CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Tommaso
“Ciao,” I said to Danica and Sam as I stood on the bottom step of my porch later that night, watching them walk to their car in the dark.
Sam’s wave was big and energetic, and her smile was just as radiant. “See you tomorrow, Tom. Thanks for dinner.”
I waved back. “You are very welcome, piccola. See you tomorrow.”
She climbed into the passenger seat, but Danica remained next to the driver’s door, watching me. I think I shocked us both when I invited her here tomorrow for dinner—alone.
I certainly hadn’t been planning it. It just came out of my mouth. However, I didn’t hate the idea of dining with her alone. We’d spent time alone before, and I enjoyed it very much. I’m sure I would enjoy tomorrow evening as well.
However, she didn’t answer me when I asked her either.
Still standing there, with Portia on the step next to me, my anxiety began to ramp up. Did she not answer me because she was being polite and didn’t want to turn me down and make tonight’s dinner awkward?
“What time?” she called to me from where she stood.
Huh?
“What time do you want me here for dinner tomorrow night?”
Oh!
“Seven?”
She nodded. “Okay. Seven.” Then she opened the door of her RAV and slid in behind the steering wheel. I waved at them both as they drove off, then glanced down at Portia. “I have a date.”
She looked up at me and grunted.
“Yeah, I know.” I raked my hand over my unruly scruff. “I need to shave.”
Friday morning started out much better than Thursday.
No animal escaped, nobody’s tulips were assassinated, and the messages in my inbox were hopeful.
I’d had very few dealings with lawyers in my life.
My sports agent in Italy handled most things for me, and Erin’s estate, along with her parents’, were very straightforward.
Luckily, the lawyers that emailed me either knew that English was not my first language, or took pity on me being a “jock” and not a barrister, and “dumbed” things down for me. Or, at least that’s how it seemed. I was not going to complain.
Good evening Mr. Barone,
My name is Michelle Price, and I’m an attorney at Price, Pritchett and Procter, and we specialize in real estate law.
A friend of mine, Gabrielle Campbell, sent me the documentation you’ve received regarding the petition for land acquisition, and I would be more than happy to have a call with you over the phone to discuss your next course of action.
I can certainly see how receiving a notice like this would be alarming and worrisome, especially given the muddy rules concerning land on San Camanez.
Please let me know whether you’re interested in chatting further.
Then she left her personal cell number.
Of course, she didn’t say in her email whether I actually had cause for concern or not, because she was in the business of making money, and hearing that from her would probably cost me.
Whatever. I just needed Vincent and his mother off my back and out of my life. I’d pay Michelle whatever she wanted just to hear that I could shred the letters and use them to warm my home in the woodstove.
I emailed her back right away asking for a phone call.
The next email came from an estate attorney.
Good morning Mr. Barone,
I’m up at three every day, and my workday starts at five, so please forgive the early email.
My name is Jake Jimenez, and I’m a senior partner at Aquarius Law.
My department specializes in wills and estates.
I went to law school with Gabrielle Campbell and Michelle Price, and they have brought me up to speed on your situation.
While I don’t have a copy of your wife or in-law’s wills, I’d be more than happy to chat with you about the situation and your options.
We could even do a conference call with Michelle, if you’ve chosen to work with her as well.
We’ve worked together before on similar cases.
Looking forward to connecting with you and getting this sorted.
He also left his personal cell phone number. Did they expect me to just call them out of the blue? I didn’t think that was kosher anymore.
I emailed Jake back as well, looping Michelle into the message with a carbon copy. All of this happened before seven-thirty while Portia and I sat at the kitchen table, eating our oatmeal and blueberries, and watching the sky get lighter over the water.
“What are we going to make for dinner tonight?” I asked her, scratching her ears with one hand while taking a sip of my coffee with the other.
Her eyes were closed since I was currently scratching that sweet spot right behind her left ear. Sometimes, if I hit it just right, she’d fall asleep and almost topple over if she wasn’t lying down.
