A Year at 32 September Way Page 3
After arising early, Marcello left the sleeping Carlotta and headed directly to Verona for his espresso and morning newspaper. The Piazza delle Erbe, once the site of Roman chariot races, was quietly coming to life as he sat down at an outdoor table near the corner of the open-air market. Without Marcello having to say a thing, a folded newspaper and a steaming espresso arrived on a silver platter. The Benedetto family was well-known in Verona, and Marcello enjoyed the care and attention his family name commanded.
The sun was just rising over the top of the stone buildings on the other side of the piazza. Even though it was barely 7:30, the air was already warm and there was very little breeze to bring relief. It would be a rather hot day for September 1st, and Marcello decided to give the empty apartments one more walk-through before the heat got to be too much.
Most of the new tenants were landing at Verona International Airport around 10am. The banker had emailed to say he’d been asked to a last-minute meeting and would go there directly from the airport, arriving at the apartment around noon. Marcello waited to greet the Reardon couple and Carlisle Everdeen so he could show them to their respective apartments, take care of any last-minute details and hand over the keys.
Marcello sat at a small table in the front courtyard and watched as a younger couple turned onto Via Settembre. The husband was clean-cut and, while his clothing wasn’t exactly designer, it was made from high-quality fabric and tailored to his form. The man’s wife was a few inches shorter than he, with a long, lean body that strode casually and confidently down the street. Marcello couldn’t help but notice the beautiful roundness of her breasts as they pushed against the fabric of her linen sheath dress.
Before they even approached the front courtyard of the apartment building, Marcello could tell the woman was probably more work than she was worth. After years in the wine and hospitality businesses, he was a master observer of people and readily picked up the subtle interactions between the man and his wife. It was clear she was less than happy to be there and knew the husband would bend over backwards to appease her.
“Signor Benedetto?” the man asked as he and his wife turned into the small courtyard. “I’m Josh Reardon and this is my wife, Nicolette,” the man continued as Marcello rose to greet them.
“Let me show you to your apartment, Mr. and Mrs. Reardon,” Marcello offered as he gestured for Nicolette to go before him.
“Please call us Josh and Nicolette, Signor Benedetto,” responded Nicolette as her lips spread into a slow smile, “Mr. and Mrs. sounds a little old for us.”
The three of them went up the four steps to the first-floor apartment. “To your left, Signora Nicolette,” Marcello instructed. Since she held the key and was the first to reach the door, Nicolette didn’t hesitate to unlock the door. “Let’s go in together,” she said as she reached for her husband’s hand.
Not even half an hour had passed since getting the Reardons settled before Marcello’s cellphone rang. Carlisle Everdeen was in Verona but had ventured down a street to get a closer look at an “old building” that caught her eye and now couldn’t find her way to Via Settembre. “All the buildings here are old buildings,” Marcello shook his head and glanced impatiently at his watch. He had calculated the timing of the tenants’ arrival precisely to prevent them from all arriving at once. Ms. Everdeen’s tardiness was likely to encroach on Mr. Winsdorth’s arrival. He sighed loudly into the phone before saying goodbye; Marcello would simply have to do the best he could.
From her description of the surrounding buildings, Marcello could tell that Carlisle was not far from the Casa de Giulietta, or the Home of Juliet from Romeo and Juliet. He’d provided her with directions and five minutes later watched as a brunette with shoulder-length hair and an attractive, classic shirtdress strolled down the street, taking in the surrounding buildings as if she’d stumbled onto a movie set. Her eyes widened and she smiled while viewing one tall, narrow building, and then she stopped to admire the remains of a fresco near the top of another.
The two-minute walk down Via Settembre had taken Ms. Everdeen nearly ten minutes, and Marcello had eyed his watch impatiently the whole time. “Signor Benedetto?” she asked as she entered the front courtyard. When he responded by rising from his seat, Carlisle Everdeen extended her hand and gave him a smile that made him forget all about the inconvenience.
At approximately 5 ½ feet tall, Ms. Everdeen wasn’t nearly as tall as Marcello liked his women. She also had brunette hair, while he preferred blondes because it was such an exotic hair color in these parts. She was what the Americans would refer to as the girl-next-door type, thought Marcello. But he could also see that her smile and natural charm found their way into the hearts of many. No, he wouldn’t pursue her, but he could see she would make a lovely tenant.
“Welcome to Verona and Via Settembre 32, Ms. Everdeen,” he said as he took her hand and gently brushed his lips against it. “Have you enjoyed your stroll around Verona this morning?”
“I did, Signor Benedetto. And please call me Carlisle. I love to explore and could spend hours doing it.” She looked around her and smiled. “I think I’ve come to the right place for that.”
“Yes, you have indeed, Carlisle,” he said. “Why don’t we continue the exploration with your apartment?”
