“Huh?” I asked, shaking my head free of thoughts of us skinny-dipping in the lake. “In what?”
“Spending the weekend there.” He leaned up to give me a kiss. “With me?”
I clenched my thighs together, sealing his hand between them before I jumped off the desk and ran for the door.
“Where are you going?” he asked with a worried frown.
“Home to pack, hot stuff. We have a Lake Como villa to defile.”
* * *
“SO HIT ME. How are things in Amsterdam?”
“Things are, well, hairy would be the best word right now,” Daisy said.
“Hairy is never a good word to describe anything.”
“Unless it’s a redheaded prince of England.”
“Good point. When are you coming home?” I asked, kicking off my shoes and tucking my feet underneath me.
“I love that you’re calling it home. That’s a good sign.” Her voice snapped me back to the present.
“You know what I meant. When are you coming back?”
“As soon as I convince Maarten—”
“Who’s Maarten?” I asked, hearing something in her voice that caused a blip on my radar.
“Never mind that. I shouldn’t be here too much longer. About a week or so. And if you’re up to no good in my apartment, please sanitize all surfaces.”
“Can you hang on a second?”
“Sure.”
“I have to make a note to pick up some Clorox at—”
“I knew it! I had a feeling you two would eventually get it on,” Daisy said.
“We’re talking minutes.”
“Minutes what?”
“We only waited minutes after you left town.”
“Shut your mouth!”
“I will not!” We both laughed, and it felt good. Good to be sharing this with one of my best friends. Being able to talk freely about Marcello and what was going on was new to me.
I told her some. But most I kept just for me.
Like the hunger. And sweat. And push. And pull. And don’t you dare stop. And yes, exactly right there. And goddamn, that’s good!
I ran my fingers across my bottom lip, thinking about how just last night Marcello had put his mouth on—
“—my box?”
“What?” I needed to pay more attention when I was on the phone.
“I had a box shipped from Amsterdam, so keep an eye out for it, okay? In between sessions of hide the cannoli with the Italian stallion.”
“Yes. Box. Sure. Stallion. On it. Anything else?”
“Not unless you want to tell me more.”
“I love it when you sound like Frenchy from Grease. We’re actually going to Lake Como this weekend. I can’t wait!”
“You two are going away together this weekend?”
“Mm-hmm, somebody he did a favor for is giving us their villa for the weekend. It’s supposed to be actually right on the literal lake, how cool is that?”
“That’s very cool, Avery,” she agreed, but something in her voice had changed a little. “Just be careful. Don’t get in too deep, too fast, so you don’t get your heart broken. Or break anyone else’s.”
“Oh.” I chewed on my lip. “I don’t think—I mean, we just started—”
“Exactly,” she gently interrupted. “So you might not be thinking. I’m not saying don’t do this, because it’s obvious there’s something pretty incredible between you two. But just come up for air if you need it, okay? You went from the sorority house right into Daniel’s house, and it might be good to just . . . I don’t know. Marcello is great, but so are you. Remember that, okay?”
I smiled. “I will.”
“Okay, lecture over. Now tell me about the good stuff. Is he as good as you remember? Details woman! I’m stuck in hell right now; I need to know someone’s getting laid.”
* * *
“WHEN WILL WE SEE the Clooney?”
“Unbelievable.”
“Seriously, when will we see the Clooney?”
“What is that saying? You are like a bone with a dog?”
“Reverse it. So, Clooney. Will he be just walking free through the train station, or will it be more like we’ll see him on the lake, driving his speedboat around?”
“I do not think that he—”
“A speedboat. Yeah. And maybe he’s got somewhere really fancy to be, so he’ll be in a tuxedo—it could happen. And what if when he gets off the boat, I happen to be right there, and he realizes he doesn’t have to go to this shindig alone.”
“You know that I hear you, right?”
“Yeah, it helps when I’m fantasizing to this degree to say it out loud. Dammit, I lost my train of thought.” I looked up at Marcello and blinked. “Where was I?”
