The Real Thing (10 page)

Chapter 14

“N
ow, we ski,” Dante says, squeezing my hand and barking commands in Italian to DJ.

I pull his hand, and Dante turns. “You have to be kidding.”

He shakes his head. “I do not kid. I am from Brooklyn.”

Lelani wraps me in several towels and a quilt for the ride back down the lake to the beach below Old Baldy. While DJ and Lelani ready the boat and the ski rope, Dante helps me into a fancy ski vest and the skis as we stand in three feet of water.

“I've never done this,” I say.

“It is easy,” Dante says. “I will be with you in the water.”

He slides behind me, putting a bright yellow handle in my hands, the rope stretching off toward the boat.

“The key,” he says, “is to stay crouched and let the boat pull you up.”

I feel his hands moving down my sides.

“I will hold you as long as I can,” he says. “Until Lelani is ready, you can lean back.”

I lean back and feel all that granite. I also feel his frisky hands cupping my buttocks.

“Sorry,” he says, and he moves them to my hips.

Put them back! “Um, Dante, what if I fall?”

“You fall,” he says. “It happens.”

I have to see if he's noticed my wandering breasts. “I mean, I'm afraid I'll lose what I'm wearing if I fall. My bra was not made for swimming.”

“I have noticed,” he says.

My wandering breasts, um, pucker up when he says that.

“The vest will keep everything on,” he says.

I turn my head slightly and see his lips. “I'm not worried about my top.”

“Oh,” he says. “But it is getting dark. No one will see if that happens.”

The ski rope tightens, and both Dante and I float away from shore, his hands firmly holding on to my thighs.

“Ready?” he asks.

“I guess.”

“Just hold on and let the boat do the work.” He moves his hands to my hips again, yelling, “Hit it!”

The first time I fall isn't as bad as the
fifth
time I fall. On tries one through four, I wasn't even close to getting up, the handle flying away from me and me biting the water face first. Dante would swim out to me, hold me again, and I'd . . . I'd fall again. The fifth time, though, I am still in my crouch and almost standing when the right ski just . . . flies away behind me.

I do a spectacular cartwheel.

And lose my shorts.

It is an interesting feeling to be floating in a cove without one's shorts on as the sun sets completely. I'm sure my plain white underwear most likely leaves nothing to anyone's imagination. Although I am glad that I shave down there, I am sure young DJ doesn't have to see a strange woman's, um, bald chicken under her sheer white panties. Yet when Dante swims out to me, I don't tell him I've lost my shorts because I sort of want him to discover that on his own.

“One more time?” he asks.

“Sure,” I say. I am so sore and achy my body is going to file for divorce from me, I just know it.

I feel his hands go down my thighs, I rotate my hips just enough, and . . .

“Oh,” Dante says. “Your . . .”

“Yeah,” I say. “I don't think I should make another attempt.”

“What should I do?” Dante says, his hands gone from my body.

“Just bring the boat over,” I say, taking off my only ski.

Dante signals for the boat, and Lelani drives it to us. “Tired?” she asks.

“Yeah, um . . .” I look at Dante, who quickly looks away. “I'm going to need one of the towels.”

DJ points to the ladder at the back of the boat. “Just climb in.”

“Um, I will, Lelani,” I say, widening my eyes, “just as soon as I get that towel.”

Lelani mouths, “You lost your . . .”

I nod.

She throws in a towel. I wrap it around my waist tightly and slowly climb the ladder onto the boat.

As soon as I sit, I see my shorts floating nearby. “Dante,” I whisper, nodding toward the water.

He looks, takes an oar, hooks onto the shorts—

I guess there's no discreet way to rescue one's shorts from a lake without everyone on the boat and several folks out on docks knowing it. Dante raises the oar, and those shorts flap a little like a flag in the wind.

They're still laughing about it at the dinner table ninety minutes and a long hot bath later.

“You were supposed to let go, Christiana,” DJ says. “When you're flying like Superman—”

“Super
woman,”
I interrupt. “And Lelani drove the boat entirely too fast. We don't go faster than thirty miles per hour in Brooklyn.”

