Lost in Carmel Page 9

  “Except it's not home.”

  “No. Of course, it's not home, but we've been so happy here all summer. I just thought—”

  “Because it was vacation,” Tess explained as if she were the parent. “That doesn't mean I want to live here. I want my own house, my own room, with all my stuff.”

  Tess rarely cried. She was pragmatic. A feisty hand-on-hips kind of girl from the time she was three. Now watery eyes had Natalie coming unraveled.

  “I understand, honey.”

  She did understand, more than Tess would ever know, but it didn't change the facts. The battle would leave Tess with her own scars.

  “When will I see Daddy again? Is he leaving us?”

  Natalie could hear the panic behind the question as the truth of the situation settled in a little girl's lap. Of course Tess would assume that it was Stan—who was never around in the first place—who would be the one to leave.

  “He's not leaving you, sweetheart.”

  Please God, don't let Stan follow in Alex's footsteps.

  “You can plan on a nice long visit over Christmas break.”

  She could see Tess taking it all in, weighing her options. Natalie took the opportunity to plead her case.

  “I don't know about you, Tess, but I've loved being able to walk the streets without the paparazzi popping out from behind every bush.”

  “Yeah.” Tess had both arms stretched taut on the edge of the bench, as if she were about to hurl herself off the edge. She continued to stare at the cobblestones beneath her feet as if they held all the answers she needed.

  “What do you say we give it a try?” Natalie nudged. “If we find that it's not working for us, or we're not happy, we'll pack our bags and head home. Deal?”

  Tess stared at the hand Natalie extended for a long moment before entering into the agreement with a resigned shrug. “Deal.”

  Natalie pulled Tess close and kissed the top of her head, her brown hair smelling of the Italian sunshine.

  “Everything's going to be all right, baby. I promise.”

  Second thoughts crowded around her. Not about the decision over the divorce, but about taking Tess from her familiar surroundings during a time of upheaval. But her instincts told her to hold fast. Tess didn't know it, but the peace of Piazza Farnese far outweighed the vultures circling the driveway back home.

  21 Do I Know You?

  She found herself looking for him.

  Daily trips to the piazza involved her own version of espionage. And when he'd look up at her from his table across the way, it wasn't hard to imagine that he'd come there looking for her, as well. Day after day, he played the part she had written for him. A lover without words in a silent movie. Nothing exchanged but a glance.

  Until yesterday when he failed to show up. She stayed longer than usual watching for his entrance like King Lear entering from stage right. Only in this case it was usually from the neighboring piazza, Campo di Fiori. Natalie loved the name, field of flowers, and she loved how Farnese spilled across the dividing line like melted gelato.

  When it became clear James wasn't going to show, she gathered her things and strolled back to her apartment. Empty handed and chiding herself for her foolishness.

  Yet here she was again today. Full of fresh hope, her journal opened before her, pen between her teeth. It was a harmless game, a daydream to fill an hour at a café table, waiting for Tess to arrive from school.

  She felt his presence before she saw him, looking up in time to watch him stroll in from the Campo side, the afternoon sun taking its cue from the lighting director and backlighting his entrance. He took his usual seat at the table on the far end and settled into his chair.

  Natalie noticed he always spent the first few minutes looking around, taking mental notes of his surroundings, like any good secret agent would do. The waiter sidled up to take his order and Natalie would have paid handsomely to change places. Happy to don that apron and have a reason to be standing that close to him, looking down at the dark hair curling around the back of his neck. She wondered what he smelled like. Soapy clean? Or some exotic cologne he bought the last time he was in Casablanca?

  James spoke briefly, a polite smile ending the conversation before he disappeared behind his copy of the Il Messaggero.

  Damn that newspaper. Natalie had her own copy folded on the table. Although she could only pick out a word or two, she'd turn the pages, letting her eyes wander over the words and images wondering which ones caught his attention. Sometimes he read the Corriere dello Sport. Which needed no translation.

