The Year of Luminous Love (32 page)

Enzo arrived bearing wine and sweets. “I would have liked to take you out,” he told Ciana, shaking off his umbrella. “I wanted to be alone with you.”

“We’ll be plenty alone. And dry. My friends are confined to their rooms.”

Eden was up separating her things into piles and packing for her travels, while Arie was more worrisome to Ciana. The girl had claimed a sinus headache. Ever since their return from Rome, Arie had complained of minor ailments and retreated to her room. Plus her art hunger had diminished and caused Ciana to wonder about her. Which led to thinking about Arie and Jon, a subject she didn’t want to remember because it hurt too much. Arie had kept mum about the time they’d spent together, acting as if it had never happened.

“But where have you gone,
bella
Ciana?” Enzo’s voice and the touch of his hand to her cheek pulled Ciana into the here and now.

“I’m right here with you,” Ciana insisted with a quick smile, and took the dessert box from him.

They went into the kitchen, and while Enzo uncorked the wine, Ciana spread delicate morsels of pastry and candy on a plate. “Are you trying to make me fat?”

He handed her a glass of rich dark wine while his eyes moved up the length of her. “You are just right,
cara mia
.”

My love
. Her heart tripped with his endearment. He oozed charm. “Let’s sit.” She walked him to the sofas and set the pastry plate on the coffee table aglow with candles. The flickering flames danced across Enzo’s skin and reflected in his dark eyes.
He’s gorgeous. And he wants me
.

He took her glass and parked it on the table with his, eased her back into the cushions, and trailed kisses down her neck. Her breath caught when his lips took hers. She waited for an explosion of passion. It never came, replaced instead by a slow warmth that made her sigh but not ignite. She felt like what she was—a barely nineteen-year-old country girl playing in the big leagues, inexperienced, unsophisticated, unprepared for what he was offering her.

She pushed away, righted herself. Enzo looked puzzled, confused.

“I haven’t said thank you for the room upgrade in Rome. The suite was fantastic, and it made our whole visit that much better.” Ciana took a drink of her wine, wishing to calm her nerves.

“
Mi piacere
. My pleasure.” He drank deeply from his glass, then picked up a small pastry and brought it tantalizingly close to her lips.
“Crema.”
He brushed the creamy confectionary over her mouth, then bent and kissed the traces away. “Now you try.”

He was moving much too quickly. She was stuck in ambivalence. Without giving her words conscious thought, she asked, “Do you believe in love, Enzo?”

He pulled back. “But of course. I am Italian. Italians know much about love.”

“Forever love?”

“Forever is a long time.” He shifted away, still searching her face, like a chess player reading a baffling arrangement of pieces.

“My grandmother Olivia—remember me speaking about her?” He nodded. “She loved my grandfather from the first time she laid eyes on him. She told me the story of how he rode his horse onto our farm one day and lay a bag of autumn apples at her feet. It was all he had to give her at the time. She was just seventeen, but she knew then and there that they were going to be together for always. I listened to her story many times but thought that knowing instantly about being in love was an exaggeration. What do you say?”

He leaned into the cushions, stretching his arms across the plush tops. “Love is like good wine. To be savored and enjoyed for the different seasons of life.”

“But not necessarily with the same person,” she said, defining aloud his subtle message.

He shrugged. “When wine is young, it is bright and exciting. As it ages, it grows in depth and beauty. The flavor intensifies, turns transcendent. That is the way with love. It is a very rare person who can span all the seasons of another’s life. That is not a bad thing. Different vintages bring appreciation for what was once savored before.”

A romanticized way for him to say one woman would never be enough for him. She picked up her wineglass and spun the stem, studying the dark ruby color. “We come from different worlds, Enzo.”

“I agree. I also must be honest,
cara
. The idea of one lover for all of life is not my way.”

She smiled at him. “Honestly, I’m not sure if it’s my way either. I can’t say yet. Like good wine, though, to use your analogy, the mix must be just right. Isn’t that what great wine is all about, just the right mix of the best grapes?”

He returned her smile, held her gaze. “You are not going to Portofino with me, are you?”

Until that moment, she hadn’t been sure. Suddenly she was. “No.” Perhaps someday she would wish she had gone, but not this day, not at this time.

He leaned in, kissed her lightly. “It will forever be my deep regret.”

His courtly manners astounded her. She’d rejected guys before, but never one like Enzo. Yes, he was older and way more experienced than she, but he was also pragmatic. As was Ciana. The cat-and-mouse game they’d played over the past weeks had been good fun for both of them. She’d learned a lot about herself, and about what she wanted. She wanted the right mix.

Enzo got to his feet slowly, pulled her up beside him, and smoothed her curly hair. She slid easily into his arms. “You are amazing,” she said, resting her head on his chest, listening to the steady sound of his heart.

“I would have enjoyed making love to you,” he said. “And I promise, you would have enjoyed it too.”

No doubt. “Thank you for everything. I’ll miss our rides and our talks. And I’ll miss you.”