Marcello led Carlisle up the flight of four steps and continued past the Reardons’ first-floor apartment. Together, they ascended the next twelve-step staircase to the second floor, which consisted of the landing, the second-floor apartment and the next flight of stairs to the left.
“Here we are; your home for the next year,” he said, as he turned the doorknob and gestured for Carlisle to enter before him.
Fifteen minutes wasn’t generally long enough for a late-morning cappuccino, but Marcello decided it would have to do. By the time he’d shown Carlisle around the apartment and answered her myriad questions, it was nearly 11:45am. Mr. Winsdorth was due to arrive shortly after noon. Feeling pressed for time and running out of patience, Marcello wished for something a bit stronger than a cappuccino but was willing to settle.
He exited the apartment building, went around to the back and cut through the rear courtyard. At the end of the street was a café with an espresso bar for those who didn’t have time to linger. It wasn’t Marcello’s usual late-morning café and the servers wouldn’t know what he wanted before he arrived. As he thought about it, Marcello realized the barista at his usual place would be preparing his cappuccino right about now. “They’ll be disappointed when I don’t arrive,” he thought as he scurried down the street.
After quickly gulping down his cappuccino, Marcello rushed back to find Mr. Winsdorth waiting for him in the front courtyard. “Mr. Winsdorth, I presume. I’m sorry to keep you waiting. Welcome to Via Settembre 32,” Marcello said, stringing the sentences together in rapid succession. He extended his hand and shook Charles’ hand firmly. “Rather a limp fish,” Marcello thought.
“Thank you, Signor Benedetto. I’m glad to finally be here. It’s been quite a long and busy morning,” answered Charles as he looked around tentatively.
“Would you like to walk down and have a cappuccino before I show you to your apartment?” asked Marcello as he thought about the barista and server glancing at their watches and wondering where he was.
“That’s very kind of you, but I’ll have to decline. If you’d be so kind as to show me to my apartment, I’d be most appreciative.”
At that, Marcello welcomed Charles into the building and led him up the stairs to the third-floor apartment that would be his home for the next year. He could see that Mr. Winsdorth was all business, and it made Marcello’s job that much easier. After handing him the keys and showing him around the apartment, he was finished and had the entire afternoon to himself before his last and most special tenant arrived.
Marcello had planned to pick Eva up at the train station but later decided against it. The last time he’d made a similar gesture, someone from town who knew his in-laws ha
d seen him and reported the indiscretion to his wife’s family. If push came to shove, he’d much rather disappoint Eva than anger the family again. The consequences of letting her down would be much easier to overcome. Instead, he hired a local taxi driver to go to the train station and await her arrival. Meanwhile, Marcello went to the open-air market at the Piazza delle Erbe to purchase a large bouquet of mixed flowers, a dozen pink roses, a bottle of wine and an array of cheeses.
“What a lovely surprise for your wife,” said the cheese vendor as he acknowledged the goods in Marcello’s arms. “Please give Signora Benedetto my regards.”
“I will, thank you. Carlotta will be so pleased,” Marcello responded before turning to walk away.
He immediately put the wine on ice, arranged the flowers in a vase on the large windowsill and placed the cheese on a platter near the wine. Marcello proceeded to the sleeping area where he took extra care to pluck each pink rose petal from the individual flowers before dropping them on the bed. Once he was satisfied with the arrangement of petals, he trailed the rest of them from the doorway to the bed. A knowing smile spread across Marcello’s face. When he was late or had to cancel altogether, pink rose petals softened the blow every time, and he knew this evening would be no exception. Eva would see them, smell their heady fragrance, and her disappointment would melt away. Then, Marcello would draw her to him and, together, they’d follow the trail of rose petals to the bed where they’d make love again and again throughout the night. “Finally,” whispered Marcello to himself, “she will finally be here. I needn’t be left unsatisfied for one more night.”
Chapter 3
Eva stood on the platform at the train station with her bags by her side. She looked around a third time in case she’d missed Marcello’s face amongst the crowd, but he was nowhere to be seen. He’d done this before—left her standing alone—but she’d really believed things would be different now that she was moving to Verona. Just as the disappointment was beginning to set in, a portly, gray-haired man approached her. “Signorina Kretschmann?” he asked.
As she smiled and nodded, the man continued. “Signor Benedetto extends his sincerest apologies. He’s been detained by work and has sent me to bring you to your apartment. He says he will meet you there. Allow me to help you with your bags.”