  She doodled in her notebook, her pen, like her thoughts drawing lazy circles without beginning or end. With nothing else available in her line of sight, she studied James's hands. Well-manicured and obvious strangers to hard labor, they were still very much a man's hands. Strong, long fingers. Hands that could make a woman—

  James set the paper aside as the waiter brought his order and, in the process, he looked up and over at Natalie. Instead of the slight nod of the head which she was used to, he grinned. A big, open, come-on-in, kind of grin. Teeth flashed and just for a moment, his shadow stepped aside, long enough for Natalie to catch a glimpse of who he might have been before. Before sadness shared the seat next to him.

  He smiled. Her heart smiled back. Her own welcoming response spread across her face. Not one of those polite society kind of smiles, but a smile that reached all the way down to her toes.

  It was only a second, yet it was all the time in the world. Enough for two strangers to connect across a piazza before he lowered his gaze to his plate and Natalie turned to stare at something, anything, in the opposite direction.

  Today she would leave first.

  She gathered her journal and sunglasses and made her way through the café tables, confident that if she turned back to look, she'd find him watching her go.

  Mornings in the Camp di Fiori were humming with activity. A farmer’s market, centuries in the making, still thrived in a modern Rome. Long wooden tables groaned under their bounty as vendors tempted Italian mamas with the freshest ingredients for tonight’s suppers.

  The market seemed to spring up with the morning dew only to disappear in the noonday sun. Making way for the tables and chairs in the ever-evolving life of the piazza. Natalie’s canvas bag already bulging with soaps and cheeses, breads and vegetables, was slung over her shoulder while she leaned over to take a closer look at a bottle of olive oil.

  “This one. Questo, per favore.” Natalie pointed toward a tall bottle of the virgin elixir.

  As her finger extended it met up with another finger, coming from a different direction, and she looked up into the surprised eyes of 007.

  “Hello,” he said.

  “Hello,” Natalie repeated, as if she’d bumped into an old friend, forgetting for a moment that they didn’t know one another.

  “I’m sorry.” His English was perfect. “You can have it.”

  “No.” Natalie stepped back. “That’s okay, you take it.”

  “Thank you. If you’re sure.” He peeled a few lira off and handed them to the woman who didn’t care who bought it as long as she ended up with a sale. Natalie couldn’t believe he was going to take the bottle, when he turned and handed it to her in a grand gesture. It might as well have been a rose, but it was a bottle of olive oil that had their fingers touching in the exchange.

  “Perhaps this favor will earn one in return.”

  “What kind of favor?”

  “Dinner?”

  Dinner. Never had one word sounded so promising.

  “Do I know you?” Natalie smiled into a hazel sea, fringed with dark lashes. Just yesterday she’d wished for a reason to be this close.

  “Yes.” He looked down into her eyes. “We’ve met many times before.”

  He has been watching me.

  “Although,” he continued, “we have not been formally introduced. I’m Nico.”

  Natalie half expected him to say Bond. James Bond. But Nic
o fit him perfectly, she thought, as she watched the name settle on his shoulders.

  She moved the bottle of olive oil to her left hand to shake the hand he was offering. “Nice to meet you, Nico. I’m Natalie.”

  Strong fingers curled around hers. The same hands she’d watched for days, no longer holding a newspaper but her skin.

  “Natalie,” he said it slowly as if he were tasting it on his tongue and she suddenly wished she had a longer name, with a mouthful of syllables.

  “Perhaps we should move out of the way.” Nico pointed to a clearing at the end of the tables, and Natalie followed, her bottle of olive oil clutched to her chest. Ready to jump off the end of the pier if he asked.

  “Now,” he turned to look at her, “we were talking about dinner.”

  His English, though pitch perfect, was dipped in Cappuccino as it came rolling off his tongue and Natalie swallowed her desire to reach up and taste it.

  “Do you live around here?” she asked, instead.

  “Not far. My grandparents lived near here, so this little piazza is full of good memories. I come here when I need some peace and quiet or when I need to reconnect with my roots.”

