I turned in my seat at the sound of Alberto's voice. With his position at Gucci now filed under "former", I was surprised to see him at their show.
"Alberto, what are you doing here?"
Before I could rise to give him a hug, he leaned across the row and gave me a quick kiss on either cheek.
"My parting was not so bad that I do not still have friends on the inside." With a wink, he took my hand and lifted me out of my fifth row seat. "Come," he insisted, "sit with me in the first row."
Apparently those were very good friends. While the fifth row seats Janice, Kelly, and I occupied were amongst the local media representatives, the first row was reserved for celebs and VIPs.
I hesitated, feeling guilty for leaving my fr— oh no, was I really going to call them that? Yes. My friends. It hardly seemed fair to leave them in the ranks of the unimportant.
But the instant I started to decline, my friends started shooing me from behind.
"You'll never get another chance like this," Kelly argued.
Janice concurred.
"Alright," I acceded, allowing Alberto to lead me to a pair of vacant seats between a rising Hollywood starlet and a royal-by-marriage socialite.
"I understand congratulations are in order," Alberto said when we were comfortably seated. I must have looked confused, because he clarified, "For your knew promotion. It is wonderful that you will become a designer in your own right."
"Oh," I answered quietly.
With the uncanny insight he always had, Alberto saw right through me. "Ah, I see. You have not yet decided to accept the position."
He signaled to the tuxedo-clad waiter attending to the front row, who immediately arrived with a tray of champagne. Alberto handed me a flute and took one for himself before shooing the waiter away.
"To your future,
caro
." He lifted his flute to mine and carefully clinked the crystal. "Whichever path you choose will be the right one for you."
I sipped at the bubbly, lost in thought over both decisions I had to make. At least it was only two decisions. Choosing between two great guys and making a monumental career decision was bad enough. If bad things always come in threes—not that I considered my options bad things—then I guess I could count myself lucky that another decision hadn't fallen into my lap.
Not yet, anyway.
As the lights dimmed and the Plexiglas catwalk glowed to life, I felt my phone vibrate in my purse.
I dropped my head in resignation. Mental Post-It: Don't count your blessings before they've hatched.
A quick glance at my phone showed a number with a 305 area code. Where on earth was 305? Whew, must be a wrong number. Flipping open the tiny phone I punched the power button, sending the colorful screen black.
But the call did remind me that I hadn't gotten in touch with my parents yesterday. I would have to call them this afternoon.
At least with an experienced deck hand on board, I knew I didn't need to worry too much.
I emerged from the show an hour later, sequins in my eyes and shantung in my heart, full of inspiration and awe. All I could think of was locking myself away for a week and immortalizing all these ideas on paper.
"Your chariot awaits, milady."
Elliot sat on a cherry red moped, a helmet hanging jauntily from each end of the handlebar. In my euphoria I had totally forgotten our date. Again. My face must have dropped, momentary disappointment that my design time would not be anytime soon, because he scowled.
"You aren't coming," he accused.
"No," I argued. His scowl deepened. "I mean yes. I mean I
am
coming. Of course I am."
"Oh. Good." He grabbed one helmet—the white one—and pushed it into my hands. "Then why the long face?"
Handing him my purse so I could buckle the helmet into place, I explained. "The show was just amazing and I feel so inspired that I kinda wanted to get some sketches out of my system. But no big deal. They'll still be there later."
I hope.
Inspiration has a way of dispersing with increased distance from source.
Oh well
. If the ideas were any good I'd remember them. Right?
"Have you got your sketchpad?"
"Yes," I answered, throwing a leg over the moped and taking my place behind him. "Why?"
He pulled on his helmet and started the engine before turning to answer. "Because you've got sketching to do and I've got just the place to do it."
I thought I heard him say, "Hold on," before the moped burst to life and darted out into the narrow cobbled streets.
Elliot navigated the streets like a native, choosing to view the street signs and crosswalks as mere suggestions, rather than traffic law. He merely waved at the American tourists who shouted after us for darting in front of them as they jaywalked between intersections. I half expected him to start pointing out the sights to me in fluent Italian.
"That's the
Teatro alla Scala
," he shouted, indicating a yellow-fronted, Neoclassical building on the right. "Built in 1778 on the site of a Medieval church."
We zipped through the little
piazza
without hesitation, slowing when we merged onto a slightly smaller street.
"This over here," Elliot pointed to the left, "is the
Galleria Vittorio Emanuele II
. One of the first iron and glass constructions in Italy."
I peered down the narrow alleyway, covered from above by a long glass roof. Where that alleyway crossed another at the center of the block, a huge glass dome rose above the intersection. All the little shops buzzed with shoppers despite the light drizzle beginning to fall.
How wonderful. Shoppers could feel like they were shopping outdoors without falling prey to the elements.
"How do you know all this?" I yelled in Elliot's ear, not sure if he could even hear me through the helmet.
He turned his head so I could see his profile and smiled. "I did my homework." Taking his eyes off the road for just a second, he threw me a teasing glance. "Surprised?"
"No," I answered quickly. I had learned early not to be surprised by anything to do with Elliot Phelps. Phelps Elliot. Whoever this enigmatic man was.
"Impressed?"
"Oh yes. Definitely impressed."
With a self-satisfied smile he turned his attention back to the road. "Just wait."
