(Missed some? Read chapter 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11, 12, 13, 14, 15, 16, 17, 18.)
Q: What did the fork say to the spoon?
A: Who's that sharp guy next to you?
— Laffy Taffy Joke #67
"Buona sera," Ferrero greeted. "Welcome to the Italian Express. Strap yourself in for a bumpy ride."
The limo could have seated at least twelve, but only five others occupied the soft leather benches. Ferrero sat at the head of the limo, his back to the driver and the privacy window. Kelly sat to his very near right and Jawbreaker to his very near left. I was surprised that Jawbreaker's husband wasn't coming. She always made him sound like such a perfect doting husband. He worked a lot, I knew, but I figured this could have been a vacation for him.
The other two occupants, Gavin and Elliot, knelt on the carpet in front of the bar, carefully picking up shards of glass.
"Good evening," I responded, choosing to ignore the tension and awkward glances all around me and whatever had resulted in a broken champagne flute. "How is everyone tonight?"
Though I was just making polite conversation, the question prompted Kelly to leave Ferrero's side, climb gingerly over the two men on the floor, and plop herself on the seat next to me.
"Oh my god, Lydia," she squealed. "Isn't this just the most exciting thing ever?"
She threw her arms around me in a strangle hold, squeezing until I finally patted her on the back in reciprocation.
"I mean, not only is this my first trip out of the country, my first time on a plane, but Milan? Milan? This is like my Mecca!" She could hardly keep her wiggling behind in the seat.
It was hard to believe she had never flown before. Never been out of the country. Everything about Kelly screamed jetsetter sophistication. Dressed entirely in winter white, in her lightweight wool slacks and chunky knit cowl neck she looked like she belonged on a private Greek island.
Unlike the outfit Fiona had selected for me to wear.
Which Kelly suddenly noticed.
"You look amazing! Like you're ready to step onto the runway." Her grin faltered for a second before adding, "The fashion runway. Not the airport kind."
All eyes in the limo—even the driver's, since the partition was down—turned on me. A long, low whistle let me know that Elliot approved of my new look.
I had to fight the urge to tug at the ruffles of the pacific blue satin tank, wishing they covered just a little more than they revealed. Though I had to admit, the way the ruffles accented things that weren't there and the way the bright blue made my eyes glow more than made up for the amount of flesh showing.
It had taken a lot of convincing to get Fiona to let me wear pants instead of the miniskirt she wanted. In the end, the statistics about the friction of pantyhose and bare skin on emergency ramps won out. To save my legs from third degree burns she had consented to a pair of tight black bootcut cords. They had just enough stretch to let me move freely and shaped my butt into a perfect curve.
And then there was the new make-up.
Fi and Beth had taken almost two hours applying my make-up. Both were experienced with professional make-up application—Fiona from working with make-up artists at the model agency and Bethany from working with make-up artists from the lines of cosmetics she sells in her shop. So, two hours later I really did look like a model.
Of course the worst of it was they expected me to remember how to recreate the look.
I probably could as long as I mastered the eyeliner. How Fiona lined the inside of my eyelids was still a mystery. But when I looked in the mirror and saw Brigitte Bardot looking back I had to admit that my past make-up skills had been lacking.
Bethany had even managed to spray and tease my limp, straight hair into a mass of voluminous, sexy curls.
A pair of cat-eyes and pouting lips later, I knew that the old Lydia—the one who used the Bobbi Brown all-in-one kit to the exclusion of all other make-up—was long gone, a lone brown M&M, sitting out in the rain and melting away into oblivion.
Hoping the cosmetic blush disguised the real color heating my cheeks at the attention, I managed a sincere, "Thank you."
While Elliot couldn't take his eyes of my screen siren face, Gavin's gaze dropped to my feet. He had always had a thing—almost a fetish, really—for sexy heels. Boink me pumps, he called them. And the four-inch Jimmy Choo stilettos I wore were as sexy as they got.
Of course, I had a pair of Tod's driving mocs in my carry-on for the plane—it would defeat all the effort to get permission to wear the pants if I broke my ankle on my way to the emergency exit—but for the trip to the airport I wanted to feel the full effect of my new look.
The fire in Gavin's green eyes was unmistakable when he finally met mine. But the fire banked quickly as Elliot crawled across the carpet to my feet and settled into the seat on my right.
Gavin quickly disposed of the last of the broken glass and filled two of the remaining flutes with Veuve Cliquot. Taking the seat next to Kelly, he handed a glass to her and I waited, expecting him to make a toast.
Instead, he handed the second glass to me and smiled.
Though I half-expected Kelly to giggle and squeal, "Bubbles," she merely raised her glass, indicating I should raise mine as well.
