“Beautiful,
cara
.”
She blushed.
He held out his hand. “Shall we go?”
She slipped her hand in his, the warmth of it spreading up his arm on a direct route to his heart.
He smiled and led her down the path to his dark black rental car. In a few minutes they were speeding south on Highway One.
“This is a much more civilized road than your Highway Seventeen,” he said.
“Yes,” she murmured and then stared out the window. Low-lying fields of strawberries and artichokes whirled past.
“Do you know Marilyn Monroe was queen of the Castroville artichoke parade?” she asked abruptly.
“No, I didn’t.” He fell silent. Soon they passed by power plant smokestacks towering over clanking fishing boats in the harbor. Seagulls whirled in the sky while prehistoric-looking pelicans lined the pilings. Egrets patrolled the marshes.
“It is a beautiful place to live,” he said. “I wouldn’t want to leave.”
He glanced at Elizabeth. She was staring out the window. “I don’t,” she said quietly.
And there was the problem. Why would she want to take up with a world-traveler who spent far too much of his life on airplanes when she had the beauty of the bay?
He took a deep breath. Time to change the subject. “I talked with the realtor.”
“And … ” Elizabeth turned her attention back to him.
“She’ll email the papers I need to review and sign.” He frowned. “She is not easy to do business with. I don’t think she’s ever dealt with a purchase from out of the country.”
“Oh, don’t let her fool you. Plenty of people from other places come to work in Silicon Valley and buy houses in Saratoga.”
“Then perhaps she hasn’t sold a vineyard. Or … ” he paused. “She doesn’t like Italians.”
“Oh, you’re probably right,” Elizabeth’s voice lightened. “She probably had a long, sordid affair with an Italian who dumped her for an elderly, but wealthy, woman from Milan.”
He glanced over at Elizabeth. A broad grin was wreathing her face. He smiled. “Ah you are … what do they say … pulling my leg.” He became serious again. “So, this realtor, she is bereft and impossible because she is sad about her Italian.”
“And the baby.”
“The baby?”
“Oh, yes, she had a baby she had to give up because she didn’t have the time to raise it, being a realtor and all … ”
“So very sad … ” The absurdity of the conversation finally got to him and he started laughing … a huge belly laugh that brought tears to his eyes. He wiped them away to bring the highway back into view.
At his side, Elizabeth was doubled over with silent laughter. He caught a glimpse of tears running down her face.
“It is good to laugh,” he choked out. “Thank you, Elizabeth, I needed that.”
And I need someone like you in my life.
The thought startled him. He glanced at the woman beside him. She was getting under his skin. But picking someone who was a homebody in California would only lead to more heartache, wouldn’t it? Couldn’t they simply enjoy the fun?
They could, but he suspected it wouldn’t be enough. For either of them.
He turned right at the Ocean Street light and drove down the hill to Carmel. The fall day had retained its warmth and people were strolling the sidewalks.
“Secret summer,” Elizabeth said. “Did you make a reservation for dinner?”
“Fortunately, yes. I have been to Carmel before and know it is very crowded on weekends. I see I should also have made a reservation for a parking place.”
They spotted it at the same time. “There!” Elizabeth pointed at the sleek Mercedes with its backup lights shining while Marcos put on his blinker for the spot. Moments later, they’d joined the throngs walking up and down the main street.
Marcos glanced at his watch. “We have a half hour before our reservation. Would you like to walk, perhaps look at galleries?”
“That would be lovely.”
“May I?” He held out his hand.
She placed hers in his, the heat from her palm warming him against foggy tendrils that had begun to drift in from the ocean at the bottom of the street.
Marcos was relieved that discussions of artwork and luxury products allowed them to chat without having to confront anything of real substance. The muscles in his shoulders eased and his jaw relaxed. Elizabeth exclaimed over several of the art pieces and he longed to plunk down his credit card and buy them for her. Instead, he picked up several gallery business cards to take home to his daughter.
At the appointed time, he steered them to a small Mediterranean restaurant. “I’m told this is the best in the town,” he whispered to Elizabeth as they waited to be seated in the densely packed room. “It reminds me of Italian restaurants — small, crowded and good.”
