Читать книгу Gaining Visibility - Pamela Hearon - Страница 14

CHAPTER 7

“Oh no, you don’t.” Julia flung her arm out the window and held on to the door as Vitale swept around a curve. “I am not staying with you. Take me back to the hotel. Now.”

Vitale kept his eyes on the road and shrugged. “I cannot do that. We to be late.”

A curve in the opposite direction careened her back to the middle of the car. She came up hard against Vitale’s arm. “Late for what?”

“Il pranzo con la mia famiglia.”

The words were some from the CDs she’d practiced with, so they were familiar. She just hadn’t heard them put together this way. It took a few seconds to translate. “Lunch? With your family?”

He nodded, seeming pleased that she understood. “Sì.”

Realizing he wasn’t likely a serial killer if he was taking her to Sunday lunch with his family, her heart rate shifted from panic mode to unexpected guest. “Oh no. I can’t impose like that.”

“You like.”

Julia looked down at the skirt riding up on her thighs. “I’m not saying I wouldn’t enjoy it. I’m sure they’re lovely people, and it’s very kind of you, but I’m not dressed for Sunday dinner with anybody’s family.” It crossed her mind that her clothes were only an arm’s length away. Was there something she could change into? She loosened her grip on the door handle, intending to unzip her luggage and have a look, but a fast curve made her rethink that action. “Is there someplace we can stop and let me change clothes?”

“No, no to change.”

“But . . .” A protest was on her tongue.

“You look beautiful.”

Beautiful? Of course, the word was merely part of his woman-appeal jargon, but it hung pleasantly in her ear. She sat back and thought the situation over again. Sunday lunch in the home of an Italian family might be fun. The food would probably be amazing, and it would be a great way to practice her Italian. She’d never see these people again, so what difference did it make what she was wearing? She nodded. “Okay. Why not? That is, if you think it will be all right with your family.”

“It will be all right with the family.”

“Then thank you for inviting me. I’m sure I’ll enjoy it very much. But after lunch you’ll take me back to town, and we’ll make calls until I find a room.”

He ignored her comment, but his reaction didn’t make her feel ignored. His smug smile said he knew she was there. This was simply a man used to getting his own way. Julia mentally rolled her eyes.

They came around another hairpin curve too fast, and Vitale slammed on the brakes to keep from hitting a car at the back of a long line of stopped ones.

Julia braced a hand against the dashboard and gritted her teeth while the car jostled to a stop. “Where in the hell did you learn—and I use that term loosely—to drive?”

The line started to move, he threw the car back into gear, and Julia latched on to the door for another wild takeoff.

“I do not learn. I just to drive.”

“Well, that explains it.” She could do a better job, but her toe wouldn’t let her press on the gas pedal at all. She wished Vitale had a hurt toe that would keep him from pressing it so hard.

He gunned it, and they roared ahead a few more yards. She clenched her jaws and held on, foregoing conversation until they were a safe distance from the car in front of them.

At last, the obstacle, a minivan with a flat tire, managed to pull far enough off the narrow road to allow others by, and traffic picked up to breakneck speed again.

They were headed into the hills. The hills I should be hiking today. Patches of purple and yellow wildflowers whipped past her vision. She closed her eyes to keep from getting carsick. Instead, I’m in the passenger seat with a madman at the wheel, going who-knows-where, up and down hills, around blind curves, with no hope of finding my way back to where I started.

A metaphor for the past couple of years of her life.

Conversation didn’t seem like the safest option, but a safe option didn’t jump out at her right at the moment, and it might keep her mind off Vitale’s driving skills. Or lack thereof. “I don’t usually dine at someone’s house without taking something. Should we stop and let me pick up a bottle of wine?” And find a nice, safe donkey to ride back to town.

“No, they have the wine. You are the guest.”

“How many people will be there? Do you have a large family?”

