Chapter 18 Eager for the Night
Eager for the Night
Through a soft rain, a mist really, Harold escorted Moira under her umbrella back to her apartment about ten minutes away, then offered her a hug and headed home.
The night had an edge to it, busier than normal for a weekday, despite the rain.
There was something magical about how the misty glow of the streetlights lit up all the colorful umbrellas bobbing along the sidewalks.
He was back on Via Giulia, an escape from the madness of the rest of the city, when he heard a door kick open across the street. Bianca’s father slipped out onto the sidewalk and opened an umbrella. They exchanged a quick wave, then George swiftly marched the other way, clearly a man on a mission.
Once Harold reached the scaffolding surrounding the bookstore, he heard the opera singer across the street break into song. The man stood in his robe, also uncaring of the falling mist, his hands on the railing, his eyes tilted upward, his voice echoing into the evening.
Harold paused to listen, something he’d never done before. Perhaps Aroldo had an interest in the opera. What a city, he thought. So perfect in so many ways. Where else could you happen upon a man giving everything he had to the night, belting out a song in the rain as if he were on a stage.
When the man finished, shaking the city with a long-lasting vibrato, Harold clapped his hands. “Bravo! Bravo!”
The opera singer bowed, causing Harold to smile.
When he lowered his eyes back down, he saw her, his strawberry love, standing under the cover of a bright-yellow umbrella.
“Alice?” he said, taking in this angelic form, this being that he’d been studying from afar, this being that had come back to him . . . No, don’t get ahead of yourself, Harold.
She wore a khaki jacket that covered all but her legs. The streetlights gave her skin a warmth that was enough to make him shiver. Her strawberry explosion of hair was still a mess, with beads of rain stuck in it, sparkling like gemstones, and she was still as beautiful as ever.
He crossed the street, hoping that this was it, the moment he’d dreamed of. Cobblestones under his feet, he stopped and peered into her eyes. Only then could he see that she’d been crying.
“What’s going on?” He was hesitant to hug her, to step closer. “Are you okay? Did he hurt you?” He wiped the rain from his face.
“I’m fine, it’s just . . . We got in a fight. I didn’t know where else to go.”
She needed him and it radiated out from her, that need.
He stepped closer, testing the waters, slowly raising his arms. She didn’t back away, didn’t hesitate.
As he inched even closer, she moved into him, and suddenly he was under the protection of the umbrella as well.
He wrapped his arms around her, and she wept into his shoulder.
They held each other for a long time, a bubble of dry safety, Harold’s heart coming alive for the first time since she’d left. How many nights had he lain awake wondering whether he’d ever touch her again? And here he was, once again with the love of his life, and maybe she knew it now too.
He pulled away and found her eyes. They were close enough to kiss, but even he knew this wasn’t a kissing moment. “What did he do?”
“I don’t even know how it started, but he raised his voice at me. He’d been drinking.”
He touched her cheek, feeling a surge of love run between them. “I’m so sorry.”
As they crossed the street, he started to come to his senses and realized he’d completely forgotten about Aroldo, and like Clark Kent dashing into a phone booth, Harold made the switch.
In an instant, he stood taller. His muscles and calves swelled.
She hadn’t yet noticed his new style but surely would.
He felt smarter, wittier, more at ease. One of the chapters in Bianca’s book focused on creating reality by visualizing and feeling it.
It was true, so true. He felt like a different man, and when he pulled open the large wooden door that led to his—no, their—apartment, he set a hand on the small of her back.
“Let’s get you dry, dear,” Aroldo Megawatt said, the faint yet complex accent suggesting that he’d lived all over the globe, perhaps born in London, then ushered through Copenhagen and Prague in his teens, then his years of study at the Sorbonne before trading commodities in Hong Kong.
Confusion flickered on her face, and he liked what he saw, how the confusion seemed to morph into desire, or something close to it.
Aroldo confidently ushered her up the stairs.
He was calculated and caring, whispering that it would be okay.
In the foyer, he closed the yellow umbrella and helped her with her jacket.
Alice looked him up and down, surely noticing his new waterproof leather boots, and his designer jeans that had cost way too much, and the crisp white shirt that had grown damp in the mist. Not to mention the black-and-white belt that Giovanni had insisted upon.
“Are you cold?” Aroldo asked. “Let’s get you a blanket.”