“I was only doing twenty,” Lelani says. “What I don't get is why your, um, bottoms didn't go to the bottom!”

“Yeah. Nice dinner conversation.” I bite into a leftover filet. “Why don't we talk about these fish and how I caught them all? That would be fun to talk about.”

DJ turns to Red. “Dad couldn't even get his line in the water, she was bringing them in so fast.”

Dante looks away, but I can see a smile. “I was busy with the anchor. It had a tangle.”

“Tangle, my eye,” I say. “You were stunned. Admit it.”

“Why should I be stunned?” Dante asks. “You are a Red Hook girl. Fishing is in your bones.” He turns to Red. “She is also crazy. We are stopped for an instant, it is pitch dark, she cannot know where to cast, she throws into the fog, and over rocks.” He shakes his head. “She is crazy.”

“I prefer ‘fearless,' thank you very much,” I say. “Dante, there's something I've been meaning to ask you. Why do you use a lure bigger than the fish?”

He scoots his chair closer to mine. “I only want to catch big fish. Big lure. Big fish.”

I smile. “Little leech catch big fish yesterday.”

“Because I take you to the right spot at the right time,” Dante says. “Fishing is about timing, always timing.”

I look at Red. “Like I timed that weak jab of yours today.”

“Oh, weak, you say?” Dante stands and waves a filet at me. “I was holding back.”

“So was I,” I say. “Like you said, I've had a long layoff. Give me four, five weeks, and you'll see.”

“What will I see?” he asks.

I have him
so
bad. “Oh, that's right. You're old. You can't see the punches coming anymore. I guess you
won't
see.”

Dante laughs and sits. “How is your face?”

I ignore him. “Five pounds, three ounces. Isn't that a record for this cottage?”

He shakes his head. “Luck.”

“Skill and fearlessness,” I counter. “Is that why you use a top-water lure? So you don't get stuck?”

“It is where the fish feed at five in the morning.” He taps the table.

“Not yesterday morning they weren't,” I say. “How big was that little minnow you
almost
caught?”

Dante smiles. “Again, how is your face?”

I throw a crust of bread at him, he throws it back, DJ adds a little lettuce, and Lelani hits me with a cherry tomato.

Dinner is a success.

Red pulls me into the kitchen to help with the dishes, and though I just want to curl up on a couch and sleep for a few months, I help him by scrubbing the platter.

“You've certainly brought the table back to life, Christiana,” he says. “I've always thought there was something wrong when there was no conversation at the table.”

“Amen.”

“When Evelyn is around, it's even quieter than it was last night.”

That's hard to imagine. “Why?”

“Because,” he whispers, “she is not of this earth. She has the ability to freeze mouths in midsentence and minds in midthought. ‘Dinner is for eating,' she used to say. ‘Dinner is only for the finest conversation.' It's good to have noise at that table again.”

“Sorry about the bread,” I say. “I couldn't resist.”

He leans on the counter and looks at the ceiling. “Nope. We have never had a food fight up here before.”

“It was an unfair fight, though,” I say. “Lelani hogged the salad bowl.”

He taps me on the shoulder. “Go on. You earned your interview. We're all leaving for the night.”

“Really? All of you?” Where can they go?

“DJ has a Risk tournament on Turkey Island, and those usually go all night. Lelani and I are going to repair to our cottage for a quiet evening at home.”

“Repair?”

“I read it in a book once. Anyway, you'll have your privacy.” He raises his eyebrows.

“Are you insinuating something, Red?”

“How shall I say this? Hmm.” He looks down at me. “I watched my best friend's eyes today, and though he seemed focused on his workout, he couldn't keep his eyes off you.”

Whoo.

He turns me toward the door. “Now you go and get your pen and paper, and when you come back, you and Dante will be all alone.”