Vitale shook his head. “Not large. Mama, Papà, Maria, Giovanni, Rachele, Paolo, Adrianna, Antonio, Giada, Michele, Celeste, Piero, Lia, Enrico, Orabella, Cesare, Chiara, Elia.”

“Oh, for heaven’s sakes. You don’t consider that large? I mean, you’re talking to an only child who was married to an only child and produced an only child. How many siblings do you have?”

His brows drew together in confusion. “Ceilings? In the house? I never count them. One for each room.”

Julia tried to suppress a giggle. “Not ceilings. Siblings. Brothers and sisters.”

“Seeblings.” He tried out the new word. “Five see-blings. No brothers. Five sisters.”

Aha. That explained a few things. The only boy and five sisters. No wonder he was used to getting his own way. Articles she’d read about Italian culture painted Italian men as quite spoiled by their families. It would be interesting to see if that was actually true in Vitale’s case. “Are your sisters older than you? Younger?”

“Three older. Maria, Giada, Celeste. Adrianna and Orabella younger.”

“They are married?”

“Sì.”

“All of them?”

“Sì.”

“I assume you’re not married?”

“No.”

“Girlfriend?”

“No girlfriend.”

So, unless his family gets the wrong idea, I won’t have some hotheaded Italian mistress putting out a contract on me.

“Oh, that reminds me.” Julia pulled the small parcel from her tote. “This is from Rosa at the café in the village. She tells me all the women love Vitale.”

Vitale laughed, and Julia realized it was the first time she’d heard him really laugh. The sound originated from somewhere deep, and it made her feel like she was sharing something intimate with him, warming her from the inside out.

“Rosa, she talk too much, and she think all the world is like Rosa.” He chuckled again and shook his head. “But sua nonna, she make biscotto deliziosa.”

He started to tear open the parchment package, but that required him to let go of the steering wheel. Julia grabbed the parcel out of his hands. “Here. Let me do that.”

Inside the paper were four pastry pinwheels.

“Eat,” Vitale insisted. “You understand.” He slowed the car and reached over to hold one up to her mouth. She bit into it and the buttery crust seemed to dissolve away, leaving a tangy concoction of apricot and chopped chestnuts.

“Mmmm. Yum.” She closed her eyes and savored the taste. When she opened them, Vitale was watching her with a look that made her feel like she was being devoured. She smiled and he laughed again.

“You like biscotto, yes?”

She nodded.

“Eat.” He pushed it toward her mouth. She took another bite and caught the pastry in her hands as it started buckling under the assault.

A crumb hung on her bottom lip, and she slipped her tongue out to catch it just as Vitale’s thumb brushed it away. When her tongue grazed him, she quickly sucked it back into her mouth, drawing another smile from him. He responded by stroking his thumb slowly across her lip.

Her breath caught in her throat.

Then he helped himself to a biscotto, shifted in his seat, and lay down on the accelerator again.

They drove in silence for a while, seeming to understand any conversation while eating such a treasure would amount to sacrilege.

Julia’s stomach adapted to the lurching of the car, though she concentrated on keeping her eyes glued to the road to aid her backseat driving—on anything that would shift her focus from the flirtation this man inspired. “Your English is good, Vitale.” She broke the silence. “How did you learn?”

She saw his shrug in her peripheral vision.

“I do not learn. I just do.”

“Is that your answer for everything?”

She cast a quick glance his way and caught the hint of a smile.

“Most important thing, person just know.”

They rode again in silence a few minutes.

“Vitale.” She decided to broach the subject again. “I don’t want to seem ungrateful. I really do appreciate all you’ve done for me and your hospitality . . . offering me a place to stay. But I don’t think it’s a good idea. I mean, for all I know, you could be a serial killer.” She flinched as a tree branch missed her window by mere inches.

“I do not eat the cereal, but I do not kill it. I will get you the cereal if that is what you eat for the breakfast. I am the good host.”

Even his offended look couldn’t keep her from smiling at the thought of Vitale plunging a knife into a box of Special K. “I’m not worried about breakfast, and I’m sure you’re a very good host.”

