He says, “Did you just say you love me?”
I think, Not yet , but I say, “Uh-huh.”
“Good,” he shouts. “Ti amo , anche.”
I don’t know Italian but I can pretty much guess what he’s just said.
That evening we have dinner on the veranda. The temperatures have dropped, but Jess packed my blue pashmina wrap. Richard is wearing a sport coatyet he still looks more cowboy handsome than businessman handsome. We have one of our favorite discussions: who knows about us at work?
Usually Richard makes educated guesses based on elevator and lunch sightings. Tonight he says, ” Everyone knows.”
” Nooo You think?” I say, pretending to be dismayed. I have only told Jacqueline, whom I swore to secrecy, but I secretly want everyone to know. I am proud to be dating Richard.
He nods. ” Everyone knows.”
“Nobody has said anything to me,” I say.
“Nobody has said anything to me, either.”
“So what makes you so sure that people know?”
He says, “I don’t know I guess because people generally don’t comment on something they perceive to be a fling.”
I nod, take a bite of my gnocchi, and scrutinize his words: something they perceive to be . Does this mean we’re actually having something more serious than a fling? Or does this mean we are indeed having a fling? I am still analyzing his sentence back in our room after we have sex again, the hard kind that almost hurts. Long after we have said good night and rolled away from each other to sleep, I’m still not sure of Richard’s intended meaning. I tell myself that it doesn’t matter. It is what it is. We are what we are.
The next day is as blissful as the first, and Richard and I prove ourselves experts at lounging, eating, drinking, and having sex. In the late afternoon, we take a two-hour boat ride on the lake, passing George Clooney’s house and Versace’s villa; merely seeing these landmarks somehow makes me feel rich and famous, too. We stop in the picturesque village of Bellagio, known as the “pearl of the lake,” where I buy a leather tote and Richard picks up a pair of handmade sandals. On our return trip, Richard strikes up conversation with several other hotel guests. He is one of those people who makes friends everywhere he goes. I decide that it is one of his best traits.
I wake up on our third and final day in Italy, which is my actual birthday and think, I am thirty-five. I am in striking distance of forty . It is the first time in my life I have felt old, and it is not a good feeling.
I turn over in bed and see that Richard is already up and outside on the terrace, reading the paper and sipping coffee. He is wearing a white terrycloth robe, and for some reason I think of Richard Gere in Pretty Woman . Both Richards look good in white robes.
I get up and go to the bathroom where I brush my teeth and hair. Then I step outside in my own blue silk robe. Richard folds his paper in half, puts it on the table, and stands to kiss my cheek. “Good morning!” he says brightly.
“Good morning,” I say, looking at the mist over the lake. “Beautiful day.”
“It is,” Richard says. “Great day for a birthday.”
I sit, and we smile at each other.
“Coffee?” he says.
I nod, and he pours coffee from a small pitcher into my thimble-sized china cup. Then he points to the basket resting on a silver tray and says, “Continental breakfast. Are you hungry?”
“Not really,” I say. “Not yet.”
“Have a pastry anyway,” he says forcefully. “You need your nourishment.”
I shrug and then unfold the cloth napkin to discover a small unwrapped box tucked between a muffin and a croissant. It is clearly a ring box. I feel uneasy. Maybe because the last time I got a ring, I told Ben I would marry him. Maybe because the trip already feels like way too much of a gift.
“Well, looky there,” Richard says.
“You shouldn’t have,” I say, meaning it.
He waves me off and says, “Open it.”
I pluck the box out of the bread and lift the lid. Inside sits a substantial dinner ring with green and pink stones set in gold. It is the sort of interesting cocktail ring I would admire on another woman, but would never think to buy for myself.
“Wow,” I say, sliding it on my right ring finger. It fits perfectly, thanks to Jess, I’m sure. “It’s gorgeous.”
“You’re gorgeous,” he says, grabbing my hand and kissing it in old-Hollywood style.
I thank Richard, which I hope encompasses the ring and the compliment. But I can’t help feeling annoyed at both. They are both overkill. Gorgeous is simply not an adjective that applies to me. I’m attractive enough. I can even be pretty when all the pieces come together just right. But I’m not gorgeous and I don’t believe that Richard thinks I am. For the first time, I look at him and see insincerity. I can’t help wondering how many women Richard has called gorgeous. I feel certain that the number is triple digits high.