I still wanted to cry.
“Kia, is everything all right?” Celeste’s melodious, French-accented voice came at me and I looked to her.
I had to get myself together.
Okay, I was an idiot. Three days ago, I had breakfast with my fantasy man and stupidly thought that I’d see him again. I had not allowed myself to fantasize about what seeing him would mean; I was smart enough not to set myself up for that kind of disappointment. I just looked forward to doing it because he was a nice guy and, in the end when he got me to relax, he was easy to talk to.
But I didn’t think when I’d see him he would be with a beautiful woman.
That sucked.
But, whatever.
Right?
I was in a fabulous dress and fantastic shoes, sitting in a beautiful restaurant next to a world famous lake with people who were worldly yet kind.
And a year ago I was in a rotten marriage with an abusive husband and I’d given up on life because I’d convinced myself there was no way out.
Sam probably barely remembered me, considering how many people he had to meet in his life. He certainly wouldn’t recognize me from the back.
So. Onward.
Onward!
This was my motto since Cooter took a shotgun blast to the head.
Freaking onward.
I smiled at Celeste and whispered, “Better than all right. Thank you so much for bringing me here. I don’t even have to eat and it’s my most favorite restaurant in the world.”
Celeste smiled at me as she reached across the table, took my hand and gave it a squeeze. I squeezed hers back. Then I smiled at Thomas.
Then I took the menu I belatedly noticed the maitre d’ holding out to me.
* * * * *
I was sitting on the balcony of my hotel with a snifter in my hand filled with one piece of ice and a healthy dose of Amaretto.
I’d ordered a double.
Dinner was delicious. The company even better. And Sam hadn’t noticed me.
He also hadn’t left (not that I noticed, unless there was another exit) by the time we left. He would have to walk by our table and he didn’t. I didn’t want to be but I was on edge all night, waiting for him to do it and hoping he didn’t notice me.
But, even though we ate four seriously delicious courses and took our time, he did not walk by our table.
And when we left, I made certain to get up and walk out without looking back. I put everything into doing it casually, appearing natural so Sam wouldn’t read the effort like he’d done at breakfast.
But it didn’t matter if I pulled it off or not. Even if he noticed and recognized me, it was highly likely he wouldn’t care. In fact, he told me himself such behavior would be a relief.
So there I was, having a nightcap, staring at the dark waters and the blinking lights dotting the sides of the lake and doing this because I was really full and would never sleep even if it was way late but also because, even if I was alone on the balcony and no one could see me, I really didn’t want to take my fabulous outfit off yet.
I lifted my snifter and took a sip. I’d always liked Amaretto. My mother drank Amaretto sours everywhere she went. She made desserts with Amaretto in them. Dad had bought her an expensive set of Waterford snifters for Christmas when I was ten years old so she could further enjoy her Amaretto. She was an Amaretto freak. We had a bottle in our house at all times.
This she had given to me. I loved Amaretto too. Though, when Cooter was alive, the bottle I kept in the house I hid because it pissed Cooter off I spent so much on a bottle of liqueur I sipped on a very rare occasion when he wasn’t around. Clearly, he didn’t think me going through a bottle of Amaretto once every year and a half and him going through a case of beer once a week was fair.
On this thought, my eyes welled with tears and I pulled in a deep breath, rethinking my solitude and my double of almond liqueur on top of three glasses of wine at dinner.
This had been happening unexpectedly, mysteriously and with relative frequency since the day after my plane touched down in Paris. I had not shed tear one since Ozzie came to the house and broke the news, I hadn’t even felt my nose sting but since I started my vacation, it seemed to happen all the time.
I had no idea why and I had, until that moment, been so busy I was able to power through it without giving any headspace to wondering why.
But now, alone, sated, a wee bit tipsy, relaxed, my guard was down and my head flooded.
And it flooded with a memory, years ago, of having dinner at Mom and Dad’s house. After dinner, Dad and Cooter had gone into the living room to watch something on TV and Mom and I had done the dishes. When we were finished, we sat down at the dining room table which we were wont to do when Dad and Cooter were lapsing into food comas in front of the TV (Mom was a comfort food cook, as in, that was all she ever made) and it was time to right all the wrongs in the world.
It was just that, that night, Mom had a specific wrong she wanted to right.
At that time, I’d been married to Cooter for a year and a half. Looking back, I couldn’t say Cooter treated me with love and affection in the three years we were together prior to getting hitched, he’d treated me being on his arm like it was his due. But he’d never been cruel. Then, for whatever reason it commenced, Cooter had started to tear me down three months after we got married. This started small, incidences I could easily sweep aside as bad moods or anxiety due to a change of life, marriage, mortgage, needing to grow up fast and hold down a job in order to take care of home and hearth.
But it quickly escalated.
So by that time, I’d had huge chunks torn from me.
And for some bizarre reason, I thought I was hiding it from the world. Even my mother.
I should have known that no way could I hide anything from Essie Rigsby. First, she was a Mom with two kids and had been, at that time, for twenty-three years. Second, she was far from stupid. I’d never been able to pull one over on her.
Not ever.
