Gaining Visibility. Pamela Hearon

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СКАЧАТЬ You don’t even know me.” She squared her shoulders, preparing to take the blow when he said she reminded him of his mother—or worse.

      “Because you work hard.” His fingers skimmed lightly down her arm, causing her to reach across and clutch the crutch with both hands for grounding. “You come to Italy. To Lerici. You cannot hike, but you can enjoy. You want to be here. It make you happy.”

      “Happy?” Sarcasm crept back into her tone. “My whole vacation has fallen apart, and you think I’m happy?”

      “You are happy. The body, she say happy.”

      “How in heaven’s name do you get ‘happy’ out of my limping around the room on a crutch?” She threw the words out like a challenge.

      “The finger . . . sometime the toe.” He nodded to her hand resting on her hip. “She dance to the music inside you. On the table when you eat. On the chair by the pool when you rest.” He pointed to the imprint in the comforter where she’d been sitting. “On the bed.”

      His answer stunned her. To battle the depression after her cancer diagnosis and the ensuing divorce, her therapist encouraged her to use music as therapy—make playlists of songs that made her happy—to keep her mind occupied with something other than fear. She’d never realized she tapped the rhythm unconsciously.

      But Vitale noticed?

      That was actually kind of nice. “But . . .” It still didn’t make sense for a perfect stranger to go to this much trouble, dancing finger notwithstanding.

      “No but.”

      He touched his finger to her lip, and she fought the sudden urge to draw it into her mouth and suck on it. Her brain shouted at her to stop that line of thinking, but other parts of her body seemed to have a mind of their own.

      “I want to do it, so I do it. I leave now to finish the work. But I find you the place to stay. I come tomorrow morning to take you there.”

      “Well, here.” She grabbed her journal from the table. “The hotels where I have reservations in Florence and Rome are here.” She copied the listings from the first two pages and handed him the paper. “Maybe one of them will have a room available, and I’ll just spend more time there.”

      He looked as though he was about to comment, but then he stuffed the paper into his pocket and walked out, head held high, reminding her of stories of demigods in Roman mythology.

      Poor mortal women. Never stood a chance.

      * * *

      Julia needed fresh air.

      She needed to check in with Camille, and she needed to check on Hettie. Most of all, she needed to keep her libido in check. Reacting foolishly to Vitale the way she had put her in the same league with Frank and Howard, a thought that made her skin crawl.

      “Get hold of yourself, Julietta,” she muttered, but the pleasant shiver that fluttered down her spine when she imagined Vitale mispronouncing her name mocked her attempts to follow her own advice. She grabbed her bag and the crutch, determined to let the salty breeze cleanse the overcharged synapses in her brain.

      Passing through the hotel lobby, she spotted a brochure advertising a boat excursion around the area. There would be just enough time to grab a bite and make it to the three o’clock tour.

      The walk down the incline went fairly well with the crutch, though a bit slower than she was used to. She hadn’t ventured very far before she found a lovely bistro with alfresco dining. After ordering a panini and a pinot grigio, feeling smugly decadent for drinking wine at lunch, she dialed the business number.

      “Panache. This is Camille.”

      “So the business hasn’t folded in my absence.”

      “Julia! How are you?”

      She drew out a long, dramatic sigh. “Well, my toe got broken this morning when Jupiter became angry that I was gawking at one of his gods, so I won’t be hiking the Cinque Terre after all.”

      “Oh no.” Camille groaned the utterance in such a way that adequate sympathy and a hug were both conveyed over the distance.

      “And I lost my hotel reservation, so I don’t have anyplace to stay, but said-god is looking for a place, and he noticed my dancing finger, so all in all, I’d say things aren’t too terrible.”

      “I’m not even sure I followed all of that, but it sounds like you’ve met a man, so I’m impressed.” Impressing Camille wasn’t difficult if romance was involved . . . even the fantasy kind.

      “I’ve met a man named Vitale, who’s gorgeous, but he’s only about thirty, so hardly in legal range for me. The good part is that he’s taking care of me like he would his mother—so you got your wish—and he’s very helpful.”

      “His mother, huh? Better wait and see what he wants for his trouble before you continue down that line of thinking.” Camille’s philosophy came out chewed around the edges. She must be eating breakfast. “And how’d the broken toe happen?”

      Julia opted for the dramaless version. “Vitale was laying a pathway, and he had this pile of stones. One fell off and landed on my foot.”

      “Are you in pain?”

      Julia thought about that before she spoke. “No, not really.”

      “But you can’t hike.” More crunching ensued. “That’s terrible.”

      “Could be worse. Of all the great places in the world to get laid up, the Italian Riviera’s got to be at the top of the list. How’s business?”

      “Nora Travis called this morning.” An eye roll was evident in Camille’s voice. “She’s ready to do her library and got all excited when I told her you were in Italy looking for new lines.”

      Julia answered with an eye roll of her own. “Glad you’re there to take care of the pretentious little twit. You were so good with her last time.”

      “As long as she’s willing to pay the price, I don’t mind wearing my boots and carrying my shovel.” Julia heard the familiar door chime in the background. “Anne Hutchens. How are you? Hey, Julia, somebody just came in, so I’ve got to go. Call and let me know where you are and how you’re managing, ’kay?”

      “I will. Go make us some money.”

      “And you find us some great stuff. Love you!”

      As the warm sun beat down on her back, Julia was surprised at how relaxed she felt considering the circumstances. She should be upset . . . in a foreign country virtually homeless. But Vitale’s manner had been so assuring, she really wasn’t worried. He would find her a place to stay.

      Allowing someone else to take care of things this once was rather nice, actually. But she wouldn’t want to make a habit of it.

      She sipped the crisp white wine, which tasted of sunshine and air and sea—Liguria in a bottle—and soon her server sat the grilled sandwich in front of her, bits of roasted red peppers and eggplant oozing out the side along with the cheese.

      Julia’s СКАЧАТЬ