“Something about getting off his boat in a tuxedo?”
“Yeah, the tuxedo. And he needs me to accompany him to a fancy dinner tonight. I don’t have a thing to wear, of course, but I’ll figure it out. And when we get there—”
“When you get there, a tall, dark, handsome man, also wearing a tuxedo, will approach you, slap your Clooney in the face, and take you behind the bar to remind you who brought you to Lake Como in the first place.”
I gasped. “You would slap Clooney?”
“It seems like more of an insult than punching him.”
“Good point.” I gazed out the window of the train, en route to Lake Como. “Change of plans. How about if I see Clooney, I just smile and nod like we both know something but refuse to acknowledge it. More mysterious that way.”
“I think that would best,” Marcello replied, nodding sagely. Slipping his arm around my shoulder, he cuddled me into his side, turning me a bit so we could both look out the window. It was a Thursday afternoon, and we were able to take off work around noon, grabbing the train from Rome to Milan. After a three-hour ride, we changed trains for the last leg to Varenna, the jumping-off point for all things Como.
And Clooney. I was mostly joking, but I’d still be scouting the lake for any signs of him.
The terrain changed several times on our way north from Rome, beginning to take on the mountainous feel being so close to the Alps. The trees were fuller, the air seemed more crisp, the sky clear blue, and what I was seeing out of the train window could only be described as something right out of a fairy tale.
And speaking of fairy tale, here I was sitting right next to my own Prince Awesome. Going away for a weekend to a luxurious villa on a romantic lake. How did I get so lucky? What is this life I was living?
I grinned, slid impossibly closer to Marcello, and watched the world go by.
* * *
THE TRAIN STATION IN MILAN was enormous, cavernous, glamorous, and a bit overwhelming. The train station in Varenna? Quaint. Small. Sweet. And just the right introduction to the wonder that is Lake Como. If the lake were a pair of men’s trousers, then Varenna would be the belt buckle. And like a belt buckle, it was right smack dab in the center of the action. Action, in this case, being a wonderfully sleepy town dotted with grand old villas and twisty turny streets.
“Oh,” I breathed as we stepped off the train and onto the platform. The air was soft, cushiony, and fragrant with just plain clean. Swinging my overnight bag easily over his shoulder, Marcello grabbed his own bag and we took off.
“It is beautiful, yes?”
“Oh my God, yes,” I agreed, my head spinning like an owl to take it all in, not miss a thing. He led me through the station, pausing to consult a map on the wall and compare it to the notes he had on where the villa was located. After quickly conversing with a cabbie, Marcello ushered me into a car and away we went.
From the train, I’d caught a peek or two of the lake, little snatches of deep blue color between mountains and trees. But now, as we wound farther down toward the water’s edge, the lake stretched out in all directions. To say I’ve never seen anything like it simply didn’t do it justice. The water was calm, so calm, rippling here and there maybe behind a boat but otherwise serene.
Like glass. Climbing on either side of the water were tree-covered mountains, some rolling a little, others seeming to scrape the sky with their jagged peaks. And everywhere along the lake, incredible homes built right into the hillside, perched imperiously, looking down on the water and anyone who might be approaching. Stone terraces, gardens, each one bigger and grander than the next, spread out like colorful skirts on an imposing bodice, softening the look and making everything seem a bit friendlier, more approachable.
Everything was against a backdrop of green, a green so deep and gentle it was almost blue, like an old glass bottle.
As always, I felt my fingers take on an imaginary brush, a piece of pastel, even a colored pencil, itching to sketch a landscape as pure as this was.
Vaguely I was aware of Marcello and the cabbie chatting in rapid Italian, my ear getting more attuned at picking up entire phrases now. Restaurant recommendations, which gardens to tour. I might not be able to answer back yet, but I was picking up more than I’d thought in just a short amount of time.
