn't want payment for those things. Didn't want this money. Putting a monetary value on what they'd had together only cheapened it. She crumpled the check in her fist as anger flashed through her.

But why should this surprise her? She was the one who essentially broke things off—sending that e-mail, all the while knowing how he would take it. Of course, he wouldn't want her investment hanging over his head—a reminder of unrequited love that she'd never bothered to tell him wasn't unrequited at all.

She laid the check on her desk and smoothed it with her palm, the anger cooled now. She didn't want the money, but he needed to settle up with her for closure.

His way of
fixing
the situation and keeping his pride intact.

She could allow him that . . . sort of.

A few keystrokes on her computer brought up the online catalog for Villa de Luca. She clicked through the items until she found one whose price was almost a perfect match for the amount of the check.

It was a piece she hadn't photographed, but one she was familiar with. Apparently, he'd kept the mold. Her eyes blurred, but she blinked away the nostalgia and went through the ordering process.

Having a de Luca piece of her own would invest the money back in his company and be a lovely memento of the most remarkable time of her life.

She clicked the button to finalize the order before she could change her mind.

C
HAPTER
29

T
he void left by the loss of Hettie was difficult to fill. It was the circle of life, after all, Julia told herself, and she tried to keep her focus on the many, many ways Hettie had enriched her life and not dwell on the hole left in her heart.

She went back to the gym with a new commitment to stay healthy and fit and to accept her scars as proof of a life reclaimed, and she threw herself into her work with zeal, determined to find the perfect answer to the question of how the business needed to evolve over the next few months in regards to Camille's departure.

She went about her work with more confidence now, making bold suggestions where she'd always played it safe before. Camille had referred to one of Julia's latest purchases—a female figure sculpted in opal and covered in wax, which brought out exquisite colors and details—as “eerily beautiful and collector worthy.”

She'd even had the house painted inside and out. For the first time since she and Frank bought it, she stepped away from the white exterior, opting for gray with white trim, and had gone so far as choosing a romantic pink for her bedroom.

She seldom listened to her
Happy
playlist anymore. Instead, she'd traded it for the
Calm
list in an attempt to quiet her mind enough to sleep at night.

As proof that time was moving on, the heat of August eventually gave way to the cooler days of September, followed by the frosts of October.

Too often Julia found herself flipping through professional journals or scanning their ads for employment, searching for the missing link in her quest to find what she wanted most to be when she grew up.

So it came as no big surprise when Frank's voice startled her from her daydream as she raked the leaves into large, crispy piles on her front lawn. “Jules, you okay?”

“Oh, sorry. Yeah, I'm fine.” She hadn't noticed how hot she was until she stopped moving. She unbuttoned the barn coat she was wearing.

Frank's eyes dropped to her chest and widened in surprise.

A flash of irritation shot through her, but it dissolved when she followed his gaze. Perspiration had soaked her red T-shirt, making a giant target on her chest that would be difficult to ignore. “Guess I've worked up quite a sweat,” she admitted.

Frank looked around at the piles. “You need some help?”

They'd been seeing each other almost daily as work on his new home progressed, and Julia found it easier to be around him. Not a true friendship, by any means. She still battled daily with forgiveness. But she also knew hate destroyed the vessel that carried it, and she didn't want any more erosion to her heart.

The two of them had come a long way from where they started, but they still had a long way to go.

“No, but thanks,” she answered. “I'm enjoying it. I'm thirsty, though. You want a soda or a cup of coffee?” She motioned to the house.

“No.” Frank reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a pink envelope. “I wanted to drop this by.”

The envelope he held out had Julia's name written across the front. She recognized Hettie's handwriting. “What's this?” She held the rake in the crook of her elbow and took the envelope, running her fingertips across the dark rose-colored ink.

“I don't know.” Frank shrugged. “I finally got around to going through Mom's things that I brought home from the nursing home. This was in a side pocket of her purse.”

Julia held it up. Against the sunlight, she could see writing. “I, um . . .” Emotion swelled in her throat. She tried ineffectually to swallow it away. “I think it's a letter.”

“Yeah, that's what I thought, too.”

Julia was too overcome to speak. A letter. From Hettie. She gripped it at both ends, afraid if she loosened her hold, it might dissolve into thin air.

Frank shifted uncomfortably, seemingly caught between curiosity and sensing she wanted to be alone when she read it. Thankfully, his best instincts prevailed this time. Maybe he was growing as well. “Well, I gotta be going.” He threw a thumb over his shoulder toward his car. “I've got raking that needs to be done, too.”

Julia clutched the letter to her heart, feeling the accelerated pounding against her knuckles. “Thanks, Frank.”

He waved. “Sorry I didn't find it sooner.”

As his car pulled away, Julia marveled again at the precious object she held in her hand. She dropped the rake onto the leaf pile and hurried into the house.

Her finger trembled as she started to ease it under the glued flap.
This is a treasure. Don't rip it.

She flew into the kitchen where she kept the odds-and-ends basket containing the letter opener. It sliced through the flap easily, despite her shaky hand.

Her knees buckled when she pulled the paper out and read the first line.

 

 

The words were written in Hettie's labored hand—uneven hen-scratching that zigzagged above and below the imaginary line—and it was one of the most beautiful sights Julia had ever seen.

She fought the urge to let her eyes roam any farther down the page until she felt the solid oak chair beneath her. A deep breath stabilized her, and she continued.

Julia laughed and pulled a paper napkin from the holder to wipe the wetness from her cheeks. Hettie could always make her laugh, even through her tears.

Julia read the letter again and again, running her fingertips across the words, trying to touch Hettie in some metaphysical way.