I was just about to voice my confusion when the buildings on our left disappeared and the moped pulled to a stop in the center of a clearing.
"
Il Dio mio
," I breathed.
"Precisely the point."
I was struck speechless by the towering façade of a massive church. A cathedral, certainly. Shaped like a child might shape a gingerbread house, eight, no, ten Gothic spires topped the ornate limestone, reaching Heavenward.
Dozens of tourists milled around the
piazza
in front of the main entrance, staring, pointing, and taking pictures.
"
Duomo
. Third largest church in the world," Elliot explained. "The lower levels are Baroque, but the rest is Neo-Gothic. Though construction began in the fourteenth Century, it wasn't finished until Napoleon had the—"
"Can we go in?" I finally managed.
Though I was impressed with Elliot's knowledge, and thankful that he had brought me here, I needed to get inside. To see this beautiful building from the inside out.
He laughed at my desperation. "Of course."
My eyes couldn't leave the façade as Elliot pulled the moped to a designated parking area beside the church. Seconds later we were walking—okay, I was practically running and Elliot had to jog to keep up—through the main entrance.
I fished a ten-euro bill out of my purse and pushed it into the donation box discreetly located as we crossed into the nave.
"This is," I sighed, trying to capture the feeling of the dozens of stained glass windows illuminating the
terrazzo
floor like the light of God, "breathtaking."
"How's your inspiration now?" Elliot asked.
Tearing my gaze from the fine beauty of the church, I met his sincere eyes. "Magnified." I smiled and threw my arms around his neck. "A thousand-fold."
"Well get to sketching, already," he joked, even as his arms slipped around my waist in a friendly hug. "We have about fifty more stops on our tour."
If I didn't know him so well, I would have thought he was joking. But I had a feeling fifty stops was his bare minimum.
"Yes sir." I saluted him playfully before heading for an unoccupied pew and pulling out my sketch pad.
Rather than explore the rest of the church, as I was sure he would want to do, Elliot slid into the pew in front of me and took up people watching. He seemed content to relax and absorb the energy around him.
As my pencil moved across paper, I managed only a few sketches for jewelry pieces before I found myself sketching the work of art in front of me.
Master sculptors and artisans had nothing on the fine eye of Mother Nature. Any woman would rush to buy a t-shirt with Elliot's beautiful mug on the front. Before I knew it, I had a dozen sketches of every detail of his face.
A girl has to take inspiration where she can.
"Do you know," Gavin mused across the dinner table Friday night, "I haven't seen you eat a single piece of candy this entire trip."
I gulped down the last of my minestrone before answering. "I'm—" Dabbing at the corners of my mouth with my napkin bought me a few seconds. "—trying to quit."
I expected shock or teasing or even superioristic advice, but Gavin simply smiled and said, "Good for you."
Like nothing else, that hit the problem home for me.
And it was true, I was
trying
to quit. The gummy bear incident had solidified for me what my mother had been trying to tell me for years. I placed too much emotional value on sweets. Either I needed to find a better outlet or a better dentist.
Actually, my teeth were in perfect condition, but any crutch in a storm is a problem if you bring it out in every slight breeze.
So, I had carefully packed my suitcase candy-free. Even with the dish of Mike&Ikes on the foyer table calling to me as I walked out the door.
Not that I had been entirely on the candy wagon.
I couldn't come to Milan without sampling the
marron glaces
from some quaint, Old World shop on a quaint, Old World street. Giving up my obsession didn't mean giving up on every ounce of edible delight in my life.
Still, my sugar consumption was at an all-time low, and I was—surprisingly—invigorated. I had energy to spare and, with all the fashion shows, must-see sights, and competing dates, plenty to spend it on.
"What is the plan for your birthday?" Gavin asked.
He couched the question with enough nonchalance to fool someone who hadn't known him half his adult life. Me, I saw right through.
I knew my birthday would be difficult to coordinate. Both Gavin and Elliot wanted to claim the day for their own—though I had to contend that it should really be for me, but that seemed a secondary concern.
"Well," I hummed, eying the dessert cart only a few feet away like a junkie with an eye on her next fix, "I've been thinking about that. After a lot of thought, I came up with a schedule that I think will make everyone happy."
Or at least as happy as they can be.
Gavin inclined his head, indicating he was listening.
"Ferrero's show will be the dividing line." Before Gavin could voice the confusion clear in his warm brown eyes, I explained. "Their catwalk show, which I have been waiting for all week, runs from four until five. I will spend the day with one of you from first thing in the morning until four and with the other from five until the night is over."
I consciously avoided saying "until bed," trying to keep any wayward thoughts from surfacing.
"Who gets which half?" Gavin asked, ever the pragmatist.
"That's the best part." For me, anyway. "You two get to choose."
If I made that choice, no matter which way I chose, feelings would be hurt, egos bruised, and assumptions made. Whoever got the morning would say that the night was the more significant part of the day. Whoever got the night would say that the morning was longer.
Much better they figure out a way to assign the schedule themselves.
"Don't you care?"
"Gavin," I said meeting his injured gaze earnestly, "I want to share my birthday with you both. And, since I don't think you'd like to celebrate the whole day as a threesome, I will take what time I can with each of you."
He looked ready to protest, to pout even.
"Now let's get out of here before that
panettone
jumps of that tray and sashays its way onto my plate."