The One In My Heart

No, not a trace of the Vermont farmer.

“I’m on the clock. Of course I’ll be punctual.” I needed to remind myself—and him—that I was here because we had a business agreement.

He tilted his head. “I didn’t tell you that my parents don’t arrive until tomorrow?”

“What? Are you sure?”

“They’re still in Tuscany, spending time with friends. Tomorrow they fly into Naples.”

I thought back to our exchanges regarding our trip and had to admit that at no point had he ever said that Friday was when his parents would check into the hotel. I’d simply assumed that to be the case.

A minute ago I’d dreaded the prospect of playing the smitten girlfriend in front of his parents; but now that I didn’t have to do it, a different kind of anxiety stomped in.

The anxiety of not having a ready role for the evening.

“So…we’ll just eat?”

He opened the door for me, his hand at the small of my back. “And relax, of course.”


VINES OF BOUGAINVILLEA CLIMBED THE pillars and the vaulted ceiling of the hotel’s restaurant. Potted lemon trees lurked in nooks and corners. Hundreds of votive candles flickered in chandeliers and tall, branched candelabras, the glow of firelight warm and golden.

The atmosphere was romance with a capital R—and all wrong for me. If I’d known ahead of time that Bennett’s parents weren’t here yet, I’d have asked for a sandwich in my room. And I’d have stayed there the rest of the evening with my door closed.

As if that could unspeak the words he had extracted from me under duress.

We were shown to a table near the arched windows. Almost immediately plates of amuse-bouche appeared on the table, along with glasses of mineral water. I accepted a menu with gratitude—reading it was a great excuse for not interacting with the person across the table from me.

“Bennett? Hi, Bennett!”

Did I sense a jolt of shock going through Bennett? But he smiled hugely as he rose to greet the two men in their late forties who had stopped by our table. “Hey, Rob. Hey, Darren.”

They exchanged affectionate hugs. He then turned to me. “Evangeline, Rob and Darren, two of Berkeley’s finest. We’ve known one another almost fifteen years. Gentlemen, this is Professor Canterbury, who is much too good for me but doesn’t know it yet.”

“Oh, I know it all right,” I said as I shook hands with Rob and Darren, who laughed heartily. “It’s great to meet you both. What brought you to Italy?”

“Rob and I have been talking about getting married for a while,” said Darren. He had light brown skin and a hint of the Caribbean to his accent. “And we always thought that we’d have a huge ceremony and invite everyone we know.”

“But when we started planning,” said Rob, stroking the ginger beard on his face, “we realized that actually all we wanted was that piece of paper. So we went down to city hall with Darren’s mom and my brother, and here we are on our honeymoon.”

We congratulated the newlyweds. I lost no time in inviting them to sit down with us—to serve as the buffer between Bennett and me. Darren hesitated, but Rob accepted for both of them. Bennett asked for a bottle of champagne and we drank a toast to the bridegrooms’ future happiness.

“Let me see,” said Rob. “We saw you back in November, didn’t we, Bennett?”

“October,” Darren corrected him. “At Moira’s funeral.”

A woman’s funeral in October, on the West Coast—could it be? And was that why Bennett had reacted as he had when he saw Rob and Darren? Because he knew her name was about to come up?

“Yeah, that’s right. At that time we had a summer wedding in mind, but no concrete plans. And then a week ago we were just like, ‘Screw it, we’re making it legal right now.’” Rob turned to me. “Did you know Bennett was Moira McAllister’s tenant for the longest time? We always joked that he was Moira’s boy toy.”

Moira McAllister? Moira McAllister the famous photographer? “Oh, wow,” I heard myself say. “My college roommate had a poster of one of her pictures.”

And unless I was very much mistaken, Zelda had a coffee-table book of Moira McAllister’s work somewhere on the shelves at home.

“I’m always trying to convince people that I was her boy toy, but nobody would believe me,” said Bennett, watching me.

Rob and Darren chortled. I managed to smile. Our waiter appeared to take our orders, and I used the reprieve to collect myself. Bennett had been Moira McAllister’s boy toy—I didn’t know whether I was impressed or even more horrified.

“So.” Rob turned to me once the waiter was gone. “Bennett left Berkeley all of a sudden last year. Was it for you?”

“I’m going to say it was, even though we didn’t meet until several months after he moved to New York.”

“But we could have met years ago if I hadn’t gone out to the West Coast,” said Bennett.

“So you’re making up for lost time?” asked Rob, who was clearly the more talkative in the marriage.