Marriage Matters

Twenty-nine

June was sitting at the wrought-iron table in her garden, just finishing up a piece of toast with raspberry preserves, when Charley’s back door slid open. Before such late evenings with Rose, the man had been in his garden every morning at eight o’clock on the dot. Today, it was nearly nine.

Not that she was paying attention.

As June took a sip of tea, she heard a sudden clank of metal.

“Ahhh,” Charley cried. “Help. Help!”

For heaven’s sake, what had happened? June leapt up and rushed over to the fence. Charley was lying on his bricked patio in a crumpled heap.

The blood drained from her face. “Charley,” she cried. “Are you alright?”

At the sound of her voice, he lifted his head. June practically collapsed against the fence with relief.

“I tripped over that darn rake.” He pointed at the very same rake she had knocked over the night before, when she’d crept into his garden to spy on him and Rose. “I can’t believe it.”

In an effort to not look as guilty as she felt, June stuttered, “Well, why . . . why on earth do you keep a rake lying across your patio anyway?”

“I don’t.” His face was etched with pain. “Squirrels must have knocked it over.” Gingerly, Charley pressed his hand against the top of his white socks. “Ooph.” He flinched. “I think I might have twisted my ankle.”

“Stay right there,” she clucked. “I’ll be right over.”

Gathering up her breakfast plates, June rushed inside. She dumped everything on the counter, grabbed her keys and rushed out the front door. She practically sprinted (a feat she had not accomplished in years) down the front steps.

“Hold on, Charley,” she shouted. “I’m on my way.”

June ducked into the alley along the far side of the house, where he kept his garbage and recycle bins. The alley was rocky and cool and led to a rusted wrought-iron gate. She had to shove hard against some overgrown ivy, but eventually the gate opened right into his backyard.

“Huh,” he grunted. With every step, her boots squished in the dew of the grass. “I should’ve known that you would know how to break into my garden. I haven’t used that gate in years.”

“Break into your garden?” June echoed. “Why—” She had half a mind to leave the man for dead, until she saw the rake lying next to his injured ankle. Eyeing it, she said, “Squirrels knocked this over? Are you sure it wasn’t a raccoon? It looks pretty heavy.”

In the mystery novels she read, it was not uncommon for the criminal to return to the scene of the crime. With a flash of glee, she suddenly understood why. There was something very satisfying about committing a crime and not getting caught.

Charley shook his head. “I’m not so sure about all that. My bucket’s missing, too.”

“Oh.” Her glee faded. “Well, that’s unusual.”

The night before, June had set the smashed bucket next to her trash can. Kristine grabbed it, saying, “You at least have to make an effort to hide the evidence.” She then shoved it in her trunk, like a body.

Pressing a hand against the brick patio, Charley attempted to get to his feet. He groaned, sinking back down to the ground.

Considering June had been the cause of his accident, it was within her best interest to ensure he made it indoors alive. Petty theft was one thing but murder? Quite another. “Grab my shoulder,” she instructed, bending down. “Can you do that?”

Awkwardly, Charley wrapped his arm around her shoulder. June was startled to feel how strong it was. Even though she had seen his arms in those light blue gardening shirts he wore, she didn’t realize they’d feel so . . . well, thick.

Clearing her throat, she said, “Now, don’t dillydally. Let’s go.”

Charley gave a grunt and got to his feet. He limped to the back door. As they walked into his home, June was hit by the smell of fresh coffee and cinnamon toast.

The kitchen window had a perfect view of the very table where she’d been sitting. June wondered if Charley ever watched her, the way she watched him. According to Kristine, not everyone was as nosy as June but with this type of view, it would be insulting if he hadn’t taken notice of her once or twice.

“Shall we call the doctor?” she asked, since Charley was not giving her an ounce of direction.

He shook his head. “Not much can be done for a sprain. I think I’ll just sit for a while.”

June helped Charley limp into a dark room at the front of the house. It smelled like firewood and black licorice. As her eyes adjusted, she saw that the walls of this room were made of a dark cherry and the built-in shelves were simply crammed full of books.

“You read mysteries?” June was surprised. He’d said it, that day on her front stoop, but she hadn’t believed him. Charley Montgomery seemed like a war history type of man.

“All the time.” Easing onto a chaise lounge covered in faded gold velvet, he wiggled his foot and winced. “I think it’s a good real-life mystery that our neighborhood might have a crime ring.”