In the guesthouse, I take stock of my situation. I have just completed four tasks out of five, not necessarily with flying colors, but I finished them. I outfished a fisherman, kept up on a hike, cleaned some fish well enough to eat for two meals, lasted three rounds with a former middleweight champion, survived a left hook, swam a mile, skied for the first time, lost my shorts, and started a food fight at the dinner table.

All in a day's work.

And now I learn the subject of the interview I've earned has been making goo-goo eyes at me all day. I know he has seen my breasts, felt up my booty twice, and likes to be behind me for some reason.

Oh yeah, he hit me. It still hurts. An ordinary journalist would sue his ass.

Not me.

I just want to
squeeze
his ass.

Chapter 15

A
fter writing a few questions in my notebook, putting on some strangely oversized black sweats, and finding some fluffy brown bear slippers that almost fit, I return to an empty great room, a roaring fire in the fireplace. I curl up on the couch and wait for Dante.

It is finally time to capture this man.

I hear Dante coming down the stairs, and my heart flutters a little. I know it's silly. I know I'm just here to interview him and go. I know nothing can come of this. Still it's nice to—

What's he doing in the kitchen?

I flip through the notebook, completely ignoring the soft questions on the first page. This will not be a puff-piece interview. This is going to go deep.

“You like lots of sugar or a little sugar in your tea?” he calls out.

He's making me tea. How sweet. “Two teaspoons!” I yell.

A moment later, he brings in two mugs of tea, the tea bags still floating inside. “I put in three teaspoons by mistake,” he says. He wears a black sweatshirt and gray sweatpants, his feet bare.

“A mistake?” I say.

“Okay. I put in extra because you lost a lot of sugar today. I do not want you to pass out.”

How . . . almost sweet. “Um, DJ said you wanted me to do five things, and I can only count four.”

“Oh,” he says, “but you did five things. You fished, you hiked, you worked out, you skied, and”—he smiles—“you made me do this.”

“Do what?” Though I know. I'm a Columbia graduate.

“You made me smile.”

I feel all warm and fuzzy. Whoo. “Well, are you ready?” I wave the pen in the air.

He sits in front of the fire, his back to a brick ledge. “
Sì
.”

“Okay . . .” Should I go with the flow or start with a humdinger? This is such an intimate setting. A comfortable couch, a glowing fire, darkness and stars lapping at the big picture windows. Hmm. Let's drop a hammer. “Why do you sleep on the floor in that closet?”

He blinks. “You've been to my room?”

“I snoop, Dante,” I say, taking a sip. Nice. Red Rose. Good stuff. “It's what I do. So, why do you sleep there?”

He rolls his neck from side to side. “Why do you sleep in a bed?”

“Because it's comfortable,” I say. Uh duh. “It's normal. It's where civilized people are supposed to sleep.”

He pulls a tennis ball from his pocket and starts to squeeze it with his left hand. “It is exactly the opposite of why I sleep on the floor. It is not comfortable, though it is good for my back. It is to remind me of hard times.”

“But all this beautiful scenery and no windows?”

“I choose to have no windows to remind me of my ancestors who were imprisoned for fighting against Mussolini. I have no bed to remind me of my
nonni
coming to America and having to sleep on the floor, pick rags, and sell junk thrown away by others. My family has been through many hard times. They made sacrifices to come to America. I make sacrifices, too. I do not get soft. I stay hard.”

What a fantastic quote! Especially those last three words. A girl likes to hear those three magic words. “Um, why are my clippings on your wall?”

“Oh,” he says quietly. “You have seen them, too.”

“They're hard to miss.”

He squeezes the ball hard with his left hand. “Motivation. That is why they are there. They represent my greatest failures.”

“And the crucifix?”

He begins to squeeze the ball with his right hand. “More motivation. Greatest sacrifice ever.”

“And . . . your wedding picture?”

He bounces the ball and catches it. “It is why I am fighting.” He squeezes the ball again with his left hand.

I feel the need to probe him. “Your marriage could be considered another great failure.”

He looks away. “We . . . divorced. I was not winning. It was my failure, not hers.”