Driving up along a high ridge, we turned down an almost hidden driveway surrounded by wrought-iron fencing and fat palm trees. And there was the villa.
“You’re kidding,” I said, my jaw hanging open.
“Kidding?” Marcello asked, curious as he held my door open. I scrambled out of the cab, eyes wide as I gazed at the home that would be ours for the weekend.
“This just doesn’t even seem real anymore,” I muttered to myself, my senses overwhelmed at the beauty that completely surrounded me. The home was cream colored, flanked by tall cypress trees and pure magic. Marcello paid the cabbie, took my hand, and led me through an outer door made of intricately woven copper, tarnished green with an ageless patina. While I marveled at the mosaic-tiled floor, he worried the key into a lock set into a massive mahogany door, which creaked open, affording me the first peek into old-school Italian luxury.
I saw miles and miles of travertine floor, intersected with black veined marble. I saw room after room of beautiful furniture, priceless antiques mixed with modern comfort. I saw a kitchen that any chef would have given their eyeteeth to get to cook in once, just once. But what I couldn’t really take my eyes off was the water.
The house opened up onto terrace after terrace, built into the hillside and situated perfectly to highlight the main reason this region had been famous for centuries, the beautiful lake. I walked to the edge of the main terrace, just off the dining room, and headed straight for the white stone railing, warmed by the late-afternoon sun and exactly the right width for sitting. I flung both legs over the side and perched right on the edge, laughing as the wind kicked up my curls and made me 1,000 percent glad I’d decided to take Daisy up on her offer to get my ass to Rome.
“This just doesn’t seem real,” I repeated as Marcello’s footsteps across the terrace behind me reminded me that yes, this was real and yes, this really was my life and yes, I deserved this gentle happiness that was creeping into every corner of my life.
That gentle happiness was compounded only seconds later when he wrapped his arms around me from behind, rested his chin on the top of my head, and together we watched the sun begin to set.
I HEARD THAT HE AND the wife live here most of the year. Is that true?” I asked, flipping through an Italian gossip magazine that I’d made Marcello buy me when we stopped for groceries.
He laughed, pulling it from my hands and tossing it onto the counter. “I don’t know. I don’t care.”
“Sure you do, she’s hot. He’s hot. They’re stiflingly hot together. They could be here right now. Maybe next door. We can borrow sugar from them,” I teased, stepping over to the wide kitchen window to peer outside.
The house was literally on the lake. Or LAKE, as I was calling it in my head. Everything about Lake Como was amplified. Italy by default was gorgeous, but Lake Como was Italy 5.0 and that wasn’t just because we may or may not run into (become best friends with) George Clooney.
It was something magical. Something out of a fairy tale with stone villas blanketed in flowers and the shimmering water surrounding you. The crisp air ignited every sense in my body and commanded attention.
I was lost in my daydream about potential Hollywood neighbors when Marcello came up behind me at the counter. His arms reached around mine to turn on the faucet. With his lips on my neck, he washed his hands before drying them on a tea towel on the side.
It was such a domestic thing to do. Cuddled up against each other to do something mundane, but there was nothing simple about it. It felt like more. More comfort, more openness. More like a couple.
But I was still legally a part of a couple with Daniel and the comfort melted away, allowing sadness to creep in.
“What happened just then? Your warmth, it faded,” Marcello said, rubbing his hands along my arms.
I turned and rested my head to his chest. I’d wondered when this topic would come up. Frankly, I was surprised I’d avoided it as long as I did. But as patient as Marcello had been while I got my mental Daniel ducks in order, the conversation was beyond overdue.
“Take me out to dinner tonight, okay?” I asked, reaching up on my tiptoes to kiss his chin. My lips moved down, chin to Adam’s apple, to the little hollow at the base of his throat that made him shiver.
“Then I will ravage you under the stars with the lake air as our blanket.”
Now see, an Italian can get away with saying something like that . . .
* * *
THERE WASN’T EVER GOING TO be a right time for this conversation, but it was time to bring it all out in the open.
