Invitation to Italian

CHAPTER FOUR

SEBASTIANO COOLED HIS heels beside his assistant’s desk while she ran his errand. But he needed to do more than cool his heels. His temper had reached the boiling point, as well. And all because of Julie Antonelli.

He had always found her an annoying presence—constantly emailing him with suggestions, or, rather, demands, on how to run the hospital.

Even more infuriating was the fact that she was undeniably attractive. She had a kind of insouciant sexiness. Too tall, of course, but one couldn’t deny the appeal of her coltish figure and the way her legs seemed to go on for miles. Normally, he wasn’t fond of women with short hair, but somehow her boyish cut worked with her larger-than-life brown eyes, her classically straight Roman nose and her sharply delineated cheekbones. One of which he couldn’t help noticing during the course of their conversation—no, confrontation was more accurate—was rapidly suffering from edema and a contusion.

“Thank you,” he said to his assistant when she came hurrying back. He didn’t bother to offer any explanations. Then he marched back into his office. “Sorry for my brief absence.” He thrust his arm at Julie. “Here. Take this.”

Julie looked down, confused. “A towel? I mean I know my hair is all sweaty and I need a shower….”

“It’s not your hair that concerns me,” he said gruffly. He forced the bundle on her before circling back to the safety of his side of the desk. “That’s an ice pack. Your bruise is swelling quite nicely. Now, please tell me you didn’t infuriate someone else on these premises, thus necessitating another ice pack and a call to our legal counsel?”

Julie unwrapped the towel and saw the plastic Ziploc bag filled with ice cubes. She shook her head. “No, I didn’t irritate anyone else. It was entirely my own clumsiness. But thanks anyway…for this.”

“Don’t thank me, thank my assistant. She was the one who ran to get it. I can just imagine the rumors circulating through the halls already given the noise of the vase crashing.” He looked sternly at Julie.

She grimaced.

Sebastiano should have felt triumphant, only he didn’t. Another source of irritation.

“Yes, one can just imagine,” Iris said with a chuckle.

Julie pushed the towel-wrapped ice pack up against the side of her face, causing her short hair to stick out the side. He had an incredible urge to lean across his desk and gently pat it in place….

Don’t be ridiculous, he chastised himself. He gulped purposefully. “Dr. Antonelli, I can appreciate that in the heat of the moment and after an arduous night you are tired and upset. Still, the hospital has proper protocol for handling complaints.”

“I know, and I am sorry,” Julie said. “And once more, I apologize, Mrs. Phox. I know how much you’ve done for the hospital and the people of this community.”

“Don’t even mention it, my dear. And next time you see your father, please give him my best. I always tell everyone that I would never let anyone else touch my Mercedes.” She looked over at Sebastiano. “You’ve been to Antonelli Auto Mechanics, haven’t you?”

Sebastiano fought the urge to roll his eyes. “I can’t say I have.”

“You must. It’s immaculate. You could eat off the floor.”

He saw Julie suppress a smile.

“And they have very good espresso,” Iris added.

“I’ll remember that the next time I need to take my car to the shop—or need a coffee.”

Julie held out the towel, carefully folding it over to catch where the bag of ice cubes had started to leak. “Here. Thanks.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. You need it more than I. It’s the least we can do as a proper hospital.”

“You sure you don’t need my insurance card first?” she asked.

“Don’t press your luck,” he warned.

“Dr. Fonterra, Mrs. Phox.” Julie nodded and left.

“An interesting woman,” Iris commented.

Her words brought his attention back into the room. “Dr. Antonelli certainly is…ah…unique.”

“If you mean she has chutzpah—”

Sebastiano frowned. “Chutzpah?”

“Yes, such a lovely Yiddish word. It just rolls off your tongue. I find Yiddish so useful when dealing with people. I can see that I must give you a Yiddish dictionary.”

Sebastiano had this uneasy feeling they were about to go down the rabbit hole again. “I take it that it means rude?” he asked.

Iris pursed her lips thoughtfully. “Rude, yes, I suppose so. But at the same time passionate.” She paused. “I’m no expert of course.”

By which Sebastiano took it to mean that Iris thought she was indeed an expert.

“But,” Iris continued, “I would think that in her line of work that kind of passion—or should I say compassion—often goes missing after the first year or so on the job.”

Sebastiano picked up his pen. “There’s merit in what you say. But I would also argue that sometimes one’s strength is also one’s weakness.”

Iris touched her chin and laughed softly. “You put a lot of stock in logic and order, don’t you?” she asked.

“For someone in my position, they are traits to be expected, I suppose.”

Iris studied him closely. Then she picked up the leather-bound folder resting on the corner of the desk and flipped it open. She slipped on a pair of reading glasses. “You have the agenda that I sent over?”

Sebastiano slid his copy out from under the blotter. Whatever he might think about Iris Phox—and unfortunately, there seemed to be way too much spare time in his evenings to ponder such questions—she was impeccably organized.