“One missing bucket does not constitute a crime ring,” June informed him.

He shrugged. “I don’t know. I might just call the authorities.”

June’s heart skipped a beat. “Don’t be ridiculous.” She attempted to adopt an imperious tone, but her hands started to sweat. “I . . .” She cleared her throat. “I wouldn’t report a thing.”

“Well, we’ll see.” Charley eyed his ankle. “This was not how I expected to start my day.”

“No one ever plans for an accident,” she said. “That’s why they’re called accidents.”

Giving her a look, Charley reached behind his back and pulled out a few feather throw pillows. He made a move to put them under his feet.

“Stop right there,” June cried. “Charley Montgomery, you take off your shoes this instant!”

Even though this was not her home, she hated to see the man soil such a beautiful chair with muddy feet. If his wife were still alive, she would most certainly feel the same.

“Now, let’s just lift your foot up on these pillows,” she said once he’d removed his shoes.

When Charley struggled, June reached out and grasped his leg just above the ankle. She had not felt a man’s leg since Eugene’s and the sensation was quite strange. Charley’s skin felt warm beneath her touch, his wiry leg hair brushing against her hand. Quickly, she dropped his foot onto the pillow.

“I’m going to get you some ice,” June said, her voice strained. Walking toward the kitchen, she turned and shook her finger at him. “And don’t you move. If you need something to read, I’ll get it for you.”

“June . . .” Charley shook his head. “Has anyone ever told you that you are downright bossy?”

June opened her mouth to argue but then stopped. “Yes.” She smiled. “All the time.”

In the kitchen, she filled a bag with ice and wrapped it in a kitchen towel. “Put this on your ankle,” she instructed him. “I have to go run some errands. Will you be alright?”

Charley leaned back against the chaise lounge. “I’ll be just fine. June, thank you.” He smiled. “It’s been a while since I’ve had someone to take care of me.”

“Well.” June hesitated, her hand resting against the wood of the wall. Knocking the wood twice, she said, “Don’t get used to it.”





Thirty

Kristine awoke to the sound of Italian voices and the clatter of dishes. Climbing out of the cozy bed, she threw open the shutters and delighted in the damp morning air. It smelled like espresso and dust and history and motorbikes, which was so different from the stale, sprinkler-watered-lawn scent of the suburbs.

“Buongiorno,” she called to no one, spreading her arms out wide.

Glancing at the clock, Kristine rushed to get ready. She and Ethan had made plans to meet in the breakfast room at eight, then spend the day sightseeing. The Valiant luncheon wasn’t for a few days, and she reveled in the fact that her sole responsibility was to explore.

Stepping out of the elevator, Kristine scanned the tiny dining area. Tourists of all shapes and sizes dotted wooden tables. Ethan sat in the corner, watching the room as though photographing the ambience in his mind.

After waving at him, Kristine walked over to a table filled with cheese, cold cuts and pastries. The tiny bottles of marmalade, shiny sugar rolls and thin slices of meat were so delightfully European that she piled her plate high. Balancing her breakfast and a bottle of water, she walked over to join him.

“No espresso?” he asked, raising an eyebrow.

Kristine grinned. “I’m too wound up already.”

After breakfast, they set out for the Sistine Chapel. She couldn’t help but beam at one or two people with particularly interesting faces. An Italian with a bulbous nose and deep lines creasing his forehead smiled back.

Ethan nudged her. “Did you see that?”

“See what?” Kristine stopped in the middle of the sidewalk. “The unified architecture, the guy driving by on a scooter or the signs pointing in the direction of the Vatican? Or that pigeon flapping around that lady at the table, trying to steal her biscotti?”

Ethan laughed. “I meant that grouchy old Italian man. When you smiled at him, he turned eighteen all over again.”

Kristine blushed, smoothing her cream-colored dress.

As St. Peter’s square loomed into sight, she stared up at it, stunned. Not one single picture in the guidebooks did it an ounce of justice. The baroque design was so perfectly symmetrical, so incredibly beautiful, that it was hard to believe that such a place existed as she went about her business on the other side of the world.

“That’s . . . This is . . .” Kristine shook her head. “I’m in awe.”