And it was here, at a lovely lakeside restaurant, that I finally felt ready to share my life, such as it had been, with him. Sitting across from me, his eyes liquid chocolate in the warm glow from the candlelight, I realized that this could have been my life. Had I made other choices. Had I listened to my heart and not my head. Had I—
“You have murdered your breadstick.”
“Hmm?” I asked, snapped out of my reverie by Marcello’s voice. He gestured to the pile of crumbs that had once been a crispy breadstick before my nervous hands got ahold of it and reduced it to so many crackery crumbs. “Oh, whoops.”
He inclined his head in question. “Tell me what is going through that gorgeous head of yours, before you make a bigger mess.”
Funny he should mention a mess . . .
I took a deep breath. “You haven’t asked me much about what’s going on at home.”
“In Rome?” he asked, and it thrilled me to no end that even for a second I could consider, that we would consider, Rome as home.
“No, home home. Boston home.”
He swirled his wine in the glass, lifting it to his lips, his eyes on mine over the rim. Just before he sipped, he said, “You haven’t wanted to tell me much. I can respect that.”
“You don’t want to know?”
He considered. “Of course I want to know, but I want to know what you want me to know. When you want me to know it.”
I sipped my own wine. “I see.”
He leaned across the table and covered my hand with his own. “Do not mistake my lack of asking as a lack of interest. I want to know what’s going on in Boston, I want to know everything.”
“You want to know everything?” I asked.
“I do, you think you can tell me something that—”
“I’m married, Marcello,” I blurted out.
Remember when I said there was nothing like being the reason that someone’s entire face changes? When I’d thought that, I’d just made him happy. I’d never thought about the opposite effect.
He stared at me expressionless. He was still, unmoving, like a statue. Except for his jaw, which clenched repeatedly.
Tell him the rest!
“But I’m getting divorced. I’m, well, I’m separated I guess is what you’d call it.”
“Which is it?” he asked, jaw unclenching.
“Both, I suppose. I am separated. I am getting
a divorce. I’m in the process now, it’s complicated. Although I suppose all divorces are, aren’t they?”
“I don’t know, I’ve never been divorced,” he said, his voice tinged with a touch of reproach.
I sighed. “I certainly didn’t plan on getting divorced. Really, who walks down the aisle thinking, hey, I can always get out of this later on?”
“I’d never want my wife to feel that way.”
“Your wife would never feel that way,” I whispered, feeling my eyes spark with tears. “Who would ever want a way out if they were married to you?”
We both sat silently, eyes locked, asking each other questions without words. Finally, he spoke. “So, you are getting divorced.”
“Yes.” I paused to take a sip of wine.
“Why?”
“He was cheating.”
He cursed quietly in Italian. “If he wasn’t cheating, you would still be married? Not getting divorced?”
“I don’t know. I’d like to say that I still would’ve left him for a host of other reasons. But the fact is, if I hadn’t caught him balls deep in his secretary, then I wouldn’t be here on this lovely lake, eating this lovely meal, about to go home to a lovely villa with a lovely man, and have wicked, wild, lovely sex.”
He smiled at that, just a little bit, but enough that the left corner of his mouth tilted up. “What is balls deep?”
I rolled my eyes. “You’ll figure it out. I had plans, promises, mistakes made that I let dictate how I lived. But I can’t say with a hundred percent certainty that I would have demanded more from my life one day.”
It was easy here, a world away, to convince myself that I could have more, could be more. But back home, buried in garden parties and country club dinners, it was so easy to quietly slip away from myself. A concrete cardigan as it were, sucking me down into that bored-out-of-my-mind hell.
“I had friends who’d sought refuge with the pool man. And friends whose chardonnay or two at five o’clock became three or four glasses at lunchtime. I didn’t cheat, didn’t drink or fill my life with another vice. Instead I became what I thought I wanted to be and gave up what I really loved.