Chapter 20 Regretti Spaghetti
Regretti Spaghetti
“Sir Parm?” Sandy said. “You named him?” What was it about the bookstore that made her shut down the way she did? Here at this cozy spot near Porta Saragozza, she was a different person, pulling George deeper under her spell with every moment.
They sat at an outdoor table. The sun hid behind a building, offering some relief from the heat. She’d ordered a Pellegrino and a bottle of Lambrusco. They both glanced at the menus as they spoke and enjoyed their first sips.
“Of course I named him,” George said. “He’s become a major part of my life. A week in, and I still can’t catch him. He won’t eat cheap cheese either. So I have to get the good stuff—hence the name. But he has a knack for stealing the piece without triggering the trap, no matter how I place it.”
“Bested by a mouse.”
“That’s right.”
“My cat won’t eat unless I cover his food with parm.”
“The good stuff?”
“This isn’t the Olive Garden, George. Yes, the good stuff.”
He set down the menu. He was in no rush. “These animals, who do they think they are?”
A smattering of joy rose on her face. Ah, how sweet you are, he thought.
At his urging, Sandy told him about her cat, Nicolo, who she’d found during the construction of the bookstore. You would have thought she was talking about her favorite nephew, the way she gushed.
“Can I borrow him?” George asked after a while. “To go after Sir Parm.”
Her eyebrows crinkled. “No, you can’t borrow him.”
“Can I rent him?”
“You couldn’t afford him.”
“Ah, okay, well, maybe I need to get Bianca a cat. Thought I’d consult her first.”
“And there it is, proof you’re growing.” She shook her head. “I can’t believe you named the mouse.”
“Of course I did. I know his cousin back in Arizona.”
“Sir Parm’s cousin? Who is it, King Cheddar?” She took a long sip.
“Close. Mr. Nutz.”
Sandy spit out her Lambrusco, blew it into the air in a mist, then slapped her hand over her mouth. “I’m so sorry. Did I get you?”
Far from annoyed, George looked down at the splatter on his shirt.
“I can’t believe I did that,” she said.
“I’d be the victim of your uncontrolled laughter any day of the week.”
She poured sparkling water onto her napkin, then stood and rounded the table to lean down and blot out the wine marks. Her scent was intoxicating, the kind that can’t be described. Her dress fell open at the top, and he turned away so as not to do exactly what he wanted to do.
When she finished dabbing at his shirt, she sat back down, a slight grin on her face. He couldn’t get enough of her, and he matched her grin, and they both held it for a long while.
“Why Bologna?” George finally asked, his entire body buzzing with something that felt like love. “You haven’t told me. Of all the places in the world. I get that you were running away from some tough life stuff. But how did you choose this city?”
She sighed and thought about it awhile, twisting the stem of her glass. “I knew it had to be Italy. I’ve always been mesmerized by it, since my first visit to Rome when I was a kid. And like Bianca, I studied Italian and lived with a family here my sophomore year at the University of Florida.”
“Does she know that?”
“I don’t know, but I also wanted to return one day.” Then she plowed ahead. “It’s a great city, you know. Off the beaten track enough that you don’t hear English spoken around every turn. The food speaks for itself. The weather’s great.”
“Is it?”
“No, the weather isn’t great. But when you catch a good day, there’s nothing like it.”
“Are you here for life?” George asked, thinking that he’d love to drag her back to Arizona. Maybe sell the country club house and return to Phoenix.
“I don’t think so. Lisbon’s been on my mind lately. I’m ready for a change. New scenery.”
“You’d sell the bookstore, the only English bookstore?”
“Sell it? I highly doubt anyone wants to buy my failing bookstore.”
“They would if you sold pancakes and American-flag Speedos.”
Her lips turned up. “Ah, is this when you yet again bestow more of your bookselling wisdom upon me?”
“I was thinking about a franchise. The Only English Bookstore in Rome next. I like your smile. You don’t do that enough, you know.”
Saying it seemed to kill the mood, and George regretted shining a spotlight on her. “Don’t stop.”
She fidgeted with the napkin on her lap. Finally, she asked, “Can we go back to Mr. Nutz? I want to hear more.”
“I better ask for a smock first.” He glanced down at the wine splatter drying on his shirt.
He rolled up his left sleeve. “You see these?” He pointed at the healing punctures from where the rake had gotten him.