She nodded, saying, “You look nice.”
“Grazie.” He said it casually, like he hadn’t been trying at all. This was the man she’d left. Nothing had changed. Only everything.
He moved with intent into the living room and found the blanket. Thank God he’d straightened up. Harold had remained slack about cleaning, but Aroldo always picked up after himself.
“It looks so different in here. All the color. You rearranged.”
He wrapped the blanket around her, and she looked like a tulip after a downpour, this wonderful natural perfume rising into his olfactory glands and soothing him, kick-starting his libido, making him miss her more than ever.
And yet, here she was.
“Come sit down,” he said, patting the couch. “Tell me what happened.”
They sat together, his arm around her. She curled into him, melted into him even, and sighed. He petted her strawberry hair, breathed in his fruity love. “Tell me, tell me.”
“Are your shoes new? You seem different.”
“Oh, these? Yeah, picked them up from Giovanni’s place.”
“You know Giovanni?”
“I pop in from time to time.”
She seemed to process the news, then melted even farther into him, two warm candles pressed together, her breath on his ear. He stirred below the waist, a month of desperate longing bubbling inside. “You sure you’re not hurt?”
“He drinks sometimes, gets angry. For no reason. I was out with some friends last night and didn’t tell him, and he got jealous. Snapped at me today when he got home from work.”
“I’m so sorry,” Aroldo said, knowing that he didn’t need to speak much, that what she needed was an ear.
Minutes passed, and he wondered if she’d fallen asleep. He craned his neck and found her eyes open. “What are you thinking about?”
She shook her head, and Aroldo wanted her to say that she was simply feeling the regret of having left him.
He had an urge to tell her that he’d been hitting fifteen thousand steps a day, but that was a Harold move.
He didn’t need to prove he was worthy. All he had to do was be Aroldo. She’d take it from there.
“Can I get you anything? Are you hungry?”
Another headshake. “I want to lie here. With you.”
Aroldo pressed his eyes closed and felt utterly and deeply that the earth had rediscovered its axis, that the sun and moon had righted themselves, that God had shown himself.
Harold had been praying to Him, begging Him to bring her home, and here she was, the angelic presence that was proof of God and love all in one.
Fishing his phone out of his pocket, he found her favorite artist, Bad Bunny, and let it play.
As the beat began, she whispered what sounded like, “I missed you,” but Aroldo wasn’t sure.
Harold wanted to ask her to repeat it, but Aroldo nearly smacked him.
Of course she misses you, whether she said it or not. Have some confidence, turdbucket.
Alice soon faded and fell into a soft purr of a snore. Aroldo’s leg had fallen asleep, but he didn’t dare move, didn’t dare disturb her. He’d wanted this for far too long to wake from this dream.
He sat through the night, hours stacking up on top of each other, feeling her, feeling their love, pondering the future, considering his next moves. He could enjoy their reunion for a while as is, but he’d soon have to come clean.
If he had any hope of holding on to her, he had to tell her all the things that he’d been keeping back. Now that they had a chance again, they’d have to find a creative way to make it work, because without a visa, he’d soon have to return to Denver.
Perhaps more importantly, he’d run out of money, and his mother had told him she couldn’t give him another dime.
She was running low because she’d had to buy a new washer.
Naturally, he didn’t blame her for cutting him off.
He felt awful for having borrowed so much of her meager savings.
But he’d pay every dime back, that was for sure.
Thank God he still had room on a couple of credit cards.
The sun broke through the clouds of the morning.
Bianca sat on the balcony, smelling the city after a rain, that scent of it having been cleansed of its transgressions.
If only Bianca felt renewed. She felt more lost than ever before.
She’d let her dad down so badly, crushed his soul.
And she’d messed up with Corrado. She wondered if this whole journey was a sham, an attempt to run away from herself.
Her dad appeared at the door in shorts and a T-shirt. He’d combed his hair. “Good morning, kiddo.”
“I’m sorry.” The words took a hundred pounds off her back.
“No, no, you have nothing to apologize for. I’m the one who brought my mess here. It’s not fair.”
“It has nothing to do with fair, Dad. We’re in this together, aren’t we? That’s what family is. I’ve been so focused on me and figuring things out and I just . . . I forgot what matters. I don’t want you to leave. I didn’t mean what I said.”
He took a long time answering. “I should have read your book, but I started again last night. It’s good.”