Chapter 2 #2
I’d considered her question for a second before shrugging and admitting I probably wouldn’t. She’d retorted that I was a chauvinist grandma’s boy, I’d agreed, and we’d both had a laugh.
God, I miss laughing with her.
It was that asshole’s fault she left, even if he hadn’t accepted the job in Greece for her or driven her to the airport.
No, I was the one who’d brought her there.
Four months ago, Rachelle and I had come to Hideaway for a weekend visit with my family.
She’d made plenty of “quaint” plans, but I’d put them on hold so I could help my sister with her spontaneous move to Greece.
I’d helped her pack, then driven her to the airport.
Rachelle had elected not to come. Apparently, she’d pitched a fit about what a terrible boyfriend I was as soon as the car disappeared from view, first to Nonna, who’d been less than sympathetic, and then to a stranger in the café next door.
I still don’t know exactly what the barista said to her, but when I came back, Rachelle was already packing her bags for a weekend at The Haven spa.
She acted like the death of our relationship was old news.
The only thing she wanted to talk about was the spa’s wellness treatments, and did I think her skin looked “old”?
Naturally, I had questions about what the fuck had happened in the couple of hours I’d been gone. So I went over to Love at First Sip—stomped, I can hear my sister saying—and asked.
The woman behind the front counter had looked so innocent I could hardly believe she was the one who’d screwed me over. She had one of those faces that made me think of the ceiling frescoes in Rome—long curly hair and sweet rounded cheeks.
A new soul, my grandmother would probably have said. Then again, my grandmother can be superstitious and has strange beliefs ingrained so deeply into her personality it would be impossible to change or update them.
But this girl didn’t talk like an innocent. I can still hear her telling me that if I didn’t like getting down on my knees, I couldn’t possibly have satisfied Rachelle.
The absolute nerve.
Also completely untrue. Rachelle’s problem with me was that I’d prioritized my sister over her, which I was totally unwilling to apologize for. Family is everything to me. Rachelle’s inability to accept that meant we would never have worked out long term.
“Enzo?” my sister says. “Earth to Enzo. Are you still there?”
“Yeah,” I say, leaving the bedroom. “The event doesn’t start for a couple of hours, but I’m going to head over to the shop to remind Nonna to get along with everyone. Don’t be surprised if you never hear from me again.”
She laughs. “The worst that’ll happen to you is a swat from a wooden spoon. That woman worships the ground you boys walk on. Always has.”
“She feels the same way about you,” I tell her. “She banned three people from the deli on your behalf.”
She makes a sound of disbelief. “It was all because of you and that awful woman you were dating.”
“Is this where you tell me no one’s good enough for me?”
“Oh, there are plenty of women who are good enough for you. You just have awful taste. But I love you anyway. I’ll drink some ouzo in your honor.”
Greek ouzo isn’t the same as the Italian stuff, but I don’t say so.
I also don’t tell her that I haven’t dated at all since Rachelle and I broke up four months ago.
After our break up, I went back to New York City, and I barely had any downtime before I stepped right into another crisis, this one at work.
The situation was more complicated than I’d let on, but I had, technically, quit my consulting job.
By then, I already knew things weren’t going so hot in Hideaway Harbor. So I did what any good grandson would.
I came home to help fix them.
When you’re going through back-to-back crises, getting laid is the last thing on your mind.
But the dominoes have all stopped falling—I’m not going to look for a new job until Hidden Italy starts turning a healthy profit—which means I’ve started noticing my months-long dry spell.
It’s gotten bad enough that a Victoria’s Secret catalogue can make my blood heat.
I know better than to screw around in my home town, though. I’ve made that mistake before. Won’t be doing it again.
“You do that. Saluti.”
“Down the hatch,” Aria replies, and I can tell she’s smiling. “Don’t be too much of a grinch.”
I make no promises as I end the call and then put on my outdoor things.
Here goes nothing.
I step out of the apartment, lock the door, and then glance down the hall at the door of the unit with the street-facing window.
I know a woman lives there—the other night I was walking home and looked up from the street and saw her silhouette dancing.
Her apartment was dark other than the glow of a Christmas tree, so I’d only seen her shadow, pirouetting gracefully and without any self-consciousness.