He took a long, exasperated breath. “Julietta, there is no room. I try to find, call many places. The tour, she take everything. Do you worry because I am a man?”

“Of course not.” She waved away the absurdity. “I mean, I’m not afraid that anything will happen. But it doesn’t look right. It’s not proper to stay with a man I hardly know.”

“We will not have the sex. Unless you want it,” he added.

His tone was matter-of-fact, but the mention of the word hurled Julia way over the edge of her comfort zone. “Have sex?” she sputtered. “Who said anything about having sex?”

“Vitale say it.”

“I know who said it . . .”

“But you ask who say it,” he replied flatly.

“It’s just an expression. I meant that it hadn’t even occurred to me to have sex with you,” she lied, trying not to let her face show that she actually had envisioned it pretty graphically numerous times since first seeing him. “You’re too young. How old are you?”

His quick laugh inferred her fears were inconsequential. “Thirty-four. I am a man. You are a woman. And the breasts say—”

“You can’t believe my breasts,” she countered, still reeling from the realization that a thirty-four-year-old had obviously thought about having sex with her. “They lie.”

“Breasts no lie. The woman lie.” He brought the car to a grinding halt in front of a house and shot her a triumphant smile.

She opened her mouth to protest again but dropped her next comment, choosing to use the time to gather her wits about her so Vitale’s family wouldn’t think she’d been thinking about having sex with him.

The quintessential two-story Italian farmhouse surrounded by olive and cedar trees remained tranquil for all of two seconds before someone inside must have noticed their arrival. Then it became a beehive of activity with men, women, and children flying out from every direction shouting, “Vitale! Vitale!”

A young boy of eight or so bolted up first and jerked open the door on Julia’s side, brown eyes wide with wonder. His expression faded to exasperation when her toe and the crutch kept her from vacating the area as quickly as he wanted. But once she cleared the path, he dove into the seat, giddy with excitement.

She stepped back out of the way as more and more family members joined the throng, buzzing like bees swarming around their gigantic yellow and black queen.

They talked excitedly, running their hands across the smooth leather interior and sleek exterior curves.

“Non, non. Non ho comprato l’automobile,” Vitale protested in response to the rapid-fire questions aimed his way. At last, he quieted the group long enough to point toward Julia.

Seventeen pairs of eyes turned toward her in unison, seeming to see her for the first time. “Julietta, la mia famiglia.” He smiled warmly as he came around the car to stand by her, placing a hand at the small of her back. She was sure it wouldn’t have happened otherwise, but the touch coming so fast on the heels of his comments about having sex gave her a shameful tingle of excitement. She tried to stop the smile that popped onto her lips. Oh, this is ridiculous. Maybe the family would perceive her expression as excitement about sharing lunch with them.

With his customary gesturing, Vitale introduced each person, then apparently proceeded to explain about her toe and the crutch because all the eyes shifted down at the same time, and the surprised expressions softened to sympathy. Or maybe they felt sorry for her obvious fashion faux pas since they were all dressed up.

She tugged on the skirt, trying to cover more leg as her eyes scanned the gorgeous array of people surrounding her. Vitale’s sisters were as beautiful as he was handsome—all of them tall and lean, like their father, Piero. Their mother, Angelina, while shorter and stockier, still had a manner about her that let everyone know she ruled the hive. The queen bee personified.

The family members kept their distance until Angelina graciously took Julia’s arm. “Benvenuta, Julietta,” she said, and gestured toward the house. Then the hive became frenzied again, welcoming the newcomer in English that ranged from stuttered to flawless, but always accompanied by handshakes and hugs.

After the preliminaries, Julia waved as Vitale and the men disappeared around the side of the house.

* * *

Angelina walked her slowly up the uneven sidewalk, which was paved with ancient stones that matched the ones on the house. “You americana?” she asked.