"To Italy," she toasted.
"To Italy," I echoed, my gaze dancing briefly over Elliot and Gavin before resting on Kelly. "And to new beginnings."
As Kelly chattered on about Milan and all the things she wanted to do, I felt Gavin and Elliot's eyes on me the entire way to JFK. I knew they each wondered which new beginning I was toasting. If I knew myself, I might have told them.
The Alitalia plane touched down at 7:46 the next morning; almost twenty minutes early, but not a second too soon. Through some cruel trick of fate—or the fact that Kelly requested the seating assignments—she and I were seated next to each other in the last row of the first class cabin. Somehow, even the soft leather seats and fresh baked cookies couldn't overcome the fact that I had to listen to her gushing for the entire seven hours and twenty-one minutes of the flight.
Jawbreaker, of course, took the seat next to Ferrero in the row in front of me, leaving Gavin and Elliot neighbors in the seats across the aisle in my row.
Needless to say, there was not a lot of conversation from the other side of the gray patterned carpet.
As the plane taxied through the runways of Milan's Malpensa Airport—an unfortunate name for an airport, roughly translating as "badly thought"—and Kelly oohed and ahhed at the Gothic spires and Romanesque bell towers I gathered my belongings back into my carry-on.
I had resisted the urge to pull out my sketchpad and work during the flight. Feedback from Kelly was not on my birthday wish list.
Electing not to change out of the oh-so-comfortable-and-yet-still-fashionable driving mocs, I checked on the carefully tucked away Choos before zipping the bag shut. I would just have to rely on my black cashmere pashmina to exude my jetsetterness.
We emerged into the insanity that is Italy in the morning.
"We go this way," Jawbreaker called when I headed for the sign with a suitcase on it, beckoning with the promise of baggage claim.
I frowned. "Shouldn't we—"
"We have a car waiting," Ferrero interrupted. Spying a young Italian man wearing a black suit and muted gold tie and casually holding a sign that read Ferrero Couture, Ferrero made a beeline and immediately pushed his nearly empty briefcase into the man's arms. "I am exhausted. I need a siesta before the shows begin at ten. The hotel will arrange for the luggage."
The driver, clearly used to the eccentric temperament of Americans—fake Italian accent or no—simply shrugged the briefcase onto his shoulder and led the way to the car.
Following closely behind, I had a feeling Fiona would have enjoyed the view. The car service did not skimp on their drivers. Fi would already be enumerating the boundless opportunities provided by a hunky chauffer and an empty limo.
But, rather than push me back into the car and climb in after me, the driver politely held the door as we all climbed in and closed it softly behind us.
"Here is a rough schedule." Jawbreaker handed out a stack of papers printed on Ferrero letterhead. Tasteful gold embossed ivory stock.
What should my letterhead look like if I didn't accept Ferrero's offer? More fun, definitely. Maybe a bright lilac paper with blue lettering that matched my top. Ooh, and maybe something sparkly—
"Did you hear me, Lydia?"
"Wh—" I returned from my brief daydream to find all eyes on me. Jawbreaker's, weary and above purple-smudged sags, looked tired. "Um, sorry. Could you repeat that?"
"The first show is a ten o'clock, but we should be able to relax and unpack a little beforehand since the hotel is only a couple blocks from the catwalk venue."
"Oh, yes," I said mostly because I felt like I needed to contribute something, "that's convenient."
As she looked down at the sheaf of papers in her hands I almost thought Jawbreaker rolled her eyes.
"Do you even know where we're staying?" she asked.
If she didn't sound so tired and run down, I might have taken offense.
Before I could shake my head, she answered her own question. "Hotel della Regina, in Via di Modo."
"Oh," I answered quietly, "thank you."
Why did I feel like I had done something very, very wrong?
"This is gorgeous!" Kelly exclaimed, not subtle as we stepped into the elegant Renaissance lobby of the Hotel della Regina.
"That's an understatement," Gavin concurred.
Elliot let out another low whistle as he came up at my side and slipped his arm around my waist. Exhausted from the long journey, I laid my head against his shoulder and sagged into his embrace. A growl resonated against the polished marble, emanating from the vicinity of where Gavin stood.
I was too tired to get in the middle of the testosterone contest. Instead, I pulled away from Elliot and walked away from them both.
Drawn to a beautiful oil painting of the hotel's façade, I was leaning in for a closer look at the brush strokes around the windows when Jawbreaker tapped on my shoulder.
"I understand there's some conflict about the sleeping arrangements." When I only looked confused she explained. "Gavin and Kelly have requested separate rooms. Something about being just friends and Kelly's use of counter space. Do you and Phelps need separate rooms as well?"