Moments later, Ciana closed the door behind Enzo and watched him drive away in the rain. Her life was full of goodbyes. To her father and grandfather, to Olivia, to Eden, to Enzo, to Jon Mercer. Through all of the leavings, the one constant was Bellmeade. Her land.
Hers
. Ciana jogged upstairs, feeling lighter than she had in weeks.

Ciana woke to sunlight pouring through her bedroom window. She knew it was late morning by the brightness swimming across the duvet. Unlike her to sleep in, but she felt rested. She stretched, listening for sounds from downstairs. The house was church-mouse quiet. Odd. She figured Eden might still be bedded down, but Arie was usually up. Ciana sniffed but couldn’t smell fresh coffee brewing.

She tossed off her covers and went into the hallway. More quiet met her. She rapped on Arie’s door. “You awake?” No answer. “How’s your headache?” Silence.

Ciana twisted the doorknob, then inched open the door. The bed was rumpled and awash in pillows. Arie loved sleeping with piles of pillows, yet the bed held only pillows—no Arie. The bathroom door was closed, but there was no sound of running water. Ciana knocked on the door. “You in there? Want some coffee? I’ll run down and make us some.”

No answer.

Something wasn’t right. Arie should have responded. Ciana tried to open this door, felt resistance. The door felt wedged, as if something were holding it back. She shoved her shoulder into it and forced the door against the blockage. She peered inside and saw Arie lying on the floor, the limestone tile stained with pools of bright red blood.

And Ciana screamed.

“What are we going to do?” Eden asked in a panic.

“We need a doctor. An ambulance. Oh my God. Help me get her up.” Ciana felt Eden’s panic. What was the emergency procedure in Italy? Was 911 even valid over here? Was there another number for emergencies?

“Maybe we shouldn’t move her,” Eden said.

“Well, we can’t leave her lying in her own blood on the bathroom floor!”
Think!
Ciana pounded her forehead with the heel of her hand. The travel agent had given her paperwork filled with information. Where had she stashed it?

Arie groaned. Both girls fell to their knees beside her. “Pills,” she whispered. “Drawer by bed.”

Ciana ripped open the bedside drawer, gasped. It held an array of pill bottles. Why were there so many? “Which bottle?” she yelled.

“The Vicodin,” Eden relayed, because Arie’s voice wasn’t loud enough to carry. “Two.”

Ciana’s hands shook, but she found the correct bottle and
dumped out the pills, then hurried into the bathroom and fed them to Arie. In a little while, she was able to stand. Eden and Ciana got her into the shower, held her upright, rinsed her off, dressed her in clean nightclothes, and tucked her back into bed. Ciana said, “You need a doctor.”

Arie’s breathing was shallow. “I have a doctor. In Rome.”

“Rome!”

“His name’s in the packet in the drawer.”

Eden found the packet, removed the paperwork and the information from Arie’s doctor in Nashville. “This says … it says … in case you need treatment.” Eden looked up. “Treatment for what?”

In a much-labored voice, Arie said, “I have to get to Rome.”

Ciana’s cold fear turned colder. Arie’s skin was tinged yellowish gray and looked papery thin. “You’ve been sick for quite a while, haven’t you?”

“Rome,” Arie said again, closing her eyes.

Eden grabbed Ciana’s arm. “It’ll take us hours to drive her to Rome. How do we get an ambulance in this country?”

“I don’t know,” Ciana said. “But I know someone who does.” She clambered down the stairs to the house phone and called Enzo.

Arie woke surrounded by a thin curtain, on a bed she knew only by its design—hospital. IVs ran into her arms, and leads from her heart were attached to a monitor beside the bed. Machines must be alike the world over. The hardware, the sounds, the antiseptic smells fed her the information—she was in a hospital for certain.
Same song, second verse
. Cancer had found her in Italy. She remembered little of getting to the hospital—the sound of a siren blasting, a sense of being moved
and placed into a vehicle on a stretcher, the voices of Ciana and Eden, of people in scrubs speaking in bursts of Italian as she floated in and out of darkness. Her throat was bone dry, her brain fuzzy with drugs. Still she needed some answers. Arie moaned.

The curtain flew aside and Ciana and Eden rushed to her bedside. Behind them, she saw Enzo. “Thirsty,” Arie croaked.

“Oh, Arie! We’ve been so scared.” Ciana speaking, as if not hearing Arie’s words.

Eden asked, “What happened?”

Just then, another man came to her bedside. He was her doctor, a man she’d visited once before in Rome.

The physician took her hand. “Dr. Rozelli. Remember me?”

Jon had insisted he take her in to meet the physician once he saw that she was in pain when they’d been together and learned that she had not done so. That was how they’d spent most of the second day of his visit, running a gauntlet of tests and having X-rays taken in the hospital before going sightseeing. Now she had returned, or more accurately, been returned.

She nodded. “Thirsty.”

The doctor gave her ice chips. “I tried to reach you with results of your lab work but could not.” His rich, accented voice seemed to be coming through a tunnel. “You are heavily sedated and have a fever. You have a greatly elevated white blood cell count, and your liver function is degraded. Why did you not call me back?”