  “I love it, too. I’ve been staying here for the summer.”

  “How lovely; everyone should have a summer in Rome.”

  “I’m inclined to agree. In fact, I’ve decided to extend my stay for a few more months.”

  “Ah, then you have time for dinner, no?”

  “Yes.” She didn’t even try to keep the grin from spreading across her face. She had all the time in the world.

  “So, Natalie...” He drew out the word waiting for a last name to fall into place.

  “Lindstrom.” She plucked Nora’s maiden name from the tip of her tongue and could almost hear Monty chiding her for continuing to play Mata Hari. She was pleased to see Nico accepted it without question.

  “Di Natale,” he said in reply, thumb pointing at his chest. The name dipped and swirled as it danced around in a circle in her brain. Nico Di Natale. “So, Miss Natalie Lindstrom shall I pick you up for dinner this evening?’

  “Let’s just meet here, in the piazza. Eight o’clock?”

  “Eight o’clock.” He looked down at his watch with a sigh, and Natalie felt the same way. How on earth would she get through the next ten hours?

  22 Spaghetti Carbonara

  She’d played with her hair, smoothing it behind her ears. Happy with the amount of growth she’d seen in three months, enough to have her looking and feeling like a woman again instead of a prisoner of war. Her new haircut mirrored her new attitude. Unfussy and to the point. Brushing her bangs up and off her forehead she could only hope that Nico was looking for Audrey Hepburn, with tits.

  Stepping into the piazza, the click of heels on cobblestones announced her arrival. As she entered from Monserrato, Nico entered from the Campo side. Each stopped for a moment and she could almost hear him catch his breath, or maybe he caught hers. Her heart thrummed in her chest, not from anxiety this time, but anticipation.

  Nico raised his arm in recognition, and she lifted hers in reply as they made their way from stage left and stage right, to meet in the middle.

  “Buona sera, Natalie Lindstrom.” Nico spoke first, looking down at her with a smile that hinted he’d been a little worried she might not show up.

  But here she was. Standing in the middle of Piazza Farnese, on a warm September evening, a little black dress hugging her body and strappy sandals on her feet.

  “Good evening,” she said.

  “You look beautiful.” His eyes swept over her in appreciation.

  The compliment seeped into barren soil. “Thank you.”

  With his hand on her elbow, Nico steered her back toward Campo di Fiori.

  “So, where are you taking me?”

  “Do you like spaghetti carbonara?”

  “I don’t think I’ve ever had it.”

  Nico stopped and turned to look at Natalie, eyes wide in disbelief. “Never had it?”

  “Nope.”

  “This is not to be. You’re in Rome. You can’t leave here without having spaghetti carbonara.”

  “Well then, thank God, you’re here to save me.” Natalie laughed.

  She loved little café tables, there was no room for standoffishness. Beneath a starched white tablecloth in the Piazza Navona, knees introduced themselves and calves bumped together in their own version of a first date dance.

  She was surprised how easy the conversation was. Just when she thought they'd hit a lull, it overflowed again like wine glasses being refilled. Back and forth they went, sharing this, then that, as the waiter dipped in and out of their conversation. Bottles of water and bread were brought to the table while Natalie heard that Nico's mother, Rebecca, was American. A teacher.

  Born in America, Nico spent the first five years of his life in New York City, until Saldo decided to move his family back to Rome. Nico's life was a happy mix of two cultures and two languages bouncing around the dinner table and Natalie could see how he'd put his own Italian spin on his mother's native tongue. Equally at home in both.

  It a poetic twist of fate, language became his future. After a couple of years at Columbia in New York City, he returned home to teach English and English Lit at the American University of Rome. Natalie smiled to herself, wondering if perhaps a university professor was just his cover. Either way, everything fit perfectly on him. Like the blue dress shirt casually unbuttoned at his neck, a hint of a gold chain peeking out from underneath.