And that night, when she sat at the foot of our dining room table, her back to the living room and I’d sat at her side, the wall obstructing me from Dad and Cooter’s view, Mom had not delayed.
Her eyes settled on me, they were troubled, I instantly clawed at the tattered edges of the personality that my husband was stripping from me, pulling them close in the hopes of using them to protect me from what I knew was to come but I didn’t succeed before she leaned into me, her hand cupping my cheek and she whispered, “You know, your Dad and I are always there for you.”
Tears filled my yes and I looked away.
Her other hand came up so she was holding me by both cheeks and she made me look at her again.
“Kia,” she kept whispering, “no matter what, no matter where, no matter anything, we’re always there for you.”
“Okay,” I whispered back.
She said nothing more, just stared in my eyes.
I sat across from her and kept my mouth shut. I didn’t know why then and I didn’t know why while sitting beside Lake Como drinking my favorite drink which was also my mother’s favorite drink and therefore reminding me of her. Maybe it was pride that was not allowing me to admit I made a huge mistake. Maybe I still had hope that Cooter would show me the glory he’d promised to me. Maybe I was in denial and didn’t want to face what was happening to me.
But I said nothing.
And I never did. Not for seven years. Not one of the times I tried to escape him. I said nothing.
Seven years.
I’d lost seven years and that was on me because help was half a mile away.
A tear slid down my cheek and Lake Como went fuzzy.
“Not even a smile?”
My body jerked as the question came from close in a deep, rough-like-velvet voice tinged with something I didn’t quite get, impatience or annoyance, and I twisted in my wrought iron, comfily padded chair and tilted my head back to see Sam standing right beside me.
In the mut
ed outside lights that lit the balcony but didn’t take from the view, I saw his face shift as he whispered, “Jesus, Kia.”
Oh God.
Shit!
I quickly lifted a hand and dashed it across my cheek, stupidly thinking maybe, even though his eyes were locked on my face, he’d miss it and I casually said, “Hey, Sam.”
“Are you okay?” he asked.
“Yeah, great. Just enjoying a nightcap,” I answered and his brows snapped together making him look slightly irritated.
“Are you okay?” he repeated.
“Yeah,” I replied then suddenly he bent at the waist, put one hand into the arm of my chair and his face was three inches from mine.
I sucked in breath at this move and his sudden proximity and pressed into the back of the chair but I didn’t have far to go and only gained an inch before he spoke again.
“Okay is not sittin’ alone, drinkin’ with tears in your eyes,” he stated.
Well, I had to admit, he was right about that.
“Uh…” I mumbled.
“Are you okay?” he repeated, this time gently, his eyes holding mine captive and while they did, they were looking deep.
So deep, I was mesmerized and found myself whispering, “I don’t know.”
“That’s a better answer,” he decreed on a return whisper then moved again, swiftly.
He bent to the side, reaching out a long arm; he tagged a chair and dragged it next to and facing the side of mine. Then he sat in it, leaned forward, put one elbow to his knee but reached out with the other hand, capturing mine and pulling it toward him. Then his other hand shifted and both of his hands held mine at his knees.
He did this so quickly, even when he settled I hadn’t come to terms with the fact that Sampson Cooper was holding my hand, sitting next to me and completely focused on me in an intent way that made my entire body feel warm.
“Your man?” he asked.
“What?” I asked back.
“Are you thinkin’ about your husband?”
I shook my head and answered, “No, my parents.”
His hands gave mine a squeeze that felt convulsive before he asked, “Are they okay?”
I nodded. He waited. I didn’t say anything.
His hands gave mine another squeeze, this one a clear prompt.
“It’s a long story,” I said softly and it was. It was also one he would never, ever know.
He held my eyes.
Then he guessed accurately, “You don’t wanna talk about it.”
“No,” I verified his accuracy.
“Right,” he murmured then asked, “You don’t wanna talk about that, you wanna talk about why you sat three tables away from me for three hours tonight and didn’t even smile at me, comin’ or goin’?”
I blinked but my heart started stuttering. I figured this was an improvement, at least it didn’t stop.
Then I asked, “What?”
“Baby, you saw me.”
Well, there it was. I didn’t pull one over on him.
Shit.
“I, uh… didn’t want to disturb you,” I told him.
“Bullshit,” he shot back instantly and I blinked again at the same time my hand jerked in his so his tightened around it.
“Bullshit?” I asked.
“Yeah, Kia, bullshit.”
My shoulders straightened and I didn’t even tell them to do it before my mouth accused, “Well, you didn’t smile or come say hello to me either.”
He stared at me and it occurred to me, even though I didn’t know him, like, at all, that I could sense that he had been being real but now he was getting mad.
Then he stated, “So now we’re playin’ a game.”
My shoulders got straighter and my torso turned more fully to him and I snapped, “I’m not playing a game.”
“Breakfast, totally fuckin’ transparent, fuck me, seriously refreshing and now it’s cat and mouse.” His hands squeezed mine. “Which one am I, Kia?”
Oh my God?
Did he just ask me that?
Seriously?
I yanked my hand from his and turned fully to him, declaring, “Neither, Sam, you were with another woman and I didn’t want to disturb you.”
