Gaining Visibility (7 page)

Vitale's voice vacillated between stern and forceful to mellow and cajoling, and if hand gestures meant the same as in the States, he told the person on the other end to let his fingers do the walking through a tornado. Twice.

The doctor pointed to her and to the single crutch he'd brought with him. She made a couple of laps around the tiny room to satisfy him. The crutch bore the bulk of the weight on that foot, but she could still touch it down, so she didn't lose her balance. This was going to be okay. She should be able to do plenty of sightseeing, and the whole vacation wasn't going to be a bust after all.

“
Grazie, grazie mille.
” She shook the doctor's hand warmly.

“
Prego.
” He patted her hand and responded with something that probably meant, “When you decide you want to bed that Italian Hettie talked about, give me a call.”

At least she wasn't invisible to him, though, and for that she was grateful. She wasn't invisible to Vitale either, but it wasn't lost on her that Vitale was taking care of her the same way she took care of Hettie.

The congenial doctor said his “
Arrivederci
” and headed out as the hotel manager flitted in again, bringing two more ice cubes for her toe. Ice must be a precious commodity, and she gave them a once-over to see if they were being recycled from left-over drinks from the bar. The faint telltale lemon scent had her worried.

“Mr. Moretti.” She wanted to catch him before he made another round to the bar. “I'd like to stay here a few more days. Would it be possible to keep this room? Or I can move to another if this one is booked?”

He looked at her like she'd asked for the impossible—like more ice. “
Aaiee,
signora, the room, she is reserved. All the rooms, they are reserved for two week.”

“All of them? You have no rooms available?”

“No, signora. The tour arrive tomorrow.”

“Tour?”

“
Sì.
The tour come each July.”

“So, I can't stay here.” That would put Monterosso back in the plans.
Oh crap!
“Vitale!”

But he was already hanging up the phone, and the smug smile on his face said it all. “You have no reservation, Julietta, and you pay no money.”

“Well, you got that right.” She inwardly cringed when his smile broadened.
Gotta quit using sarcasm around this guy.
No way was she going to ask him to call and try to get the reservation again. She tossed the crutch on the bed and plopped down beside it.

“Julietta, you are not happy?” Vitale moved over in front of her, looking down at her with soulful eyes. Damn gorgeous soulful eyes.

This guy could never lie and get away with it. He gave everything away with his face. She thought briefly of Frank's poker face but shoved it out of her mind.

“Vitale, I appreciate everything you've done. Really.” She leaned her weight against one arm and ran the other hand through the hair at the top of her head. “But Mr. Moretti says I can't stay here, and we just canceled my reservation in Monterosso, and my toe is broken so I can't hike the Cinque Terre, so I'm thinking I need to cut my losses and go on to Pisa or someplace where I can work.”

Vitale swung his gaze around to Mr. Moretti, and Julia watched it harden.

“Is this true?” he demanded.

“
Sì,
Vitale.”

And then came a flurry of words such as she'd never heard before. She wouldn't call it an exchange—one didn't wait for the other to finish. Instead, they talked at the same time, spoke over each other, gestured wildly. Faces reddened, voices rose, and Julia watched . . . fascinated.

It ended when Mr. Moretti stormed out of the room, still talking.

She stood up and limped awkwardly toward Vitale with no idea who had won . . . but he didn't look happy. She reached out to pat his arm in a friendly gesture, but he caught her hand, and she caught her breath.

“No rooms.” He squeezed her hand gently, and she had to force herself to quit watching his mouth and listen to his words. “But I find you the place to stay.”

“No, you don't need to do that.” She jerked her hand away, feeling silly at the excitement his touch roused in her. “I know I blamed you earlier, but I was just upset. It wasn't your fault. I should have been watching where I was going.”

“I want to do.”

“Why? You don't even know me.” She squared her shoulders, preparing to take the blow when he said she reminded him of his mother—or worse.

“Because you work hard.” His fingers skimmed lightly down her arm, causing her to reach across and clutch the crutch with both hands for grounding. “You come to Italy. To Lerici. You cannot hike, but you can enjoy. You want to be here. It make you happy.”

“Happy?” Sarcasm crept back into her tone. “My whole vacation has fallen apart, and you think I'm happy?”

“You are happy. The body, she say happy.”

“How in heaven's name do you get ‘happy' out of my limping around the room on a crutch?” She threw the words out like a challenge.

“The finger . . . sometime the toe.” He nodded to her hand resting on her hip. “She dance to the music inside you. On the table when you eat. On the chair by the pool when you rest.” He pointed to the imprint in the comforter where she'd been sitting. “On the bed.”

His answer stunned her. To battle the depression after her cancer diagnosis and the ensuing divorce, her therapist encouraged her to use music as therapy—make playlists of songs that made her happy—to keep her mind occupied with something other than fear. She'd never realized she tapped the rhythm unconsciously.

But Vitale noticed?

That was actually kind of nice. “But . . .” It still didn't make sense for a perfect stranger to go to this much trouble, dancing finger notwithstanding.

“No but.”

He touched his finger to her lip, and she fought the sudden urge to draw it into her mouth and suck on it. Her brain shouted at her to stop that line of thinking, but other parts of her body seemed to have a mind of their own.

“I want to do it, so I do it. I leave now to finish the work. But I find you the place to stay. I come tomorrow morning to take you there.”

“Well, here.” She grabbed her journal from the table. “The hotels where I have reservations in Florence and Rome are here.” She copied the listings from the first two pages and handed him the paper. “Maybe one of them will have a room available, and I'll just spend more time there.”

He looked as though he was about to comment, but then he stuffed the paper into his pocket and walked out, head held high, reminding her of stories of demigods in Roman mythology.

* * *

Julia needed fresh air.