“Now,” she said, “as you will note, there are several items for discussion.” She paused, lifted her head and blinked in his direction. “However, I’d like to deviate from the usual protocol, take a moment to digress. That won’t prove inconvenient for you, I trust?”

Only several other pressing appointments and meetings, not to mention the rest of my life, Sebastiano thought.

But since he really had no choice in the matter, he smiled graciously. “For you, Iris, I have all the time in the world.”

CHAPTER FIVE

Monday, noon

“I DON’T KNOW WHO was the bigger ass—him or me,” Julie confessed. She rested her head in her hands and rubbed her tired eyes. It was lunchtime, and even though she’d showered and changed, and downed several cups of black coffee, she still felt like crap. Whatever. She would just have to deal with it. Besides, it was her day off, and here she was with her best friend, Katarina. The two of them were sitting at the kitchen table at Katarina’s grandmother’s house. She should count her blessings.

Which was hard when she’d just been relating what a fool she’d been.

Katarina settled in against the pillows in the window seat. “Hey, watch your language. Babi

“Sorry,” Julie said, nodding. “Anyway, what can I say? As usual I flew off the handle—not that it wasn’t a matter of urgency. But he got all officious, with that ‘I’m in charge’ attitude.” She gingerly felt her bruised cheek. She’d applied massive amounts of concealer, hoping to cover the worst.

“Just please tell me that bruise isn’t his fault. I can put up with temper in a man—God knows I’m living with a teenage son. But violence is completely unacceptable.”

Julie waved off her concerns. “Not to worry. Il Dottore had nothing to do with my shiner. I have my own klutziness to thank for that. Then, there was the glass vase I also chipped today.” She left out the part about it belonging to Sebastiano Fonterra in her own defense.

“I don’t understand how you can be so coordinated at sports, and the next minute trip over your own feet. My God, I remember during the summers as kids how you were the star of the swimming and softball teams. Didn’t they even recruit you to play in the men’s basketball summer league when you were in high school and college?”

“No, by college I’d called it quits. Anyway, I might be coordinated when it comes to sports, but in real life—forget it.”

Katarina studied her childhood friend.

Did she know? The reason I’d quit? Julie wondered. She had never talked about it with Katarina, and she still couldn’t now. Only her family knew why she’d given up a full basketball scholarship to the University of Connecticut, and even they’d never discussed it with her. Ever.

Not that Katarina was the type of person to dwell on the past. After all, she had her own issues growing up with a single mother, who was always moving. From what Julie had gleaned, the only source of stability in Katarina’s life had been her grandmother Lena.

Maybe that’s what drew them together: a refusal to dwell on the past. Or maybe it was because they both loved red wine and sappy movies, and that despite the unspoken vagaries of childhood and young adulthood, they were still there for each other.

From upstairs in the small clapboard house, a fierce cry could be heard. Katarina immediately tuned in. “Ah, it sounds like my son and heir is awake. I knew it was too good to last. Thank goodness Babi

“He’s going to sell the Nighttime Bar? It’s a Grantham institution. He can’t just sell it!” Julie protested. The Nighttime Bar might have been a hole in the wall off Route 206, but it was a hole in the wall that had attracted some of the top names in jazz over the years, musicians who sought an intimate, knowledgeable crowd and Rufus’s easy bonhomie.

“We’ll see. But let me finish, would you!”

Julie sat back against the cushions and crossed her arms. “I’m waiting.”

“Okay. While Rufus and I were talking, somehow the conversation got sidetracked onto the hospital expansion.”

Katarina looked up when her grandmother came into the kitchen holding her son. “Ah, my favorite little boy,” she cooed and clapped her hands. “Hello, Rad. Did you miss your mommy?”

The three-month-old baby boy was named for Lena’s late husband, Radko, who had died before Katarina was born. His still sleepy eyes were red from crying, but they lit up as soon as he saw Katarina. She held out her arms, and he immediately cuddled close, his mouth rooting around her breasts.

“Men, they’re all alike,” Katarina complained as she unbuttoned the front of her loose blouse and undid the snaps on her nursing bra.

Lena looked on, smiling. “He slept the whole time you were gone, I’ll have you know, so he deserves a reward. And it’s a gift to nurse your child.”

The baby latched on and started to suck with a steady determination.

“Oh, my goodness, your cheek, Julie!” Lena exclaimed. “What happened? Do you need something? Calamine lotion? I have a bag of frozen peas in the freezer.”

“It’s nothing, really,” Julie assured her. “Just a little bump.” She needed more concealer, clearly.

Rad’s voracious eating produced a smacking noise.

Julie laughed and leaned across the table to stroke his tiny fingers. Julie’s touch made him quiver, and he shifted to grip the skin above Katarina’s nipple and feather it with his tiny fingers.

“What little starfish hands,” she marveled. “I’m always amazed the way they come out with all the little wrinkles at the knuckles and tiny little nails.”

Katarina glanced her way. “All the better to scratch me with.”

“And you wouldn’t give it up for a moment,” Julie replied. She heard Lena clattering pots and pans behind her and swiveled around. “Can I help you with anything there, Mrs. Zemanova?”