Across the lobby I could see Gavin and Elliot glaring at each other from about ten feet apart. If looks could wound there'd be blood all over the pristine white floors.
I weighed my options.
To request separate rooms would be a clear indication that I didn't want to be with Elliot. Not necessarily meaning that I chose Gavin, but a definite message that I had not chosen Elliot. A choice I was not ready to make.
I couldn't make either decision without knowing more about both of them. Sharing a room—for a week instead of just a weekend—would definitely be enlightening. And if Gavin had a problem with my exploring my options then he could just go hang.
"No," I declared, "we're fine the way we are."
Jawbreaker nodded and turned to the front desk. I went back to studying the painting until I was again interrupted.
"And Lydia?"
I turned around at her uncharacteristically soft spoken question.
"I ... I apologize for snapping at you earlier." She massaged her temples wearily. "There's just so much going on and ... there's no excuse. I'm sorry."
Something about the despondent look on her tired face—shockingly bare of make-up, I noticed—made me ask, "Is something wrong?"
"No, n-nothing."
She protested, but the moisture in her eyes was unmistakable. When I laid a reassuring hand on her shoulder a single tear dropped from each eye.
"Carmello left me. He—" She wiped brusquely at the tears, smearing them into oblivion. "—he went back to his ex-wife."
"Janice," I soothed, her true name coming out without thought, "I'm so sorry. Is there anything I can—"
"No. It's fine. I just—" Patting my hand, she smiled gamely. "—He could have chosen better timing, is all. I'll be fine."
I watched in awe as she shook off the momentary display, strode purposefully across the lobby, and checked in. There weren't many women who could suffer a husband's leaving right before a gargantuan career event and rise to the occasion. I felt something tickling at my stomach that felt disturbingly like respect. For Janice. Jawbreaker! I meant Jawbreaker.
Sweet Saltwater Taffy, I hoped this was just indigestion from the airplane food. I wouldn't know what to do with myself if I suddenly found respect for everyone I worked with.
Indigestion. That's it. I never should have eaten that Risotto alla Milanese. Rice can go bad, right?
The guest rooms were even more lavish than the lobby. Rich golds and lush velvets everywhere. Even the four-poster king-size bed had gold velvet drapes and gold quilted jacquard bedding. The gilding on the light fixtures alone must have cost more than my entire apartment.
Our baggage managed to beat us here and my Tumi stood empty in the antique armoire, the contents neatly folded into drawers and hung on smooth wooden hangers.
Never underestimate the value of five diamond service.
"Ready to see the sights, sugarcakes?"
Elliot came up behind me, wrapping his arms around my waist and hugging me to his chest. His energy was boundless. Maybe I wasn't the only one needing to cut back on the sugar intake.
"No." I turned within the circle of his arms and slipped mine around his neck. "I need to rest before the shows begin. We still have almost an hour and I want to get a quick cat nap."
"Alright," he drawled, "but don't think you're getting out of a moped-driven city tour tonight."
I smiled at the exuberance in his sky blue eyes. "Just be sure and get a yellow one."
He grinned in return. "Daffy II."
Then, with a quick kiss to my forehead, he bounded out the door. Off to take Milan by storm, no doubt.
I stepped out of the driving mocs and padded over to the bed, lovingly caressing the sensuous duvet and testing the downy softness of the mattress. Sleep beckoned.
Before I could lift one knee a hesitant knock sounded at the door. Not Elliot, I knew. I didn't think he knew how to be hesitant. He took life by the horns in every situation.
Still, I shouldn't have been surprised when I swung open the paneled door to find Gavin standing in the hall.
"Hey," he offered in greeting.
"Hey back."
His eyes hovered over my shoulder, scanning the room behind me.
"He's gone," I answered the unvoiced question. "Sightseeing."
"Oh, well..." Gavin scuffed a perfectly polished oxford on the carpet and jammed his hands in his pockets. He looked like a recalcitrant schoolboy in his Brooks Brothers button down and Polo khakis. Golden hair a little mussed and guilt heavy in his bright green eyes. "I want to apologize for acting like an jerk. Earlier. In the lobby. In the limo."
"Accepted." Though I had expected a little more than this unnecessary apology when he showed up at my door. "Is that all?"
"No, of course not." Taking a deep, sighing breath, he shrugged and relaxed into a more casual, but undeniably confident stance. "If you don't have plans for tonight would you like to join me for dinner and maybe visit a museum. The Pinacoteca di Brera is only a few blocks away."
My eyes shot up and I held his gaze intensely.
