“Seriously? As in my Michael that you couldn't see doing anything other than blissing with?”
Anh put her hand over her head. “Weird, isn't it? Well, I'm sure even Republicans can make chicken noodle soup.” She groaned. “The conference! My room! I even splurged for a suite. It's too late to cancel now.”
“On the bright side, at least it's tax deductible.”
She shook her fevered head. “You know where you can stick that ‘bright side‘ Miss Sex-a-lot?” She removed her washcloth. “Wait a minute. I've got a great idea. You and da Vinci should go stay in my room. That way, it's not $350 down the drain. Come on, my treat.”
“Me and da Vinci vacationing on Galveston Island? On the beach? That's crazy talk.”
“You said you needed to take a vacation anyway, right? Wasn't that on The List? So do it! And I do mean, 'just do it.'”
Da Vinci's hands were folded in prayer. He clearly understood the words “island” and “beach”… and probably even “sex-a-lot.”
“ Fallo e basta, ” he said urgently. Just do it.
Chapter 13
SIX HOURS LATER, WE were naked on the king-sized bed in an expensive suite I would've never been able to afford, living out the Fantasy Sex Day I couldn't believe was a reality. If a best friend could get any bester, then Anh had done so. Getting away unleashed any inhibitions I'd had about being with da Vinci. I felt young again, beautiful again and sexy again. Me, the thirty-six-year-old widowed wordsmith. Da Vinci became sweeter and more real by the minute. He cradled me, caressed me, and made love to me like I was the only thing he desired on the planet.
Getting away from Austin was like shedding a protective skin. As da Vinci and I walked along the shoreline after dinner, I realized I wasn't the same person at all. I still didn't know who I was, but getting outside of my comfort zone, my wall of imprisoned grief, I let myself smile again and really, really meant it. I let him hold my hand in public and didn't mind being seen by others. I could see the way other women looked at him, how they all wondered what I'd done to get a man as striking as him. They probably assumed I had money, though I didn't look it, or I was incredibly famous to land a boy toy such as this, though I saw him as so much more than a handsome man on my arm.
If I had been feeling poetic, I could have thought of him as my savior, my rescue pilot, my wake-up call. Mostly, though I just thought of him as da Vinci, the man I taught English to who taught me about so much more.
I sat next to him, our arms touching as we ate ice cream on the dock while we watched boats coming into the harbor. The night smelled salty and sweet, and I breathed in the air as if I'd never get enough of it. “What do you think?”
He raised his brows. Most of the time I was still too vague with him, even for a teacher. “Think of life? Love? Galveston?”
“Yes. All of it. Every last bit of it. Tell me everything.”
Da Vinci's eyes crinkled in the moonlight, and I couldn't believe how romantic he looked under the stars. I wanted to capture the moment and put it on postcard and mail it to every woman I knew to tell them I was doing okay. Ramona Griffen would survive. Look what I did. Otherwise, would they ever believe me? I couldn't believe it myself.
“All of it, yes? Okay, then. I like this place very much. This beach is breathtaking. I like your place very much. Your shower nice. Your bed is lumpy. Your pancakes not hold candle to my pancakes. I like school, so-so, but am learning. What I like most about America so far, though,” he said, leaning toward me, “is my Mona Lisa.”
He kissed me softly, and I threw my ice cream into the lake, and he did the same. Then I heard two teenagers yell, “Get a room.”
“What a marvelous idea! Our room,” I said, relishing the sound of it, and we went back to the suite and drank champagne until I got tipsy, which didn't take but one glass because I never drink it. Champagne is for celebrations, and I hadn't felt like celebrating in so long. I'd forgotten how much I like the taste of it, the bubbly sweetness that feels like little fireworks in my mouth. The room began to spin when da Vinci lay on top of me, making love to me again. I was overwhelmed with his scent, the feel of his soft skin and hard muscles and the beat of his heart against mine that told me he was very much alive and very much mine for the moment.
Between kisses, he gazed into my eyes and clearly whispered, “ Tiamo, ” and though my translation is sluggish when I'm inebriated, I am fairly certain that da Vinci had told me that he loved me.
My cell phone blared “Bootylicious,” awaking me the next morning. The song was a cruel practical joke Bradley pulled on me after I'd told him and his brother to stop singing it in the car one day. He'd taken my cell phone, and for the past six months, his tech-idiot mother couldn't figure out how to reprogram it. Like so many other things about widowhood, I didn't ask someone to do it for me.
The bedside alarm clock blinked its red digits-7:30 a.m. Not my bedside alarm clock-the one Joel bought me for our fifth anniversary from Pottery Barn-but a boring, old brown one better suited for a cheap hotel than a pricey suite. No one ever calls me in the morning, so I assumed the worst. Something had happened to my boys, or Anh and Vi had actually caught the bird flu and were in ICU, or my boss was calling me to fire me because he'd found out da Vinci and I had gone on a sexcapade.
“Hello?” I mumbled as the morning sun cut through the hotel blinds, my head pounding from the champagne. I remembered where I was, which caught me by surprise, and yet there lay the proof: da Vinci in gorgeous sleep. He didn't even snore. My life couldn't get any better.
I began to recall that da Vinci had said he loved me when the voice on the other end spoke. “Ramona? Hi. I hope it's not too early to call, but I'm actually in the airport and thought I'd return your call before I'm on my long flight.”
“I'm sorry,” I said, still dreary from sleep. “Who is this?”
“Oh, I apologize. Silly me. It's Monica Blevins. Returning your call.”
My pounding head pounded harder, my mouth so dry I couldn't speak. I had to get water before I could respond.
“Are you there? Ramona?”
While downing a glass of water in the bathroom, I stared at my naked frame, vowing to double my sit-up regimen from zero to at least ten per day, then covered up with a towel and sat on the toilet lid. I couldn't talk to Monica while naked, if I could speak to her at all. Composure seemed impossible. “No. I mean, yes, I'm here. I'm just surprised is all. I mean, it's early. Yes. I'm out of town.”
“Is it a bad time, then? I can call you back at a later date.”
A later date? Would any time be better? Maybe after a cup of joe, some bacon and eggs, and a good hour-long meditation to prepare for her call? “No, it's fine.” I told myself to calm down. To think clearly. I wanted to sound composed and smart and not embarrass Joel. After all, he'd married me and not her. She'd probably downed two cups of Starbucks and looked smashing in another designer suit. But it didn't matter. It was only the phone. What was I so afraid of?
Monica continued. “Okay, then. So you said you wanted to speak with me. It was good to hear from you, actually. I've been wondering how you and the boys have been.”
I blinked back tears, trying hard not to dissect her every word. She'd really been thinking about us or is that something that you just say to widows? To the family your fiancé creates after you've dumped him? “I did want to talk to you, but it's really not important now. I thought it was, but I guess it's not. It's fine. I'm sorry to have bothered you, really.”