“How sweet of you to offer.” Lena turned on a stove burner and placed a frying pan on it. She cut a generous hunk of butter and dropped it into the pan to melt. “I’m just frying up some onions to go with the pirohy,” she said, referring to the Slovakian stuffed dumplings. “Just a little something light, you know.”

A little something light? Julie mouthed to Katarina behind Lena’s back.

“But if you really want to do something, you can get the container of sour cream out of the fridge and put it in a bowl.” Lena nodded toward an overhead cabinet to indicate where the bowls were kept.

Julie slid across the window seat, got up and headed for the refrigerator.

“If you think we need more to eat, there’s mushroom soup that I made in a Rubbermaid container on the left,” Lena said in a raised voice as she fried the chopped onion.

Julie chewed her lower lip. “It’s tempting. What do you think, Katarina?” She turned to her friend.

Katarina moaned as she shifted Rad from one breast to the other. “Please, I’m trying to lose weight after the baby. Not all of us can eat anything and everything and still look like a long toothpick.”

“I guess no soup then.” Julie finished dishing the sour cream into a blue-and-white pottery bowl. “I’ll put this on the table, okay?” she said on her way to the dining room.

“Yes, that’s good,” Lena called out. “Put it next to the silver serving spoon. Meanwhile I’ll start to put up the pirohy because it looks like our little man is just about finished.” She removed a clean dishcloth covering a cookie sheet and exposed a neat array of crescent-shaped dumplings. She carefully dropped them into the pot of boiling water, and when they floated to the top, she ladled them out and placed them on a large china platter. She had already dished the sautéed onions into a matching bowl. “Who wants to take these in?” she asked.

“Julie, why don’t you take the baby, and I’ll help with the food,” Katarina said, passing him over and doing up her bra. “He still needs to be burped so take the receiving blanket. Otherwise he’ll upchuck all over your sweater.” She smoothed her long red hair off her shoulder.

“That’s what dry cleaning is for is what I say.” Julie mugged at Rad as she held him up. She confidently maneuvered the baby to her shoulder and patted him repeatedly on his back.

“Okay, Babi

Lena picked up the onions and marched on her Easy Spirit walking shoes to the dining room. She might be in her early seventies, but she was fit as a fiddle from tennis three days a week and tai chi classes at the Adult School.

“I know, I know,” she said, “but I wasn’t sure if Wanda was going to join us with little Natalie. They have music-and-little-tikes class today.” Wanda was a retired high school math teacher who now lived with Lena and took care of the one-year-old daughter of Julie’s other friend, Sarah. Sarah was a physiotherapist and her husband, Hunt, Iris Phox’s son, was in med school.

“You have enough here to invite the whole class,” Katarina joked. She rested the platter on the corner of the dining room table. For the occasion, Lena had set the table with a white damask tablecloth. The silver shone and the Bohemian crystal sparkled. A round glass bowl in the center held an informal arrangement of purple lobelia and feathery pink asters from her small garden.

Lena took her place at the head of the table. “Here, Julie, you can sit on this side while Katarina can sit next to the bouncy baby chair.”

“No way I’m giving up this cutie,” Julie said as she followed everyone else in. She continued to pat the baby on his back until he emitted a loud burp. “Good one, Rad.” She let him snuggle into her shoulder and breathed in deeply. “Don’t you just love the smell of babies?”

“Julie, you’re so good with babies. I’m still terrified I’m going to drop him.” Katarina pulled out her chair and sat.

“Just be the oldest daughter in a large Italian family and you’d be good with babies, too. Trust me, it doesn’t take any special gifts, just a lot—and I mean—a lot of practice. Anyway, my brother Dom hit the floor a few times, and he seems to have survived intact.” She deftly switched Rad to her other shoulder and raised her plate to Babi

“You should have children of your own. It’s much more fun than minding little brothers,” Lena said as she passed Julie back her plate. A succulent aroma filled the room.

“Have you been talking to my mother, Mrs. Zemanova? Or maybe my grandmother? Sometimes I think I see her staring at me, visualizing the size of my ovaries. She tells me she has powers, you know? Supposedly even the evil eye,” Julie said with a laugh. “Hey, come to think of it, maybe that’s what’s been keeping all those eligible bachelors away.”

“She would never do that!” Lena looked aghast, as if she had taken Julie seriously. “Here, have some sour cream. It will make you feel better.”

Julie took the bowl. “It can’t hurt.” She plopped a generous amount on her plate, then passed the dish to Katarina.

Katarina studied it and frowned. “Oh, all right. But that means an extra thirty minutes on the stationary bike tonight.” She added a modest dollop of sour cream to her dumplings, paused and added a speck more. “You know, let me just throw this thought out, knowing full well that you’ll probably shoot it down immediately. Maybe, just maybe, the problem isn’t your grandmother, but you. I mean, you never get out at all.” She took a bite of dumpling with sour cream and onion and smiled. “Oh, bliss!”