10. Chapter Ten
Chapter Ten
Wednesday Evening
Four hours later, Danielle pulled up to a ramshackle Craftsman cottage the color of a motel swimming pool. An eclectic collection of beachy knickknacks lined the porch railing: starfish, hurricane lamps, fishing nets, glass floats, and painted terracotta mermaids. A wooden staircase led to an apartment above the detached two-car garage.
Blues music drifted through the open garage door, interrupted by the shriek of a power tool. The thought of Matteo’s hands mastering powerful machines set off a giddy tingle low in her belly.
In her rearview mirror, she straightened the silk scarf she’d folded into a headband, slicked on more lipstick, then blotted it. Stop dithering! She’d already had mind-blowing sex with Matteo, already spent a whole night wrapped in his arms. But after the fortuneteller’s predictions, she couldn’t shake the feeling there was more at stake here than a mere fling.
Eleven more days. Ridiculous, thinking they could last beyond that deadline. If she had the common sense God gave a goose, she’d throw her car into reverse and forget this vacation romance nonsense.
Matteo stepped into the open doorway, holding a power drill at his hip like some rumpled sci-fi hero gripping his ray gun—an impression that strengthened when he abled toward her, flashing that seductive smile of his. A worn concert T-shirt stretched tight across his broad chest, and paint-stained jeans clung to his muscular thighs. She forced her gaze up from the enticing bulge below his belt, back up to his dazzling smile. Pale flakes dusted the sexy scruff on his jaw. Sawdust? Might as well be stardust because she was powerless to look away.
He leaned an elbow on the roof of her car and grinned through the open window. “Ciao, bella. I’m glad you came.”
She boosted up to kiss him and darted her tongue into the silky heat of his mouth. His fingers tightened on the drill, making it whir.
“Careful, now.” Laughing, he opened her door. “High-voltage kisses and power tools—not a good combination.” He slung his free arm around her shoulders and walked her back to the garage. She squeezed his waist, and the drill whirred again.
“You’re dangerous, Danielle.” He set the drill on a crowded workbench, pulled a bandana from his pocket, and dusted off a metal stool. “Your throne, my queen. Welcome to my atelier. Also known as Sal’s garage.”
Filling one wall, sturdy metal shelves held tools, brushes, cans of paint and varnish, plus trays of drawer pulls, handles, and other hardware. Shelves along the other wall held table legs, boards, and window frames. Photos and sketches hung from a corkboard on the rear wall. In the center of the room sat a rusted garden arbor half-covered with driftwood.
Matteo pointed to the ceiling. “I live upstairs.”
“You don’t share the house with Sal?”
“We tried that, but he’s an early riser. Likes to practice opera while he makes breakfast. First time he blasted Nessun Dorma at six a.m., I nearly pissed myself.”
She giggled at the image of a sleep-rumpled Matteo bolting out of bed. She’d much rather see him waking gently beside her, his warm, sleepy-soft body spooned against hers…
She cleared her throat and forced her attention back to the present moment. “Have you lived here long?”
“Since November. Sal needed help when Zia Giulia got sick.” He stared into the distance, his gaze misty. “Breast cancer. Took her so damn fast. I lost my job in Seattle, and Sal offered me this place. Kind of a lifesaver for me.”
“I’ll bet you’re a big help to him too.”
He shrugged. “I try to be useful. He could barely manage the shop without Giulia’s help. What they had was really special.” He smiled and clasped her hand, his thumb tracing arcs over her knuckles. “Anyway, I picked up the slack at the gelato shop. I’m happy here.” He rolled up an extension cord snaking across the floor. “Sal and me, we’re simpatico, you know? Refugees from the rat race. He sings his opera, I make my furniture, and we both sling gelato.” He clapped his hands and rubbed them together. “So, you hungry? Sal’s fixing dinner for us.”
She chuckled. “Seems you’re always feeding me, Matteo. You should let me cook for you.”
He waved away her protest with a flick of his fingers. “You’re on vacation. You don’t have to be the mom all the time.”
That reminder poked like a rusty pin. Olivia and Noah had sent dozens of photos throughout the day—on midway rides, eating great piles of junk food, and mugging with the girlfriend’s sons. Years of working with kids had sharpened her radar, and those boys beamed an up-to-no-good vibe. Not much she could do about it, though.
She cleared her throat. “I like to cook. Besides, I have that big kitchen to myself.”
He pulled her to her feet, slid his hands around her hips, and nuzzled the sensitive crook of her neck. “It’s a date, then, as soon as I finish this project. You cook, and I’ll do the dishes.” The way he nibbled her earlobe, “doing the dishes” must be code for something dirty and delicious.
Sal banged on the rear window with his fist and called, “Mangiamo.”
Matteo tugged her toward the door. “You mind sharing dinner with Sal?”
“Of course not. He’s my second-favorite Italian.”
Matteo switched off the music and lights, then led her to a patio of flagstones interspersed with colorful bits of broken tile. Fairy lights twinkled overhead, suspended from posts at the corners. Against the garden wall, a lopsided Venus poured water into a giant cement clamshell. The merry trickle complemented the chatter of swallows swooping low over the grass.
Dapper in a white dress shirt, slacks, and striped suspenders, Sal unloaded dishes from a tray. He glanced up and flashed a broad grin. “Buona sera, Danielle. So glad you could join us.”