He remembered. My favorite painting in all of history, The Kiss by Francesco Hayez, hung in that museum. How could he, two years later, still remember my favorite painting? And he had obviously gone to the effort of finding out where it lived.
A tiny, self-effacing smile lifted the corners of his mouth. As if ashamed to be caught being so thoughtful.
"That," I managed through the emotion swamping me, "would be wonderful."
"The last show ends at 5:30. Why don't we go to the museum straight from there and then to dinner after?"
I nodded. "Are you going to the show?"
"No, I have a couple of calls to make to New York. Time change and all that. Besides," he raked a hand through his hair and stepped back into the hallway, "you know I'm not much for the whole fashion thing."
This was an opportunity I couldn't resist.
"But Gavin," I cooed, "you were on the cover of GQ."
"A horrendous lapse in judgment. The firm's publicity rep owes me big time." He grinned, confidence and mischief sparkling in his eyes. "Need tickets to the Super Bowl?"
It felt like forever since I'd laughed with Gavin. Forever since he pulled back the reserved façade to let his inner class clown show. I was surprised to realize that I missed this.
"I'll let you know," I joked back.
We shared a smile. One that bridged a gap that had long kept us isolated. Different than the completely spontaneous and outrageous ones I shared with Elliot. One that felt like home.
He lifted his wrist and checked his Tag Heuer. "I'd better let you rest," he said as he backed down the hall towards his room two doors down. "I'll meet you in front of the Fiero Pavillion at 5:30."
"See you then."
I'd lost track of which new beginning this was, but it sure felt like a Whopper.
Now all I had to do was decide what to tell Elliot about my plans, because it was going to be hard keeping the emotion out of my voice when I told him I was spending the evening with Gavin.
"I never imagined how beautiful it would be in real life."
Though it had to be the millionth time I commented on the exquisite beauty of the Hayez painting, I couldn't help saying it again. And as we strolled along the narrow streets of a Medieval city, Gavin let me gush.
I wondered what Elliot would have thought of the The Kiss. Would he have been awed by the emotion in the lovers’ embrace? Or would he have turned to me and swept me into an embrace of our own? Maybe I would bring him to museum before we leave.
I also wondered how to tell him I’ve spent the evening with Gavin. Even though we are not committed, he has an endearing streak of jealousy. Especially where Gavin is concerned.
"If I could afford it," Gavin said, interrupting my thoughts, "I would buy it for you. Just so you could see it every day."
"Oh no," I exclaimed, horrified by the thought. "It should never leave this museum. The public needs it more than I do."
Gavin laughed at my adamant response.
"You were joking, weren't you?" I asked. Sometimes with Gavin I couldn't tell. He had a kind of humor that made you wonder if he was laughing with you, at you, or if he really laughed at all.
"If you want me to be." He batted his eyelashes in feigned submission.
When I stuck out my lower lip in a pout, he laughed and put his arm around my shoulder, deftly guiding us across Via Broletto and onto the sidewalk on the opposite side.
Gavin was the sort of man who always knew where he was going. In a new city. In a car. In life.
Navigation was not my strongest suit.
"I don't know how you know where you're going." I shook my head in wonder. "Do you ever get lost?"
"Not," he answered, distractedly reading the sign above a door on Via Dante, a street blocked off as a pedestrian area and strewn with sidewalk cafes and full of tourists and locals alike, "when I look at a map beforehand. This is it."
Gavin pulled open the unassuming, carved wooden door and ushered me inside. Down a flight of ancient tile steps we met a maitre d' with a pair of menus in his hands and a welcoming smile on his lips.
"Buona sera, Signore Fairchild. Come sta?" the maitre d' asked musically.
"Molto bene, grazie Carlo."
Gavin's fluent response surprised me. "I never knew you spoke Italian."
"There were a lot of things you never knew."
Carlo motioned for us to follow him. "I have saved you the very best table, il migliore. All is ready."
"Thank you Carlo."
After setting the menus on the small corner table, Carlo pulled out my seat. Gavin stepped around and took the chair and slid it in beneath me as I sat. With a quick nod and a smile of commiseration, Carlo disappeared.
"What is ready?" I asked as Gavin sat.
"A special order," he replied cryptically. Picking up the open bottle of local Valpolicella to his right, Gavin carefully poured two equal glasses. Lifting his glass, he indicated I should raise mine as well. "To Italy."
I smiled, holding my glass higher. "To Italy."
"And to you," he added, interrupting my first sip, "Lydia Ilene Vanderwalk. You are an amazing and beautiful woman."
Not knowing how to respond—I'm sure a woman with more social savvy would have said "Thank you" with grace and aplomb—I merely nodded and lifted the glass to my lips.