  “I'll ask a very American question.” Nico grinned. “What do you do back in America?”

  Stalling for time, Natalie asked, “Why is that an American question?”

  Nico shrugged. “It just is. In Italy you won't find people asking what do you do? In America it's usually one of the first questions you get.”

  Natalie pondered his observation. “What do I do?” she repeated.

  Now she was the covert agent caught off guard without a cover story. Unwilling to divulge her secrets, yet, she scrambled for an easy out. “I'm just a mother.”

  Nico tilted his head as he watched her fumble with her fork. “Ah, the most important job in the world.”

  “This,” Natalie held up a forkful of carbonara, eager to change the subject, “this is divine. How could I have lived all my life without tasting something like this?” The simple ingredients of eggs, bacon, and cheese joined together in a heavenly chorus, while the splash of cream was the hallelujah note.

  “When we say food of the gods, we mean it.” Nico was smug. “Carbonara goes all the way back to the Roman emperors.”

  “Is that true?”

  “Probably not.” Nico shook his head. “But Romans never stray too far from a good myth.”

  God, she liked him.

  Nico was telling a story, about one of his students, and he had her full attention. She could listen to him talk forever. Stringing sentences together in an incantation. Every word, a note in a song. She watched his face, animated and full of life, using his whole body to tell the story and a realization washed over her, like the wine that was warm in her veins. She was lonely. Desperately, achingly, lonely.

  Lonely for something that until this moment she didn't know existed. Like the carbonara on her plate. And now it would be impossible to go back, to pretend she hadn't tasted it. She leaned back in her chair, cognizant of how vulnerable she was in the moment. After all, Humpty Dumpty still had a few missing pieces, and she was sure the hairline cracks were visible if someone looked hard enough.

  The more he talked, the more she wanted to match his enthusiasm and openness. Difficult, while balancing on the head of a lie. Yet, it was only dinner, she kept reminding herself.

  In the candlelight, Natalie noticed Nico's hand on the table. An indentation on his ring finger stared back at her. Her heart skipped a beat. Pale skin, hidden beneath a gold band for years, looked naked in the light. Even though he wasn't wearing a ring, he was still wearin
g it. “Are you married?” She nodded her head toward his hand, afraid of the answer.

  Nico instinctively twisted the invisible ring with his right hand. “No.” He shook his head slowly. “Widowed.”

  There it was. The uninvited guest sidling up to the table. The specter of sadness she'd seen hovering around him in the piazza, put its hand on his shoulder.

  “I'm sorry,” she whispered. She'd caught the change in his voice when he uttered the word, widowed. As if he was still getting used to it. She kicked herself for bringing it up.

  “Thank you.” The shadow moved across his face. “It's okay.” He squared his shoulders, shaking it off. “What about you?” he asked. “You mentioned a daughter. Is there a husband?”

  “I'm in the beginning of a divorce.” It felt strange to hear the words come from her mouth, to say the truth out loud. She was getting divorced.

  “I'm sorry, too.” Nico reached across the table, taking her hand in his as two slightly damaged souls bonded over the pain of losing everything.

  Hours later they were still talking. And laughing. Wandering through the city arm in arm. Rome came alive at night, a cocktail of cosmopolitan and old world flavors swirled together in a delicious mix. In every piazza, people gathered around food and wine and music, and Natalie wanted to sit at every table and join in every conversation and drink her fill.

  Too soon they found themselves back in Piazza Farnese.

  “Can I walk you to your door?”

  Natalie looked over her shoulder and pointed to a light in a window. “I'm over there.”

  They slowed their steps as they came to her doorway, stretching out the moment.

  “May I see you again, Natalie Lindstrom?”

  “Yes, you may.” Her back against the wall, Natalie looked up into his eyes, his mouth inches from hers.

  But instead of the kiss she expected he reached for her hand and brought it to his mouth. His lips brushed her knuckles, but his eyes never left her face. “Tomorrow?”

  “Our usual time?” she teased, after catching her breath.