Her mouth watered as Sal arranged a cold supper of marinated grilled vegetables, crusty bread, salad, and a platter of thin-sliced meat covered with a pale, creamy sauce. She pointed. “Is that—”
“Vitello tonnato,” he replied with a flourish, then winked. “Actually, it’s roast turkey. Wasn’t sure if you eat veal. Lots of people don’t, these days.”
Matteo whistled. “Sal, you said you were just making sandwiches and salad.”
“Bah.” Sal waved dismissively. “Fran owed me a favor, since I sang at her granddaughter’s wedding.” He pulled out a seat for Danielle. “You know Casa Francesca? Best pasta alle vongole on the Washington coast. Next time, we’ll go with your kids. They’ll love Fran’s lasagna.” He kissed his fingertips.
The mention of her kids zinged her with guilt, which was ridiculous. They were having a blast in SoCal. She wasn’t harming them by having dinner with her new friends. And unlike Jason, she had no intention of introducing them to Matteo. Unless… The fortuneteller’s voice echoed: Combining different elements to make something better.
She unfurled her linen napkin and waved away those nagging thoughts.
Sal shooed Matteo. “Go clean up, boy. You dishonor Fran’s fine cooking.”
Matteo gave a staccato bow and dashed up the stairs to his apartment. Sal uncorked the wine.
“Pinot Grigio. From the Willamette Valley, not Italy, but it’s pretty good.” He poured a generous glassful and slid it toward her.
She sipped tart, bright sunshine. “Delicious.”
Sal filled his own glass and sat beside her. “So, bella, have you found what you’re looking for?”She blinked rapidly. “Sorry?”
His warm, calloused hand covered hers. “You could have spent your vacation with friends, but you came here. Alone. When a person does that, she is searching for something. Maybe out in the world, maybe in here.” He tapped his sternum.
She dropped her gaze to their joined hands. Here was a man who’d lost his great love but seemed happy. She’d lost her—well, perhaps it had never been more than a mediocre love. Her drive to be the perfect mom and speech therapist left her with too little time, too little focus to nourish their marriage. Not that she blamed herself for Jason’s cheating ways. She’d been unfulfilled too, but she’d never broken her marriage vows. Still, there was something he needed that he didn’t get from her.
Sal squeezed her hand. “I’m glad to see Matteo keeping company with someone like you. A lady of substance.”
She glanced down at her wide lap.
“No, no, no, bella. I’m not talking about your figure. Which is perfect, by the way. A woman should have curves, in my opinion.” He tapped his forehead. “I mean, you got smarts. And heart. Your idiot husband screwed things up, but you didn’t crumble. And I’ll tell you—” He leaned onto his elbow and lowered his voice. “My Matteo, he’s got heart, too. A huge one. Smart, handsome kid like him coulda found another job in Seattle like that.” He snapped his fingers. “But he came here to help his old uncle. He puts people first, you know?”
So did she. The trouble was, her kids had to come before all the other people in her life. Herself included.
For a long moment, they sat in silence, watching the swallows’ acrobatics in the gathering dusk. Sal’s cozy little yard was a good place to sit with her thoughts and feelings—just breathe it all in, along with the scent of summer green and salty ocean.
Upstairs, a door slammed. Sal chuckled. “My nephew’s making himself pretty for you.” He stabbed an olive, then wagged his fork. “I’ll give you a little free wisdom before dinner. Take it or leave it.”
She nodded. Without Sal’s invitation to the Sons of Italy banquet, she probably would have spent her vacation holed up with paperbacks and boxed wine. If he wanted to pontificate, she’d gladly listen.
He popped the olive into his mouth, chewed thoughtfully for a long moment, then pointed again with his fork. “Life’s too short.” His warm chestnut eyes lasered into hers. “You know what I mean?”
“Too short for what?”
His lips hitched in a melancholy smile. “Just too short. Don’t waste it. If you love something, make time for it.”
“If you love someone, you mean?”
He shrugged. “A person, a place, a hobby, a passion. Whatever you love, fill your life with that. Because life’s too damn short.” He dabbed his lips with his napkin, then blotted his eyes. Her heart squeezed.
Matteo thundered down the stairs and trotted to Sal’s side, smelling of soap and sandalwood. He’d traded his stained work clothes for a dark blue dress shirt, ivory linen pants, and leather flip flops. He spread his arms and rotated in a slow circle. “Okay, Zio. Am I worthy of Fran’s cooking?”
“Much better.” Sal leaned onto his elbow and hooked a thumb over his shoulder. “Che bel ragazzo, eh? What a handsome guy.”
She grinned. “Like his uncle.”
They dug into their feast. The creamy, subtle tonnato sauce, studded with briny capers, was the perfect foil for the tender braised turkey breast. Manners be damned. She mopped up the last bit of sauce with her bread. While they ate, Sal regaled them with stories about their family—Matteo’s snarky, artistic sister who lived in Portland with her girlfriend, also his mom, who’d found love with—gasp!—a non-Italian and moved to California. “Only six months after her husband died. Che scandalo.” Sal scooped more salad onto her plate. “But I say—well, you know my position.” He winked.
Matteo shrugged. “LeVon’s a good guy. He treats her well. She deserves to be happy.”
Sal pushed back from the table. “I’ll clean up. You youngsters stay and talk.” He inclined his head toward a small balcony above the patio. “Nice view up there. You can see the dunes.”
Matteo rose and extended his hand. “What do you say, bella? We’re trying a new gelato flavor, salted caramel with hazelnuts. Got some in my freezer.”
She didn’t bother hiding her wide smile. Pretty sure we’re going to share something much tastier than gelato.