The meal was slow, in a leisurely and sensual way. Several minutes passed between each lavish course and the conversation never waned. I told Gavin about my promotion offer from Ferrero and my idea of starting my own jewelry line. He gave me advice, as both friend and businessman, for both options.
We never spoke about that night two years ago when I walked out of his life or that afternoon two weeks ago when I escaped out of his apartment.
Getting to know Gavin all over again was more like realizing that I had never known him at all.
"I didn't know you spent a summer in college volunteering at Sustainable Development International." I looked at him in a whole new light. "That must have been very rewarding."
He shrugged as if it meant nothing, but I could see in his eyes that he regarded that time very fondly.
"It was okay."
Yeah, if okay meant life-altering. "Where were you sent?"
"West Africa. Ghana mostly. Digging canals and planting soil-retaining vegetation in areas that suffer from soil erosion-induced droughts."
Rather than continue the conversation, Gavin looked around and caught Carlo's attention. A cryptic signal passed between the two and Carlo quickly disappeared into the kitchen.
Moments later he reappeared, a grinning chef and two waiters following in a mini-parade.
"For you, signorina." Carlo bowed and stepped out of the way.
The chef stepped forward and set a large, covered platter on our table. One waiter lifted the lid as the other handed each of us a dessert fork and wished us, "Buon appetito!"
On the platter sat an enormous, spherical scoop of Semifreddo al Limone—a rich ice cream parfait that is my absolute all-time favorite dessert—in a bed of strawberry sauce. Written in the strawberry sauce, in carefully piped chocolate, were the words, "Guaranteed to melt in your hand."
My mind sped back to a clear blue morning several years ago—laying in Gavin's king-size bed, decadently wasting away the first half of a lazy Sunday. One where he miraculously didn't have to work and I had no plans but being with him.
He had rolled over and reached under the bed to pull out a brown paper bag with "Sugar and Spice" imprinted in vibrant red. From the bag he produced a sable artist's brush and a small paint can.
"What's that?" I had asked.
He had grinned wickedly in return. "Chocolate body paint."
With a swift twist of the lid, he popped the can open and dipped a finger into the liquid inside. He held the chocolate-coated finger out, waiting until I had closed my lips around him to add, "Guaranteed to melt in your hand."
Needless to say, we had been lucky to make it to work on time the next morning. And I bet his sheets still bore traces.
"Lydia?"
Gavin's voice jarred me back into the present. Into a new moment. A memory in the making.
He held a forkful of Semifreddo hovering in front of my mouth. Our eyes met and, as I leaned forward in slow motion, taking the frozen treat into my tongue, the tension built and crackled between us.
"You know," I breathed after swallowing the bite, "I'm not really hungry."
Not taking his eyes off mine, Gavin shouted, "Check please."
Carlo appeared with the bill before I could even lick the little drop from the corner of my mouth. Clearly he was expecting things to go this well.
We were out the door in a taxi to the hotel moments later.
Our mouths met before Carlo closed the door behind us. The taxi only took three minutes to get to the hotel, but already I was overheated and trying to get on Gavin's lap.
He threw a few lira at the driver—far more than a three-minute ride warranted—and climbed out the cab, pulling me out behind him. Hand-in-hand, like anxious school children, we dashed across the lobby to the elevator which, thankfully, was waiting on the ground floor.
"God, I've missed you," Gavin exclaimed as the doors slid shut and he pushed me against the back wall.
His mouth captured mine, his tongue sweeping across my lips before forging in to taste all of me. I couldn't get enough. I had to touch him everywhere. My hands grabbed at his shoulders. His back. His tight behind. Finally, needing more, I tugged his button-down out of his waistband and smoothed my hands over the rippling planes of his chest.
"I've missed this," I breathed when his mouth released mine to devour my jaw and neck and collarbone and ... oh my.
A faint ding registered in the back of my mind, but I was too swept up to even notice. It wasn't until I felt Gavin move away suddenly that I opened my eyes to find out why he left.
"I guess I know why you missed our date," Elliot said, his voice cold as he held Gavin by the shirt collar.
Dropping his catch, Elliot turned abruptly and stalked down the hallway to our room.
"Elliot, wait!" I called after his swiftly retreating form. "Elliot!"
The door to our room slammed with a resounding thud.
Dubble Bubble Damn!
I looked from the empty hallway to Gavin, still panting from our heavy petting and obviously confused by what had just happened. Did I stay and satisfy some long-unaddressed urges with Gavin, or go to Elliot and do a lot of explaining?
That was the trouble with new beginnings; you had to make choices to get them started.