Ethan nodded. “Words can’t capture it. It’s just an emotion for me. Every time.” Shrugging out of his black overshirt, he pointed at a street fontana. “Last chance for free water.” Kristine was too busy taking everything in to care about something as basic as water.

Digging through her shoulder bag, she pulled out Walking Tours of Rome. If she remembered correctly, there had been a wealth of information on how to best tackle the Sistine Chapel. She flipped through the pages and then looked up at Ethan. At the fountain, he was crouched over, taking a long drink of water. Standing up, he wiped the back of his hand over his lips. Tiny drops of water scattered like diamonds in the sun.

“Hey, let me see that book for a minute,” Ethan called, striding over to her.

“You should have brought your own,” she said. “It’s not like you don’t work in a travel—”

Before the words had made it out of her mouth, Ethan had grabbed her book, walked over to the nearest trash can and tossed it in.

She stared at him, shocked. “Wait. What did . . . Why did . . . ?”

“Kristine, look around you.” He did a slow turn, in the center of the square. Pigeons flew up in a flurry of feathers, then realizing he was not a threat, went back to foraging along the cobblestones. “You don’t need a guidebook to see Rome.”

Was he crazy? Of course she did! Thousands of people had visited Rome and a clever few had laid out the hows, whys and what fors. Suddenly, she decided she didn’t like Ethan at all. What type of person would throw away another person’s guidebook? Kevin would never do something like that.

Through her teeth, she said, “I want to get the most out of Rome as possible, in the brief period of time that I get to be here. I need my book.”

“You don’t need it,” he argued. “Use your imagination. Think of the people who have been here before you. The stories they have to tell, the fights they had . . . the love they shared.” Ethan studied her for a moment with his dark eyes. “Do me a favor. Close your eyes.”

“No.” She refused. “If I do, someone will march up and steal my . . . Shit.”

A family of Japanese tourists walked up and dumped a collection of gelato cones into the trash. After giving them a heartfelt glare, she rushed over. The guidebook was covered in goopy, creamy glop.

Ethan started laughing and she did her best to stay calm. “Seriously. You better find me a bookstore and get me another—”

“Relax.” Walking up, he put his hand over her eyes. At his touch, she sucked in a sharp breath. He guided her away from the garbage can and said, “Relax. Close your eyes.”

Kristine let out a hearty sigh. “Is this going to bring my guidebook back?”

“Shh . . .” he whispered, his voice close to her ear. “Just listen to the sounds of the city. Feel the sunshine on your face. Breathe in the magic of Rome.”

Eyes closed, Kristine took in an exaggerated breath. “There. Satisfied?”

“No. Tell me what you smell.”

Kristine shifted in her sandals. She was not about to say it, but she could smell him. That sharp, earthy aroma of sandalwood, the musky scent of his body. Desperately, she tried to focus on the world around her. “I smell . . . the city. Grime, like it just rained and there was oil on the ground that couldn’t come off.”

“Good.” Ethan’s voice was low, intimate. “What else?”

Kristine took a deep breath. “Tomato sauce,” she decided. “Burned meat from that restaurant. Somebody’s perfume. And . . . vanilla.” It was as though the gelato truck was only a foot away. “I can smell the gelato.”

Gently, he caressed her temple with his thumb. “Now, what do you hear?”

Kristine could hear the chatter of the people around her, as though all of the travel guides in her store had come alive and started talking at once. Squeezing her eyes tightly shut, she forced herself to truly listen. She heard the clank of a cab door a few feet away. The whir from someone’s camera as the flash found its power. The rustle of a backpack. The click of high heels on the cobblestones. The sound of Ethan’s breath.

“Rome is all around you,” he said. “You don’t need a guidebook to see it.”

Ethan lowered his hands and she opened her eyes, blinking like a newborn in the sun. The spires from the cathedral stretched to the sky, its white pillars in perfect uniform. The obelisk in the center of the square stood proud over thousands of people. So many lives with different wants, dreams and desires . . . Kristine wrapped her arms around herself and shivered.

Ethan took out his camera and snapped a few shots. She started, realizing that his camera lens was pointed at her.

Ethan lowered the camera. “That was beautiful.”

Kristine’s eyes fell to the top of her sandals, embarrassed. After a moment, she said, “I can’t believe you threw away my guidebook.”

“Guidebooks follow someone else’s heart.” Ethan packed up his camera. “Now, you can follow your own.”