She needed to check in with Camille, and she needed to check on Hettie. Most of all, she needed to keep her libido in check. Reacting foolishly to Vitale the way she had put her in the same league with Frank and Howard, a thought that made her skin crawl.

“Get hold of yourself, Julietta,” she muttered, but the pleasant shiver that fluttered down her spine when she imagined Vitale mispronouncing her name mocked her attempts to follow her own advice. She grabbed her bag and the crutch, determined to let the salty breeze cleanse the overcharged synapses in her brain.

Passing through the hotel lobby, she spotted a brochure advertising a boat excursion around the area. There would be just enough time to grab a bite and make it to the three o'clock tour.

The walk down the incline went fairly well with the crutch, though a bit slower than she was used to. She hadn't ventured very far before she found a lovely bistro with alfresco dining. After ordering a panini and a pinot grigio, feeling smugly decadent for drinking wine at lunch, she dialed the business number.

“Panache. This is Camille.”

“So the business hasn't folded in my absence.”

“Julia! How are you?”

She drew out a long, dramatic sigh. “Well, my toe got broken this morning when Jupiter became angry that I was gawking at one of his gods, so I won't be hiking the Cinque Terre after all.”

“Oh no.” Camille groaned the utterance in such a way that adequate sympathy and a hug were both conveyed over the distance.

“And I lost my hotel reservation, so I don't have anyplace to stay, but said-god is looking for a place, and he noticed my dancing finger, so all in all, I'd say things aren't
too
terrible.”

“I'm not even sure I followed all of that, but it sounds like you've met a man, so I'm impressed.” Impressing Camille wasn't difficult if romance was involved . . . even the fantasy kind.

“I've met a man named Vitale, who's gorgeous, but he's only about thirty, so hardly in legal range for me. The good part is that he's taking care of me like he would his mother—so you got your wish—and he's very helpful.”

“His mother, huh? Better wait and see what he wants for his trouble before you continue down that line of thinking.” Camille's philosophy came out chewed around the edges. She must be eating breakfast. “And how'd the broken toe happen?”

Julia opted for the dramaless version. “Vitale was laying a pathway, and he had this pile of stones. One fell off and landed on my foot.”

“Are you in pain?”

Julia thought about that before she spoke. “No, not really.”

“But you can't hike.” More crunching ensued. “That's terrible.”

“Could be worse. Of all the great places in the world to get laid up, the Italian Riviera's got to be at the top of the list. How's business?”

“Nora Travis called this morning.” An eye roll was evident in Camille's voice. “She's ready to do her library and got all excited when I told her you were in Italy looking for new lines.”

Julia answered with an eye roll of her own. “Glad you're there to take care of the pretentious little twit. You were so good with her last time.”

“As long as she's willing to pay the price, I don't mind wearing my boots and carrying my shovel.” Julia heard the familiar door chime in the background. “Anne Hutchens. How are you? Hey, Julia, somebody just came in, so I've got to go. Call and let me know where you are and how you're managing, 'kay?”

“I will. Go make us some money.”

“And you find us some great stuff. Love you!”

As the warm sun beat down on her back, Julia was surprised at how relaxed she felt considering the circumstances. She should be upset . . . in a foreign country virtually homeless. But Vitale's manner had been so assuring, she really wasn't worried. He would find her a place to stay.

Allowing someone else to take care of things this once was rather nice, actually. But she wouldn't want to make a habit of it.

She sipped the crisp white wine, which tasted of sunshine and air and sea—Liguria in a bottle—and soon her server sat the grilled sandwich in front of her, bits of roasted red peppers and eggplant oozing out the side along with the cheese.

Julia's mouth watered at the sight.

“You meet Vitale?”

Julia's surprise must've shown on her face.

“I hear you say ‘Vitale.' ” The girl pointed to the cell phone.

“Oh.” Julia pointed to her toe. “I broke my toe this morning, so I'm having to change my plans. Vitale helped me do that.”

“Vitale, he is nice.” The girl took a dreamy breath. “And beautiful. Do you love him?”

Ah! Just as she'd suspected—no woman was impervious to the man's charms. Julia chuckled and shook her head. “No, I don't love him. He's much too young for me.” She estimated the girl to be around seventeen. “And much too old for you, I think.”

The girl flashed her a sheepish smile. “All the women love Vitale.
Mia nonna, mia madre, mia sorella
. . . me. All love Vitale.” She pursed her lips and gave a knowing nod, looking wise for her years, and shook her finger meaningfully. “And Vitale, he love all the women.”

“So look, but no touch, eh?” Julia tried to match the girl's wise and somber look.

“
Sì.
Plenty of look, though.” The sweet face dissolved into a moony smile before she walked back inside.

“Done more than my share of looking already,” Julia murmured, then washed away the admission on a sip of wine.

One bite of the panini, and she was sure she could live here forever. Gorgeous men, great wines, luscious foods—all works of art. What was there not to love about this place?

The young server sat a plate on the next table over with four perfectly formed chocolate truffles. They reminded Julia of Hettie. She dialed the number that would ring directly into her mother-in-law's room.

Hettie answered on the fourth ring, which was a feat for her.

As soon as she heard Julia's “
Buon giorno,
” she opened with, “Gotten laid yet? Remember, it's got to be by an Italian. Americans you meet on planes don't count.”

“The American I met on the plane was a jerk. And the only Italians I've met would be better suited for Melissa or you.”

“Go for one of the young ones,” Hettie said. “If you caused one of the old guys to have a heart attack, it could get ugly.”

Julia tucked that away under
needless advice
and shifted the subject to the news about her toe and her change in plans. Hettie was sympathetic, but not sappy. “That stone didn't just fall on your toe. Fate pushed it there, so be ready.”