Had her perspective changed somewhere along the way? Starting the business had absorbed so much of her time. Then Melissa went away to college and she retreated more into her work, tried to take up the slack of time that loomed so large over her. Hettie became the focus of her attention, a surrogate child of a sort who fulfilled her nurturing need. She grinned at the thought. Some women adopted pets; she adopted a mother-in-law.

She'd certainly withdrawn when the cancer was diagnosed. The shock and fear had utterly devastated any sense of the self she thought she knew so well, left behind an empty shell that needed more than silicone to fill it up.

Looking back now, it appeared Hettie was right.
As always,
she thought wryly.

She reread the last part of the letter.
Now open your eyes, put yourself out there, and have some fun.

“Your advice is as sound as ever, Hettie. I
do
need to put myself out there and have some fun.” She folded the letter carefully and slid it back into the envelope. “The question is
how?
”

* * *

Julia's answer came a couple of weeks later during the final round of
Wheel of Fortune.
She took a bite of her glazed chicken Lean Cuisine and studied the visible letters in the Places puzzle.

“Piccadilly Square,” she called out, while Pat Sajak warned the audience to stay silent.

Her telephone rang as if confirming she was the winner.

She frowned at the Unknown Caller ID that appeared on the TV screen. If this was a telemarketer, she was going to let him have it between the ears. What good was being on the No Call List if they were going to keep calling anyway?

She snatched up the phone, her voice loaded for bear. “Hello?”

There was a hesitation on the other end and then a man's voice sounding apologetic and vaguely familiar. “Um, hello. I was calling to speak with Julia Berkwith. Is she available?”

It could be a customer, so she trimmed her tone to businessy curt rather than out-and-out rude, allowing for an easy shift either way. “Yes, this is she.”

“Oh, hello, Julia. This is Joe Proctor, the administrator at Manor Hill Convalescent Center.”

“Hi, Joe.” She quickly inserted a smile into her voice. “I remember speaking to you at Hettie's funeral. How are you?”

“I'm fine, thank you. And you? Are you doing okay?” His voice was full of genuine-sounding concern. “I know you and Mrs. Berkwith were very close.”

A follow-up PR call? Not standard procedure for most nursing homes, she would bet, but a nice touch. “It's been hard, but I'm doing all right. It's nice of you to call and check.”

His chuckle had an embarrassed ring to it. “Well, I did want to know you were doing okay, but that's not the only reason for my call.”

Ah, some unfinished business with Hettie's account, then. “Well, then, what can I do for you?”

“Actually . . .” He cleared his throat. “I was hoping you would consider having dinner with me.”

“Dinner?” Julia cringed. Her intonation made it sound like she was unfamiliar with the word. “You mean, like a date?”

“That's . . . yes, that's what I had in mind.”

A date. The man was asking her on a date. Her mind whirled. Did she want to have dinner with a man? With
this
man? She didn't really know him, but he seemed very nice. “I, uh . . .” She stalled, trying to give her brain time to catch up to her mouth. Why not? She couldn't come up with an answer, and Hettie's advice pinged in her brain.
Now open your eyes, put yourself out there, and have some fun.

She could do this. For Hettie. For herself. “I think I'd like that.” She managed to keep the emphasis off the word
think,
although the emphasis screamed in her brain.

“Great.”

Was that a sigh of relief that reverberated across the line? Julia breathed one of her own.

“I was afraid maybe you were seeing someone.”

“No,” she answered. “I'm not.”

“I'm glad to hear that. I've been trying to work up the courage to call you for a couple of weeks.” The embarrassed chuckle made a reprise. “Would Friday night work for you? I was thinking maybe Max's Bistro.”

“Friday would be fine.” She tried to pump some enthusiasm into her voice. “And I love Max's. It's my favorite restaurant.”

“How does seven sound?”

“Perfect.”

“Okay, then. I'll be at your house around seven o'clock Friday evening, and I'll make reservations for seven thirty.”

“I'll be looking forward to it, Joe.” Not exactly the truth, but not an out-and-out lie either.

After they said their good-byes, she set the phone down slowly. A date. A groan escaped as she slumped back into the chair. “I have a date. Dinner.
Ghah!
Three hours of making conversation while I try to keep broccoli from getting stuck between my teeth.” She squeezed her eyes shut.
Why am I doing this? Why put myself through this?

She took a hefty gulp from her wineglass.

Because it's part of putting myself out there. Changing my perspective
.

She sucked in a breath and blew it out in a
whoosh
. “Okay. This is not an insurmountable task.” Her chest tightened as the glazed chicken started to tap dance in her stomach.

“This is the next step, old girl.” She spoke aloud again, needing the physical sound of a voice to ground her. “Change your vision of the world. You can't see what's around the corner until you make the turn.”

* * *

Vitale left the Hotel Fiori in a mild state of wonder. Minutes ago, Nicolina Egidi had agreed to hire Villa de Luca to redesign the area around the pool of her hotel. The two of them had talked as adults, keeping the conversation business casual with none of her usual sexual innuendo. It had been pleasant. He smiled. Most of all, it had been profitable.

The work wouldn't begin until late February, and it wouldn't be on such a grand scale as the Lord Byron project. But it would keep him, Orabella and Cesare, Papà, and, of course, Adrianna busy for the better part of March.

Luciana's advice to forgive had served him well in this instance.

Perhaps he would give it another try . . . sometime.

He'd left his new auto parked behind the gallery after making his delivery this morning. With the happiness currently coursing through his veins, he would have preferred to have the freedom of his motorcycle on the ride home. But the auto had become a necessity with the business.