Halfway to You(47)

My napkin fell from my lap as I stood all the way up. He dropped his suitcase, and I rushed toward him, halting just in front of him. Instead of knocking him back with a hug—which is what I wanted to do—I grasped his shoulders and kissed his rough cheeks, once on either side. The European greeting was a little less embarrassing than my desire to body-slam him. I became shy. I had laid myself bare on the pages I mailed him, but seeing him in the flesh exposed me in a different way. Here, I could stare past his lenses into those stormy blue-green eyes.

“Copper,” he said again, smiling with his soft mouth. His hand lingered on my shoulder, then fell.

He looked different—older, I realized. His face had thinned, not unattractively so, and he had the slightest peppering of silver hairs at his temples. He wasn’t much older than me, but grief had aged him, and it made me wonder what differences he saw on my face. Regardless, he looked good. His personal growth had changed the posture of those usually sunken shoulders; he stood taller. I felt suddenly squirmy under his gaze. To think I’d been sending vulnerable and embarrassing letters to this beautiful man for the past two years made my blood sizzle.

“What are you doing here?” The chill coming in from the doorway puckered my skin.

“Looking for you, of course,” he said, low.

I led him out of the way of an incoming foursome. “I have a table.”

In Italian, I asked Paolo to take Todd’s suitcase into the back so it wouldn’t be in the way in the tight restaurant. Paolo shot me a gossipy look, then hefted Todd’s bag and disappeared toward the kitchen.

“Do you know them here?” Todd asked when we were settled at my table.

“Todd. This is Carmella’s! My friend’s restaurant.”

He wiped a tired hand over his face, chuckling in amusement. “No way. I asked for directions at your friend’s place? How lucky is that?” He looked around the intimate restaurant, taking it all in. Carmella’s was a cozy spot—romantic. After roving the room, his attention settled back on me. “Your Italian is very good.”

I waved a hand, clearing the compliment away. I couldn’t believe he was sitting across from me. Here. In Carmella’s. In Rome. I beamed. “What are you doing here, Todd?”

“I already said, I’m here to see you.”

Paolo came by with a second set of dishes and lifted my wine bottle to fill Todd’s new glass; I ignored his half smirk and raised eyebrows.

“But why?” I pressed.

Todd’s expression darkened, lips pulling into a frown. “Your mother,” he said. “I know you have friends here, but I thought you might want some company. Someone who . . . understands.”

My body gushed with warmth. I grasped his hand, overcome by the gesture. For three seconds, four, everything felt right: the city, the restaurant, the man, and our skin touching, practically electric. Is that how the couples I’d been watching felt? I blushed, self-consciousness flaring, and returned my hand to my lap.

“A man is here,” Carmella said as she approached the table. She held a single plate of squat, round mezze maniche noodles coated in a sweet-smelling sauce.

“Carmella, this is my dear friend Todd.”

She knew very well who Todd was and what he meant to me, but thankfully, she played it cool. “Pleased to meet you.” Before he could respond, she added, “You look hungry. I’ll fix another plate.”

“Grazie,” Todd said, mispronouncing the thanks as I had so many years before.

Carmella was endeared. “Ah, look at you speak Italian. Bene. You keep my Ann company, and I will be back.”

When she was gone, I didn’t pick up my fork; with Todd sitting here, I felt so full I feared I wouldn’t be able to eat. “You came all the way here for me?”

“It was all I could think to do.”

“Thank you,” I said, “truly.”

“It’s nothing.”

“It’s everything.” No one had ever gone to that sort of trouble on my behalf.

Carmella returned with Todd’s dinner, pinning me with a scandalized glance before she left. I tried not to imagine the gossip happening in the kitchen.

I asked Todd, “Are you just getting in? You’ve probably been traveling for twenty hours.”

Todd spread a napkin over his lap and picked up his fork. “Twenty-four,” he said. “But the look on your face is worth it.” He took a bite of the pasta, eyes fluttering closed in ecstasy.

“What’s the look on my face?” I asked.

He opened his eyes again, chewing. He swallowed and wiped the corner of his mouth. “Surprise. Happiness.”

“Both true,” I said, finally taking a bite of my own dish. It was some sort of pumpkin-and-tomato sauce, perfectly balanced with pepper and Romano.

“Your friend is a great chef,” Todd said, practically halfway through his food already. “Will she deliver seconds? This is a small plate.”

“Slow down,” I said. “In Italy, we savor our food.”

“I’ve been traveling for an entire day, Ann. I’ve sustained myself on peanuts and weird airport food.”

I sipped my wine. “Fine, continue gorging.”

Todd gave me a devilish smile before finishing his pasta.

I poked at my plate, my belly still full of fluttering songbirds. “I just realized something,” I said, dropping my fork. “The first time we met, you were just arriving in Italy, and I shared my table. It’s happened again!”