Oh, it's like that? Damn. “Wasn't she the one who left?”

“Because of my failure.”

“And now?”

He turns to me and arrests me with those eyes. “I will win Evelyn back. I am fighting for love.”

This is beginning to sound like a bad romance novel. “You mean
lost
love.”

He switches hands with the ball. “We are still in love.”

“Really?”

“Yes. I will win her back when I defeat Tank Washington.” He sighs. “But I do not want you to put any of this in your story.”

But this
is
the story! “Why not?”

“It is my wish.”

“And this is an interview, which I earned today, right?” I not only earned it—I'm going to pay for it for days. “It is my
wish
to use this material.”

“Please do not.”

I shake my head. “C'mon, Dante. It's romantic.” Okay, it's cheesy as hell, too, but . . . “It's sexy—”

He crushes the ball and holds it. “And if I lose, I will lose much more if this is known. I have gone away for ten years in shame. If I lose, I lose Evelyn. I lose all respect. I will disappear forever.” He releases his hold on the ball. “I know it is your job, but this is my life. Think of what will happen to DJ. ‘Your father lost twice when he lost that fight,' they will say. ‘What a fool your father is!' I do not want this to haunt him for the rest of his life.”

He has really thought all this through. “But I thought you were sure you were going to win.”

He tosses the ball back and forth. “As you have said, I do not have one-punch knockout power anymore. And I do not have much of a jab. And since I do not have these skills, Washington may beat me on points like he did last time. He is a warrior. He is relentless. He puts on much pressure. There is no telling with judges. I bleed. Washington does not seem to. Blood earns points. I must wear him down until he falls. If he gets up and finishes the fight, I could have a knockdown and still lose.”

These are all valid points, but . . . “But consider who I work for, Dante. My editors would want the human side of this story. Fighting for love is human.”

“No. Please keep why I fight out of your story. Keep Evelyn out of your story.”

“I can't guarantee it,” I say, and I can't. Shelley will howl if I keep the “fighting for love” angle out of this.

He looks at the fire. “Paper burns. You could, how you say, withhold this information until after the fight.”

I could, but . . . “Few people will believe it afterward, Dante. Think about it. Oh, by the way, he was fighting for love and he won. I forgot to mention that before. See how much more special that makes his victory?”

“I will not beg you.”

“I'll think about it.” For about a second. “Fighting for love” has to be in the first paragraph. It may even be the title.

I look through my questions. “Why do you train up here?”

“You have already asked more than five questions,” he says, and he sips his tea.

I take a sip of mine, too. I hope this doesn't mean the interview is over. “I want to capture you. I can't
possibly
capture you in five questions.”

He smiles.
“Bene.”

I smile back. “So . . . why train up here?”

“No distractions.” He looks at the ball. “Except for you. You are a major
distrazione.”

“Grazie.
Why else?”

He takes the deepest breath. “The air is pure, you know? Clean. Has a flavor. The water is pure. Clean.”

“And ice cold,” I add.

“Ah. You would get used to it. Most of all, it is a place where I can focus. It is a place where DJ and I can be together all the time. It was where I went on my honeymoon.”

“Oh?”

“Not at this place. Friends of ours have a place on the other shore. It was so beautiful that I bought some land and built this place.”

I look at him slyly. “You're very handy.”

He doesn't get the hint. Oh well. “So, how did you and Evelyn meet?” Though I really don't care, a reader might care.

“She was a ‘fight doctor,' so to speak. She was the nurse who stitched me up one evening after a fight. She was in the emergency room.”

How romantic. Not. “Was it love at first sight?”

“Is there any other?”

I certainly hope so! He is such an Italian. “Did you ask her out while she was stitching you up?”

“Yes.”

I laugh. “You didn't.”

He shrugs. “She said no. She said she did not like boxing. ‘It is so brutal,' she said. I did not give up. I sent flowers to her. Many flowers over many months.”

While he didn't exactly stalk her, and flowers are nice, um . . . “Where did you propose?”