“That’s right. I’m from Kentucky.” Julia watched the woman’s eyes narrow in question. Vitale had done the same thing when she mentioned the state to him. “It’s sort of in the middle of the country,” she explained. “I wish I had dressed more appropriately. I didn’t know we were coming here for lunch. I thought I was switching hotels . . .” She remembered where Vitale actually intended for her to stay and quickly dropped that line of conversation. “But thank you for having me.”

Angelina’s eyes stayed narrowed while she shrugged. “My English not good.”

A flowering vine with small, poppy red flowers blanketed portions of the house’s façade, and huge bushes flanked either side of the stone stoop. Their scent was familiar, and Julia took another sniff as they passed. Rosemary. Gigantic versions of the small pot she grew on the deck at home.

A deluge of mouthwatering aromas assaulted her nose and taste buds as she stepped through the doorway. One whole side of the house was a gigantic kitchen/dining room combination. A massive table, already set and surrounded by an eclectic mixture of chairs, dominated the room.

Angelina directed Julia to a caned chair against the wall. “Sit now.”

Julia sat helplessly to the side as the women scurried around placing platters of food on the huge, marble-topped buffet. One of them—Giada perhaps?—quickly set one more place and rearranged the chairs to allow for the addition of another.

“Can I help?” Julia offered.

Angelina answered with phtt, phtt, phtt and an impatient gesture Julia translated as “No, and stay out of the way.”

Two little girls sidled up, eyeing Julia warily. When she smiled, the oldest one attached firmly against her thigh while the smaller child held out her arms. Julia gathered the child onto her lap. Tiny arms encircled her neck and a warm cheek nestled against hers.

Precious memories of Melissa at that age brought a lump to her throat. God, she missed her.

Both of the children chattered away, asking Julia question after question, obviously perplexed with her pat answer, “Non capisco.”

Through the great French doors at the back of the house, Julia could see what had stolen the men away so quickly—a bocce ball court and what already appeared to be a heated competition.

With movie director precision, Angelina choreographed the position of each dish until, at last, two large terrines of soup were placed, one at each end of the table. She seemed satisfied that all was ready.

A gentle command was directed to the little girl leaning against Julia’s leg. She ran out the back door, but soon returned, leading her grandpa, Piero, by the finger. Vitale and the other men followed.

Everyone gathered around the table, moving so quickly Julia had to assume seating was assigned and set for life. Vitale took her hand and led her to the seat beside him at his father’s end of the table. He continued to hold her hand, which made her heartbeat speed up to its third-cup-of-coffee level. What would his family think of them? Holding hands like a couple of teenagers! When Celeste took her other hand, Julia understood, feeling a bit foolish as Piero intoned a beautiful blessing for the food.

He finished and Vitale pulled her chair out for her and pushed it in after she was seated. All the men and boys did the same for the women and girls sitting near them.

Angelina and Piero ladled the orange-colored soup into bowls and passed them down the sides of the table amid lots of banter that Julia could only grapple single words from. She understood “automobile” and “Mario Moretti,” so she inferred Vitale was explaining whom he’d borrowed the car from.

Proud of her accomplishment, and already exhausted by the effort of trying to understand the foreign language, she rewarded herself with a spoonful of the soup, which had been placed in front of her. The delicious sweetness of butternut squash surrounded her tongue, chased by a hint of nutmeg. Another flavor teased her senses, and she concentrated to name it. Sage maybe? She was so caught up in the mulled flavors, she didn’t think anything of Celeste’s sharp but whispered utterance, “Vitale . . .”

It was the jerky movement of his arm against hers that drew her attention.

“Merda!” He swore under his breath and scooted his chair back. His napkin landed hard in his empty seat, thrown down like a gauntlet.

“What’s wrong?”

But he was already making his way to the front door.

She glanced around the silent table.

All the eyes were focused out the large front window. She followed their gazes to the small black sedan parked behind the yellow Smart car.

As she watched, a petite brunette with hair to her waist ran up the walk toward Vitale and launched herself into his arms, smothering his face with kisses.