“You came by to say hi, I could have introduced you to Luciana, who’s the widow of a buddy of mine.”
My stomach clutched.
Oh man.
Sam kept talking. “She’s beautiful, she’s sweet but she’s also not my type and even if she was, she’s my buddy’s widow so I’d never fuckin’ go there.”
Oh man!
“Sam –” I started.
“So I can decide what I’m gonna do now, I gotta know, you want me to be the cat or the mouse?”
“Neither,” I whispered.
“We done with this bullshit?” he asked practically before I finished my one word reply.
“I… well, uh…” I stammered then told him truthfully but hesitantly since he seemed kind of pissed off and definitely impatient and he was a very big guy so I didn’t want to make him more of either, “we hadn’t really started with the bullshit.”
“Right,” he muttered, still leaned forward, elbows to his knees, eyes on me.
“Right,” I whispered.
He held my eyes.
Then he said, “Good, then I’ll call Luciana in the morning, tell her I’m bringin’ someone to her thing tomorrow night. I’ll come to your room, eight o’clock. Don’t eat, she’s gonna put on a spread. It’s formal. Can you do that?”
I blinked.
Then I whispered, “What?”
“Tomorrow, Luciana’s party, formal, I’ll be at your room at eight o’clock. Can you do formal at short notice or should I call her and tell her I can’t come and we’ll go out to dinner?”
Oh my God.
Was he asking me out?
“Are you asking me out?”
The slightly pissed off and impatient look swept clean from his face, his lips twitched and he answered, “Yeah.”
“On a date?”
The last two words rose higher and higher and I was pretty certain my eyes were huge.
He grinned, scooted forward in his chair and said quietly, “Yeah, Kia, on a date but you gotta tell me where we’re goin’. Luciana doesn’t fuck around when it comes to her parties or her clothes. You can’t swing that, let me know and we’ll do something else.”
“I can swing that,” I said instantly and damnably enthusiastically.
That was when he smiled, full on, the white flash of his teeth nearly blinding in the semi-dark and it was better than any smile I’d seen him smile before, in person or not. It was so much better, my entire body got warm again.
Then he murmured, “Transparent.”
“Sorry?” I asked.
He didn’t answer. Instead he said, “Not surprised you can swing that.”
I didn’t know exactly why he thought that but I didn’t get the chance to ask because he was speaking again.
“I got shit to do early so I gotta hit it. I leave, you gonna be okay?”
At his open concern, I pressed my lips together and felt that all over body warmth start seeping into my soul.
“Yeah, Sam, I’ll be okay.”
His eyes moved over my face.
Then he whispered, “Okay.”
Then, before I could twitch, he was up, squatting over his chair and his mouth was touching mine.
That’s right, Sampson Cooper’s mouth touched mine.
And it felt sweet. Unbelievably sweet.
My head got light and I blinked repeatedly when his head moved back and he was so close, all I could see were his eyes.
“Sleep well and have good dreams, baby,” he said softly.
Then he was gone.
Chapter Three
Unless Life Led You to That
I stood in front of the full-length oval mirror in my hotel room but I didn’t see anything because I was blinded by anxiety.
Freaking out.
r /> Totally wound up.
At nine o’clock sharp that morning, the morning after Sampson Cooper asked me out on a date, I’d called Celeste. I’d been awake for three hours by that time, waiting (not patiently) until a time it would not be rude to call.
When she answered, I didn’t even say hello. I just launched into mile-a-minute speak about the night before, the Amaretto, Sam, what he said, the fact he asked me out and I also went into embarrassing detail about who he was, how much and how long I’d admired him. At some point during my demented monologue I even cried somewhat hysterically, “He’s seen all my good shoes!”
When it finally occurred to me how much I was talking and exactly how much I was exposing, I shut up.
When I shut up, Celeste had been silent for long, agonizing moments and I feared I’d given it all away and she was rethinking her newfound friendship with a random American tourist.
Then she shocked the crap out of me when she told me, “I’ll be there in an hour, ma chérie. Be ready.”
And she was, as was I.
Off we went to seven shoe shops, our mission, to find a pair that went with my gown. This took a lot less time than you would think visiting seven shoe shops and trying on a plethora of hair-raisingly expensive shoes would take because Celeste did not mess around.
While I tried on shoes Celeste pointed out and asked the shop assistants to get me in my size, she was on the phone speaking Italian, to whom and saying what, I didn’t know or ask because firstly, it wasn’t my business so that would be rude and secondly, I was freaking out and consumed with finding the perfect shoes like my life depended on this mission being successful.
We finally found the shoes that Celeste decreed would be perfect with my gown and it was good that I agreed with her (wholeheartedly). Rounding out what was coming to be known (by me) as my “metal collection” they were gold, they were strappy, the heel was thinner, more elegant and way sexier even than my bronze sandals and the awesomest of the awesome was the ankle slap was unbelievably thin and it wrapped around and around and around my ankle and tied at the back.
They were not perfect. They were perfect. So perfect, they could be displayed in a shoe museum that was how perfect they were.
But they also cost more than Cooter and my monthly mortgage.