“In the emergency room. She was on break, and I asked.” He bounces the ball. “In front of everybody, she said yes. Later, not in front of everybody, she said no.”

That should have told him something. “But eventually . . .”

“I wore her down, with flowers, visits after every fight, no matter where I fight. ‘You are my personal doctor,' I told her. She kept my face together. I tell her she is my
portafortuna,
my good luck charm. I cannot win without her. Eventually, she said yes.”

Some of this is quotable, but . . . “Um, I hate to have to ask this, but why did your marriage end?”

“I already told you. I lost. I was no longer champion.”

An unlikely story. “You mean she lost interest.”

“No. Because I lost. Next question.”

He's squeezing the hell out of that ball again. I better back off. “Did you . . . no.” I'm not here to back off. “Did Evelyn ask you to retire after you lost to Washington?”

He drops the ball, and it rolls away. “How did you know that?”

“Woman's intuition. But you didn't retire, did you?”

He stands and retrieves the ball, squeezing it furiously. “How could I retire then? I was in the prime of my life. I could not. I wanted a rematch right away. Johnny Sears, my trainer, he wanted me to fight Cordoza first. ‘To have another knockout under your belt,' he said. I made a deal with Evelyn. I will fight Cordoza, win, get a rematch with Washington, win, and retire. She says my record is good enough. She says my legacy is good enough. I say, I want to go out a champion. She says, ‘You could get seriously hurt.' Back and forth . . . It was a long argument.”

His losing didn't end their marriage. This argument ended their marriage. He had the gall to disagree with her.

I need to get this interview away from Evelyn for a spell. “Were you ever in love before Evelyn?” I ask.

He sighs. “Twice. With the same girl. I was nine. At mass. She was beautiful.”

So cute. “What was her name?”

“Bettina. She was
cioccolata.
I had never seen such beauty before. Her face shone like the sun.”

Bettina? Hmm. I haven't heard that name before. “Did you ask her out?”

“At nine, no. I saw her again when I was eighteen, a brand new pro boxer.”

This is strange. “You only saw her twice?”

“
Sì
. She did not attend mass so often. She was probably not from Brooklyn.” He sighs. “She was even more beautiful, so small, such small hands. But she was holding another man's hand. I never talked to her.”

Loving from afar.

“I have learned that she died on nine-eleven.”

So sad! How do you follow up on that? “So, um, would you consider her your first love?”

“I never spoke to her, but . . . I suppose I loved her. I was young.”

He has such a sweet spirit! “So, have you always had a thing for black girls?”

“Yes.” He holds me with his eyes. “I have always thought black women were beautiful. Their eyes shine so bright, like angels. And their shapes . . .”

My shape is sweating. I must have used too much lotion.

“Very athletic,” he says. “They are put together like
scultura,
like sculpture. Silky black hair that also shines. Yes, to me, beauty is a black woman. No equals.”

I wish more men had this attitude. Madison Avenue, too. We
do
have no equals. “What do you like best about black women?”

“Their eyes,” he says, penetrating my eyes with his. “They do not seem to age. They are always bright.”

This could be chancy, but . . . “What about the rest of her?” I stand and turn slightly sideways. “Do you like fronts or backs better?”

“Fronts or backs?” He smiles. “You mean, do I like breasts or booty better?”

I shouldn't have worn these sweats. “Um, yes.”

“I like proportion. As much front as back.”

I sit, my proportional front and my back rejoicing. “Didn't you ever want a nice Italian girl?”

He looks at the tennis ball. “They did not want me. I was skinny. And poor.”

They didn't know what they were missing. “How about any other kind of girl who could cook like your mama?”

“Black women are
tremendo
cooks. Red's mama taught him everything he knows.”

“Could Evelyn cook?”

He blinks and looks away. “It is why I have Red.”

Evelyn couldn't cook. For some reason, this also makes me rejoice. “Did you ever have any, oh, flings?”

“Flings?”

“Before you were married, you know, one-night stands, weekend rendezvous, that sort of thing.”