He’d finally been able to remove the bandage for good.
“Battle wounds. From fighting Mr. Nutz.”
“You have to be kidding me. I remember seeing that bandage around your arm.” She reached across the table and ran her fingers over the scabs.
Her touch made it hard to concentrate. He finally said, “We have it out for each other. He’s even broken into the house before. Mostly, though, he’s after the birdseed, so I’m working on a new design, a Mr.-Nutz-proof feeder.”
“I have to give you this, George. You’re definitely one of a kind. How did he do that to your arm?”
He told her the whole story, and she laughed harder and harder, as did he, having to wipe tears from his eyes and collect himself every once in a while. He hadn’t been this far away from his depression since Intel had axed him.
After their meal, as the server poured the last of the wine into their glasses, George said, “May I ask more about your son?”
She took a while to acknowledge his question. He saw the pain in her eyes as she said, “It’s his birthday in two days.”
He matched her quiet tone. “Will he call you?”
She shook her head. “I’d love that, but no. He won’t be able to.” She was fidgeting again, fiddling with something under the table.
“I didn’t mean to pry.”
“No, it’s okay.”
Maybe it was, maybe it wasn’t, but it took her a while to make eye contact again.
Eventually, though, George dug her out of the mood he’d put her in.
All he’d had to do was offer some more advice apropos the bookstore.
This time, he suggested she set up a line of televisions under that cathedral ceiling in the main room so Americans could post up and drink beer and follow their favorite teams.
Even George knew that one was funny. There was no way in hell she wouldn’t laugh, and dammit if she didn’t bust into happy pieces.
Two hours later, they exited the restaurant and started back to Via Giulia. He wondered if she’d had a memorable time or if he was one of a thousand dates, another guy trying to make her laugh.
“I didn’t ask,” she said. “Did you enjoy your daughter’s book?”
He nodded. “It’s my daughter through and through. Made me so proud. Thanks for pushing me to read it.” He revisited why he’d been so hesitant.
“Don’t beat yourself up anymore, George. You’re here. Keep trying.”
“She’s extra resistant to parenting.”
“They always are.”
“It’s just that she’s all about taking a big break now, giving up on everything she’s built.”
“What’s wrong with taking a break?”
He shook his head. “Where I come from, that’s a recipe for digging your own grave.
” He almost added literally but didn’t want to layer on any more darkness.
He dreaded his return back home, that place where his lack of purpose waited.
Why was it the one woman he’d felt something for since his divorce had to live so damned far away?
That was life these days, anything joyful staying far out of reach.
What a sad thought that the Zoloft would be the only thing back home keeping him alive.
“Nobody’s digging graves here, George. They’re enjoying life. It’s not a race. Here, it’s about treasuring the simple things.”
George thought about it. “I like the sentiment.”
“I’m a lot of things: a handful, a grump.
A porcupine, as I overheard Moira call me the other day.
We don’t have enough time for me to list my faults.
But I’ve let go of the need to always be doing, to always chase things.
That’s what Bologna does to you. There’s nothing better than a well-pulled espresso at a great café.
And it’s such a small thing and only lasts a moment, but when you give it all your attention, it makes life worth living.
What your daughter’s doing is seeking a renewal.
She’s trying to learn how to capture every second as opposed to racing to the end. Don’t discredit it.”
“I get your point.”
She looked away and started to walk. He took her arm, and she turned back to him.
“It was a nice lunch, wasn’t it?” George said.
“Yeah.”
Now or never, George.
He moved in and set his lips to hers, letting his eyes fall closed, feeling like a young man again, like love might have resurrected him.
A light gasp escaped her lips, and he knew she felt the same way, too, both of them finding a missing piece. In a flash, he wondered where this was going, and he dreamed of the coming days with her and already felt the pain of saying goodbye, and maybe he would stay and—
Her hands were on his chest, and she pushed him back, and then her hand flew through the air and swatted him on the cheek, full palm, enough to make him dizzy, a slap that would leave a lasting mark.
With his heart kicking, he reached for the pain. “I’m sorry. I read things wrong. Please.”
“How dare you,” she hissed.
He peered into her eyes, looking for the person he’d had lunch with.
But she wasn’t there.
Whoever she was, she turned on her high heels and raced off down the street.