“You’re no help,” I muttered, glancing back out at the water. Yesterday started out as an absolute disaster, but ended on a high note with Danica agreeing to come over for dinner. For a date.
It had been over twenty years since I’d been on a first date. How did I even do this?
The prickles of unease and worry began to make themselves known in my belly and arms, and around the fringes of my mind.
Danica didn’t strike me as the person to judge me for my lack of first date knowledge.
And based on some of the things she’d said the other night, it didn’t sound like she’d had too many first dates either. Could we fumble through this together?
“I’ve already made gnocchi, so I can’t do that again,” I said to Portia. “Ravioli? Tortellini? Cannelloni? With ricotta, butternut squash, and spinach?”
Portia opened one eye.
“Si?”
She closed the eye again, and I was pretty sure she nodded. I was going to take her little head movement as a nod anyway. “All right then. Cannelloni stuffed with ricotta, butternut squash, and spinach. I will need to go to the store then. Tiramisu for dessert?”
Portia was making that low, deep breathing sound she always made when she was nearly asleep; she was so relaxed.
“Useless swine,” I said, getting up from my seat and taking my empty coffee cup with me.
She followed me, of course, upset that I wasn’t scratching her ears anymore.
“Things to do, my pet.” Then we headed out to the barn to go feed the animals, muck the stalls, and check on Midnight and Raven; my encroaching anxiety about tonight’s date long forgotten as I mentally planned the menu for dinner, and ran through my wardrobe and what I could wear.
I liked my peace. I liked my privacy. Being alone didn’t bother me. But Danica’s presence felt better than being by myself. I looked forward to sharing my space and my comfort zones with her.
With her, I didn’t feel anxious or out of control.
I felt seen. I felt understood. I felt …
comfortable. Which is why I asked her to dinner.
Because the last time anybody made me feel this way was when I met Erin, and even though I missed my wife every day, when you meet someone who makes you feel this way, you don’t ignore it.
You don’t push it away. You welcome it. You embrace it.
And you do everything in your power to hang on to it.
After Portia and I finished with the animals, and we made sure Midnight and Raven were doing well, I sent my pig to bed, hopped in my truck, and headed to the store.
Normally, I didn’t wear a ball cap, but I kept one in my truck for when I had to go out in public. It just kept me a little more hidden. If I could get away with wearing sunglasses inside and not look like a weirdo celebrity, I would. But that seemed like a step too far.
Parking was awful at the Town Center Grocery Store.
It seemed that every year, the tourist season started earlier and earlier.
In the summer, I waited until thirty minutes before the store closed to do my shopping.
By then, most of the tourists had left the island, gone back to their campsites or cabins, and hardly any locals were around either.
I could get in and get out without having to stop and make small talk with people.
But I couldn’t do that today. So I tugged my ball cap down low over my eyes, wore the red flannel checkered shirt I kept in the backseat of my truck, and didn’t make eye contact with a soul as I made my way from the overflow parking lot behind the fence, dodged mud puddles, and headed to the front door of the grocery store.
The last thing I needed to do was run into Jolene Dandy or that vile woman, Brenda Pickford.
It seemed the whole Pickford family was just one bad batch of grapes, not suitable for even grocery store wine.
I was on my way out, ricotta, spinach, and a beautiful little squash in my reusable shopping bag, when I spied the pink and yellow tulips.
There were red and purple ones right beside them, and I smirked at the idea of buying those instead and pretending the store was out of yellow and pink. God forbid Signora Pickford should have garish and whorish flowers at her front door. The angels would certainly smite her.
I grabbed a bucket of yellow and one of pink and paid for them, then ran them to my truck, only to double back with empty arms and buy a bucket of the red and a bucket of the purple as well.
Because something told me, Danica would very much appreciate harlot flowers, and I needed some kind of peace offering if I ended up not liking her family’s wine.
Exhaling a deep breath through my nose as I pulled out of the parking lot, I allowed the peace of no longer being around a bunch of people to ease out of me.