The owner, a tall, skinny man with a hawk-like nose sat them at a small table in the middle of the room. In spite of the crush of people, they were still able to speak. He looked around at the painted murals, woven scarves and shelves of Etruscan pottery that lined the walls. Someone had thought of acoustics.
Once they’d ordered, moussaka for him, seafood Alfredo for her, awkwardness returned to the conversation. If he brought up her fear of romance, would she think he was pushing too hard? And why was it so important to him. He didn’t have anything to offer her except a crazy schedule and a dream. Women wanted security — his ex-wife had proved that.
“Tell me about your marriage,” Elizabeth startled him by asking. “What went wrong?”
Nothing like having the tables turned on him. He shrugged and took a sip of his wine to delay the answer. Finally, he shrugged. “What always happens. We drifted apart. She found someone else. It was over.”
“Somehow I think it was more than that.”
He looked up into her dark brown eyes. She was staring steadily at him and he knew he was not going to get away with a glib answer. He sighed and put down his wine glass.
“We were happy at first. At least I thought so. What I didn’t know, what she kept hidden for years, was that I was, what do you call it … a return relationship?”
“I think you mean rebound.”
He nodded. “Yes, that was it.”
The waiter placed large steaming plates in front of them.
“So much food!” Marcos stared at the pile in front of him.
“Lunch leftovers for sure,” she said.
“For you. I must leave early in the morning for my flight.”
Her face softened. He sensed her sadness; it matched his own.
“Everything is good?” The tall proprietor clapped his hand on Marcos’ shoulder.
“Uh … yes … yes … ”
“Good. Enjoy your meal.”
Elizabeth glanced at him with merriment in her eyes, picked up her fork and began to eat. Marcos did the same. The food was amazing. Silence took a third seat at the table, friendly at first, but straining after a few minutes.
“Rebound from who?” Elizabeth asked.
No, she wasn’t going to forget.
“My best friend.”
“Oh.”
He positioned his fork beside his unused knife. “Shortly after my daughter Gina was born, they apparently took up with each other again. They kept their affair discreet for years — I had no idea. They must have tired of the secrecy — it was obvious they wanted to be found when I walked in on them.”
“How horrible for you.”
“Yes.” Time had dulled the pain, but not the memory.
She stabbed a piece of shrimp and placed it into her mouth.
Curious.
It was his pain, but she was reacting.
He regarded her for a few moments as she continued to eat. His story had affected her more the few others he had told. “Why are you afraid of romance?” he asked.
She twirled the linguine, using a spoon in the Italian style. Long after the pasta was safely lodged on her fork, she kept spinning her utensil.
He caught the shine of tears in her eyes.
“I can’t talk about it right now,” she said and plopped the pasta in her mouth.
Elizabeth stared at the pile of flour and salt on the island in the middle of her kitchen. After she studied the directions again, she made a deep hole in the top of the pile. She took a deep breath, cracked the egg with the back of her butter knife and eased the egg white and yolk into the hole.
Good!
Her concoction looked like the picture in her recipe book.
Marcos had been gone a week. She’d managed to end the night without any disastrous entanglements. In fact, once she’d told him she didn’t want to discuss her past love life, he’d taken a step back, as if remembering his promise not to make her do anything she didn’t want to do. The end of the evening had been pleasant, but unromantic.
She knew keeping a distance between them was for the best, even if it left a small hole in her heart. Their lives were diametrically opposed. He was going to be flying around the world making wine and she had a product line to launch. In her spare time, she could master making ravioli. That was all the Italian she needed.
She forced her attention back to the mess in front of her. Picking up a fork, she began to scramble the egg, pulling in a little flour at a time. Soon the counter, hands and arms were covered with a gooey mess. Some had even made it to her face.
Then a miracle occurred. The dough began to come together and assume a shape.
If only her life would attract the same miracle.
She began to knead the dough … push, fold, turn … As she fell into the rhythm, her mind began to pick up the pieces of her time with Marcos. Truthfully, she’d enjoyed her time with him.
