"He's a retired ironworker. A few years ago he was on a job, trying to maneuver a thirty-foot I-beam into position. It had been drizzling that day and the steel was wet and he fell forty feet and landed on top of a plywood pedestrian walkway. Broke his hip and shoulder on the left side and his pelvis. He was supposed to be wearing a safety harness, but wasn't. He was in critical condition for a week and eventually got better and came home but he couldn't go back up on the high steel, and retired at forty-five on a modest pension."
She touched his hand that was flat on the countertop, sliding her fingers over his. He lifted his hand and turned it around and lightly gripped her palm, gliding his fingers over hers now.
She said, "What is it about holding hands."
"I know what you mean," he said.
She put her wine glass down on the counter and put her arms around his neck and kissed him. He brought his hands up under her tee-shirt, and reached behind and unfastened her bra. She raised her arms and he pulled the tee-shirt up over her head. He glided his fingers over her breasts, bent down and kissed her nipples, hand sliding down her flat tan stomach, reaching into her capris, fingers probing and sliding into her.
Then they were pulling at each other's clothes, trying to take them off, like they couldn't do it fast enough, and went down on the rug on the kitchen floor, Angela on top now, breasts pressing against his chest, feeling the heat from his body. Angela kissed him and reached between his legs, holding him and guiding him inside her.
She traced the scar over his left eye. They were upstairs in bed, McCabe on his back, sheet angled across his chest, Angela next to him on her stomach. He could feel her body against his, and the light touch of her fingertip on his face.
Angela said, "How did this happen?"
"I got hit with a puck," McCabe said.
She made a face, looked concerned like it had just happened and he was in pain. "How many stitches do you have?"
"Fifteen."
"Fifteen? That is a lot."
She kissed the scar. He had another one on his right cheekbone, a white ridge of tissue that snaked down under his jaw. She touched it, moved the tip of her index finger over it. "What about this one?"
"High sticking," McCabe said. "I played for the Muskegon Fury in the United Hockey League. Also called the U-Haul League because we were hauled around in a bus. It's a couple steps below the NHL. We played the Rockford Ice Hogs and the Fort Wayne Komets and the Bloomington Prairie Thunder." He could see she had no clue what he was talking about. "Instead of hockey, it should've been called boxing on ice. "
"Is this where you learned to fight?" Angela said.
"No," McCabe said, "but I got a lot of practice. There were four or five fights every game. Ever thrown a punch on skates?"
"Let me think," Angela said, rubbing her jaw for effect. "No, I don't think so."
He liked her smartass attitude, and the way she looked at him. "We beat Fort Wayne in the finals, won the Colonial Cup my first year. That's like the Stanley Cup of the UHL, if that makes any sense."
"I'm impressed," Angela said.
"You should be. I was making four hundred dollars a week as a rookie, living the good life." He grinned to show her he was kidding. "We had a salary cap, a limit of $250,000 for the whole team. That's all the league allows. To put it in perspective, the lowest paid player on the Detroit Red Wings makes $475,000."
"If you didn't play for the money," Angela said, "why did your
"I loved the game, and it's a pretty good life for six months a year. I lived in Muskegon, the beer tent capital of the world, a rundown blue-collar town on Lake Michigan. We traveled by bus and stayed in cheap motels — what a surprise, huh? We played at Walker Arena in front of five thousand fans. There isn't a lot to do in Muskegon in the winter, so people came to see us."
"The United Hockey League does not sound so good."
"It was a blast and it was a legitimate way into the NHL." He paused. "My goal since I was a little kid was to play for the Red Wings."
Angela said, "How old were you?"
"Nineteen, one of the youngest guys on the team. I played defense."
"Were you good?" She rubbed her hand through the hair on his chest.
"I was rookie of the year," McCabe said. "But the beginning of my second year I got checked on the boards and tore my AC joint." He pointed to his shoulder. There was a long ropelike scar that started at his collarbone and angled over his left shoulder where he'd had the operation — ligaments and tendons damaged. "That was it, the end of my hockey career."
She touched his shoulder gently with her fingertips. "I'll try not to hurt you."
He couldn't lock her in the bathroom and he couldn't trust her, so sleeping with her seemed like a good compromise. They made love again, slower this time. There was no hurry. McCabe liked her dark eyes and hair and olive skin that looked like she had a natural suntan. He liked the way she smelled, and liked her body, the way they fit together, like they were made for each other.
McCabe opened his eyes and saw the sheet folded back He got up and put on his jeans and went downstairs, walked barefoot through the main room into the kitchen. She wasn't there, either. He went outside, stood on the pebble drive. The car was gone, and now he felt like a fool.
He went in the kitchen and opened the refrigerator, picked up a bottle of Pellegrino water and took a swig. She could've been back in Rome. He could hear her saying, "I turned on the charm and he fell for it." Without her the show was over. What had happened between them seemed real. If she was acting, she was a pro. He thought back about what he did and what he might've done differently, and decided there was no reason to second-guess himself now.
Viterbo was four or five kilometers away, La Quercia maybe half that distance. He could walk and catch a bus back to Rome, and figure out what to do from there. He was upstairs getting his things when he heard the car, looked out the bedroom window and saw his rented Fiat coming up the driveway, pulling in next to the house. He walked in the kitchen as Angela Entered with a basket of groceries, singing a song he'd never heard, or maybe it was because her voice was so bad.
"It's market day," she said, studying him. "What's the matter?"
McCabe just stared at her, trying not to give anything away, but she saw something, sensed his concern.
"You looked so peaceful I did not want to wake you," Angela said. "You thought I went away?" She studied his face.
"You did. I can see it in your eyes. If I was going to do that I would have done it before."
He went over and took the basket from her. It was heavy. He looked inside and counted four bottles of wine, cheese, fruit, meat and bread. "How long you think we're going to be here?"
"You never know," she said.
"I called Joey after you fell asleep, told him we'd be ready tomorrow. I said you have the money? He said, 'Wait and see.
Angela said, "What did you say?"
She took the wine bottles out of the basket and lined them up on the counter, two reds and two whites.
"I said, you want Angela back? He said,' Succhiami ilcazzo!"
Angela said, "You know what that means?"
McCabe said, "Uh-huh. I didn't think he spoke Italian."
"He doesn't."
She took the cheese and meat out of the basket and put the packages in the refrigerator, closed it and looked at him.
"How well do you know him?" McCabe said.
"He's my cousin. I met him when I was thirteen. My father sent me to visit my aunt Angela, Joey's mother. I flew to Detroit with Carmella, my nanny. Uncle Joe and Aunt Angela picked us up at the Metro Airport and drove us to their home in Bloomfield Hills. Joey came over the first night and had dinner with us. I could see he was interested in Carmella, but that was all. Nothing happened.