Until she looked down and spotted me on the street. She’d shut her curtains like I was some pervert, which had made me feel like one. But that wasn’t why I’d been watching her.
It was one of those stolen moments when you get a glimpse into a stranger’s life—not the polished version they show the world, but them, through and through.
I’m curious about her now.
I’d like to know why she was dancing at midnight, her body gliding in concentric circles.
Acting on impulse, I head back into the apartment and scrawl a quick note into a blank notecard. I fold it and then prop it against her door on my way out.
It’s cold as a witch’s tit tonight, colder than it should be for early December, but instead of heading straight to Hidden Italy, I make my way to the stone bridge spanning the spring that supplies the town with water.
It’s the famous Wishing Bridge. Locals, known as Hidies, and tourists have been coming here for years to whisper their wishes and express their love for their significant other or a secret crush by attaching a lock to one of the detachable metal spokes supporting the railing.
They’re always covered with them, practically from top to bottom, even though the town removes them regularly.
It’s a place for desperate people, and I feel stupid as soon as I get there. I’m not a man who believes in wishes. Action is the only thing that matters.
But this place reminds me of the innocence of childhood. Of when I was young enough to think a jolly old man in a fancy red suit, trespassing, could solve my problems—or that a wish, made on a bridge, could change a life.
I’m not that person anymore. Still, I’m here, so I stand at the edge, looking down at the water—freezing my ass off, if I’m being truthful—and say, “I want a miracle.”
Then, louder, “I can make a miracle happen.”
Because I’m Enzo Cafiero, damn it. The man who makes miracles happen. I may have been humbled professionally, but my name still has to mean something. I need it to.
“Someone’s watching us,” I hear a voice hiss in an undertone nearby. “Put on your pants.”
I sigh, remembering this is also a make-out spot—and sometimes a public sex spot. I came here often enough when I was younger and looking for a place I could get some action without getting caught.
I turn to leave, and nearly collide with a woman.
It takes me only three seconds to register which woman. It’s the barista from Love at First Sip. The woman who took a hammer to my relationship and then questioned my virility in front of my neighbors.
She’s in a thick coat, mittens, and boots, but there’s nothing concealing her hair.
It’s long and curly and lush, surrounding her face and covering her shoulders.
Her hair’s what makes her look like one of Michaelangelo’s or Raphael’s angels.
From the dim glow of the lights at either end of the bridge, I can see her eyes are a deep mossy green, a color that makes me think of being lost in the woods.
For a second, I’m speechless. Was she this beautiful four months ago? Surely I would have noticed. A man notices when a fist pounds him in the face, and that’s what her beauty is, a fist to the face, or maybe the gut.
Then again, the low lighting does something for her, along with the setting of the stone bridge. She looks unreal. As if she’s a Christmas angel sent in response to my wish…
The thought instantly pisses me off, because I should know better.
Nobody cares about mortal wishes, neither the ones we keep silent, nor the ones we shout to the skies.
And the only person who can solve my family’s problems is me.
It’s always been that way, from the day my mother left.
Or maybe the day we realized she was never coming back.
The woman gives me a baffled look. “What are you doing here?”
The way she says it makes me bristle. The magic of the bridge fades away, and I’m so angry at myself for having momentarily believed in it that I snap. “This is my hometown. What are you doing here?”
There’s a hurt look on her face, and for a moment I feel guilty, until her features harden and she says, “You willingly left. I moved to Hideaway Harbor because I love it.”
“Do you also enjoy watching strangers have sex?”
Her eyes widen and she steps back, nearly colliding with the stone railing of the Wishing Bridge. It’s too low, and if she’s not careful, she could careen right off it.
Alarm sets my heart hammering within my ribs, and I grab her hand to pull her away from it.
She bounces against me, her body molded to mine for half a second—long enough for me to smell her hair.
Spicy and sweet, like one of those candles my sister left all around the apartment.
I breathe it in deeply, the cold air stinging my nose.
The woman jerks away from me, her eyes ablaze.
“You nearly fell,” I say quickly.
“I did no such thing.” She crosses her arms over her chest. “Are you some kind of…” Her gaze darts around before she whispers, “pervert?”