The Loose Ends List(56)

“Just live in the moment, for once. God, you worry way too much. You’re hooking up with a hot guy tonight. That should be good enough.”

Gram texts, Our chariot awaits.

Francesca sent a limo to pick us up. Uncle Billy and Wes scroll through pictures from Paige and Burt and the Ornaments. It’s nice to see my uncles being nice to each other.

My ass is sore. I can’t believe I have a tattoo.

“Don’t do anything to embarrass me tonight, kids. I worship this woman,” Gram says, checking her lipstick in a hand mirror.

“Mom’s telling us not to embarrass her. That’s a good one,” Uncle Billy says.

The basement club has black-and-white checkerboard floors and posters of famous jazz musicians on the walls. We sit to the side of the stage and, within seconds, the drinks start flowing.

“Cheers to good people and great music,” Bob toasts. I take a sip of champagne. It tastes like my constipation medicine.

We tap feet and fingers, and my curls bounce to the beat of the horns. My head is on a permanent swivel, searching for Enzo. Celia Hobbes walks out during an instrumental set. The crowd cheers. She’s a tall, thin African American woman with a platinum-blond wig, lots of bling, and a voice that defies her ninety years. Gram and Bob jump up to grab her after the first set.

“Still drinking straight bourbon, Miss Celia?” Bob shouts.

“You bet. It has preserved my insides like a jar of pickled beets. Oh, lord! The Cookies are here, ghosts from a Fifty-Second Street graveyard. It is good to see you two.” They walk off to catch up as a young Italian woman belts out one of our favorites, “The Man I Love.”

“Why don’t you dance with your sister?” I can tell Dad’s a little tipsy on half a glass of champagne as he pushes Jeb toward me.

“Care to dance?” Jeb’s tipsy, too. I reluctantly dance with my old ballroom lesson partner and try to ignore his alcohol garlic breath. Bob gets up and serenades Gram and Celia Hobbes with a trumpet solo.

A group of people enters through the dim back entrance. I see Enzo right away. My stomach flips. He’s wearing a gorgeous suit and a boyish grin. I push Jeb out of the way and smooth my dress. I want to run toward Enzo and leap into his arms, but I wait for him to come to me.

He stares at me for a few seconds and smiles. “Hi, Maddie.”

His smell, the slight scruff on his face, the smoothness of his hand when he grabs mine and leads me over to meet his sister—everything makes me feel faint.

I meet his sister, Claudia. She’s stunning and elegant and perfect. Francesca talks about Holly, but I can’t think about that right now. I need a break from all the sadness. I need to be with Enzo.

Gram and Francesca and Claudia and Dad and my uncles and even Celia Hobbes swarm around us. Enzo and I are talking to them, but we’re looking at each other. The intensity grows. It’s hot and noisy, and I’m panicking that the swarm won’t ever leave us alone.

“Maddie.” I love hearing him say my name. “Let’s go. I want to show you Rome. Come on.”

I tell Dad I’m going exploring with Enzo. Dad is buzzed and embarrassingly silly, and he lets me go. Enzo takes my hand and leads me up toward the lively sounds of Rome on our perfect summer night. The fountains cast a filmy light over the city. We walk a minute or two before he pulls me into the shadows.

“Maddie,” he says into my ear.

Then come the kisses. It’s more like one long, delicious kiss infused with the smell of subtle European aftershave and him. He has a smell all his own. We can’t stop kissing. I let out little sounds, and he kisses me harder. I feel his hands on my back, up my back, in my hair, on my ass.

“Ow.” I grab his hand and step backward.

“I’m sorry.”

I laugh. “It’s fine. This is going to sound ridiculous, but… Gram kind of forced me to get a tattoo on my ass today.”

“Today?”

“Yeah.”

“Can I see it?”

“Later.” We walk toward a busy square.

“Would you like to see my house?”

“Sure.” Of course I want to see Enzo Ivanhoe’s house. I want to see his bed, his sock drawer, his baby pictures, and the spoons he uses to eat cereal.



The streets buzz with people who don’t seem to realize it’s two in the morning. Enzo’s house is a giant villa in the middle of Rome, with an open-air patio in the center of the building. A fountain gurgles between two terra-cotta benches, and crisscrossed vines of flowers fill the courtyard with color. This isn’t a house. It’s a palazzo with its own piazza.

“Let’s have a bite to eat.” He leads me into a cavernous marble and rustic wood kitchen, with cured meats and cheeses and fruits lined up on a cluttered counter. Enzo selects a hunk of cheese from under a glass dome.

“Here, try this. It’s infused with truffle oil.” He feeds me the cheese, and then a red grape and a bite of sausage. We share a lemon soda and a biscuit, which turns out to be a cookie. I haven’t quite finished chewing when he pushes me up against the counter and kisses me again. Our kisses move to the rhythm of the courtyard fountain. He presses against me, and all the nerves in my body respond.

Francesca and Claudia burst into the kitchen. I jump awkwardly toward the sink.

“Look at our lovebirds!” Francesca is as over-the-top as Gram.