Even when he was questioning her, she’d felt his concern. He wasn’t asking questions to gain control, like Bobby or Joe had. He was asking to understand.
After Marcos’ revelation, it should have been so easy to tell Marcos about her husband’s infidelity.
Elizabeth slammed her fist into the dough. Joe had been dead for almost as long as they’d been married, but Serena’s revelation about Joe’s betrayal had reopened the wound of his death. Fortunately, Alicia was proving to be a hard worker with a lively personality and didn’t remind her of Joe.
Well, not too much.
Maybe when Marcos came back she could have a little fling with him. Nothing serious. Nothing long term. She was facing enough risk with her business.
What was she going to do about her business? Did it make sense to put in her savings? What if she didn’t get it back?
She picked up the book with floury fingers and read the next set of directions. Once she covered the dough with plastic wrap, she set the timer for an hour and cleaned up.
Just in time for her coaching call.
The phone rang a few minutes later.
“Hello,” Carol said. “How are you doing today?”
“Well, better than the last time we talked.” At least Elizabeth hoped so.
“What did you decide to do?” Carol asked.
Elizabeth told Carol that she’d hired Alicia and that it was working out even better than she’d expected. “She’s a go-getter, that girl. And, she has lots of ideas about expanding the market to girls her age and the Hispanic market. Most of them are good. We’re trying them out one at a time.”
“Ah. Sounds good. What about your product line?”
“The credit union turned me down, too.” Elizabeth heard the disappointment in her voice. Why couldn’t life be easy? She may as well tell the coach the rest of it. “I think I have a chance there if I‘m willing to invest some of my own money. But I’m not sure I want to do that.”
“Why not?”
Elizabeth sputtered. “Because it’s my life savings. What if the line fails and I lose all my money?”
“What if?”
Uh-oh.
Annie had warned her about the coach’s “what-if” questions.
Still … what if Elizabeth lost all her savings? She was only thirty-eight. She could rebuild, couldn’t she? “I guess I’d start over again,” she finally admitted. “I’d hate it, but I could do it.”
“Yes, you could. But, if you’re going to invest your own money, I’m actually going to give you some advice: go to a lawyer to make sure you’re protected so if the worst happens, you’ll have a minimal loss.”
“You’re probably right.” It all sounded so clinical.
“But I have a more interesting question,” Carol said. “What if you succeed?”
“What do you mean?”
“How would your life change if you became wildly successful, with your product known all over the globe and more money than you’ve ever dreamed of in your bank account?”
Elizabeth smoothed the fabric of her capris, even though the tan fabric was creaseless. She tried to imagine what that would be like, but couldn’t. Would her life need to change?
“I don’t know,” she finally admitted to the coach. “Wouldn’t I keep doing the same things I’d always done?”
“Perhaps. Or maybe your world would get a little bigger.”
Elizabeth’s stomach clenched. If she had more options, what would she do? Travel the world alone? It didn’t sound appealing. Give Sarah everything she needs? Not a good idea.
But she could go to Italy more often.
Bad idea.
“What are you feeling?” the coach asked.
“Afraid,” Elizabeth admitted.
“Of what?”
What was she afraid of? “Getting hurt, I guess. Or … maybe … people laughing at me because I don’t know how to act in a bigger world.”
“Your mother’s voice again?”
Was it? What would happen if she goofed? She’d be all alone in her shame.
Not if Marcos was by her side.
But that was impossible.
“Sometimes,” the coach said, “it’s our fear of success that holds us back more than fear of failure. What would you like to do about your product line?”
What was the definition of courage? Feel the fear and do it anyway? This was her shot to redeem herself, to prove to everyone, including herself, that she was more than a pregnant teenage statistic.
“I’ll risk it. I’ll invest my savings.”
Her stomach flipped, but at the same time, her spirits soared.
• • •
Elizabeth’s heart beat a little faster when she saw the familiar email address. Opening Marcos’ email, she read,
“Ciao, bella. I hope you are well. I miss driving around the crazy mountain roads with you. Today I am in France. Like I told you, I am much disturbed about Jacques. As you suggested, I am going to spend some extra time with the books and out in the vineyard. If Jacques is stealing, I will find out.