***
Carlisle had spent the afternoon becoming acquainted with her small apartment, the front courtyard, the rear courtyard and every other little nuance of her new home that she could find. She was never certain if it was the writer in her that made her so curious or the wanderlust that coursed through her veins, which she inherited from her father. Her apartment at Via Settembre was much smaller than the cottage she’d lived in at the edge of the forest in Seattle. For all intents and purposes, the apartment was really one large room with a separate and generously sized bathroom. From where she stood at the entrance of the apartment, Carlisle could glance from right to left and, in one sweeping motion, view her small kitchen area with a wooden table next to the first window, a sitting area opposite the kitchen with an oversized couch, a small coffee table and chair, and an off-white painted wrought-iron four-poster bed in the corner directly left from the doorway. The entrance to the bathroom stood between the sleeping area and the sitting area, where Carlisle envisioned she’d do her work while enjoying the sunlight that would brighten the room most hours of the day.
The combination of aged oak floors, ceiling-high windows with marble windowsills wide enough to sit on and what appeared to be Victorian-era wallpaper led Carlisle to feel like she’d stepped back in time. Her overactive imagination was always working to learn, discover and uncover, and she knew already that Verona would be just the place to allow it to run free. She stood in the middle of the sunbathed apartment and slowly turned 360 degrees to take in as many details as her mind could hold at one time, wondering what stories the apartment would like to tell her. “I could get lost within these four walls,” she said to no one, “and then I can step outside and lose myself again and again within this magnificent city.”
It was the happiest Carlisle had felt in years, seven years to be exact, and she felt a huge weight begin to lift from her shoulders. “This is what I’ve needed all along,” she spoke aloud to the apartment. “A fresh start, new surroundings…what took me so long?” She walked to the window near the sitting area and gazed out toward the red clay tile roofs nearby and the city around her. From her vantage point on the second floor, she couldn’t see all the hustle and bustle from the surrounding streets, the nearby piazza and the market. Although Carlisle couldn’t see beyond the surrounding area, she could feel its energy and hear the humming of activity. She knew she could easily become a part of all of it, and perhaps now she’d finally forget the past and begin to live again.
***
“Oh my god, I don’t think this apartment has seen an architectural or decorative update in about a thousand years,” groaned Nicolette as she looked around from the doorway where she’d stayed since Marcello had showed Josh around.
“Sweetheart,” Josh replied with saint-like patience, “I don’t think the apartment is that old. Besides, it’s a perfect representation of the mixture of history and progress that makes up Verona.”
She watched her husband walk from the sunlit sitting and dining area into the bedroom with suitcases in tow. “Can you help me put the clothes in the wardrobe?” she heard him say, but she pretended that his words had fallen on deaf ears.
Nicolette walked over to one of the large windows near the kitchen and eating area. She pulled the sheer white curtain aside and eyed the surrounding buildings suspiciously, noting that they all looked as old as the one they were stuck living in. “What on earth will I do with myself in this city?” she wondered aloud.
As if reading her mind, her husband called from the other room. “There’s so much for you to see and do here when I’m on the set, Nic.” The shuffling sounds of unpacking drifted out from the bedroom as he continued. “You can also come to Tuscany with me and, if you don’t like that idea, there will also be a driver at your disposal.”
The entire time he was talking and unpacking, Nicolette had remained frozen by the kitchen window, trying to process her new living arrangements. Josh popped his head out of the bedroom, interrupting her thoughts. “Hey, you always used to love an adventure. Why don’t we look at the next year as an adventure and see what we can make of it?” He walked over to Nicolette, ran his hand over her silken blond hair, then let it fall to grasp her hand.
“You know I love you” he whispered as he kissed and nibbled her ear. “I wouldn’t have brought you here if I didn’t think you would end up loving it.” His hand let go of hers and slid to the small of her back.
“Come here, Signora Reardon,” he whispered as he drew her close. “Let’s go have our first adventure now.” He led Nicolette off to the bedroom as the creases on her forehead softened and her lips began to turn up in a smile. Italy was going to be their new start, Josh thought. He lay her down on the canopy-covered bed, covered her with kisses and then looked into her eyes. They made love tenderly and passionately, and Nicolette forgot all about her initial disappointments. At least for now.
***
Charles had been sitting in his third-floor apartment for an hour, alternately staring at the cup of tea in front of him and the view outside his kitchen window. He had to admit it was quite a view. Yet he felt frozen to the kitchen chair, unable to move and unsure of what to do next.
His entire adulthood, Charles had worked. The bank had been his life, except for the brief months with Emma, which were only a memory now. His schedule, his desk, his focus on work had filled in the gaps and provided him with the soothing reassurance that life was okay, that he was okay. When he rose in the morning, he dressed for work and thought about his morning agenda. Before he went home at night, he organized the brown leather-bound planner on his mahogany desk so the next day was planned out and waiting for him when he returned.
The garment bag full of suits was draped over the back of the couch in Charles’ Verona apartment. “What will I use them for?” Charles asked himself. The nerves and anticipation that had filled him on the plane this morning were gone, but they had been replaced by fear, uncertainty and emptiness.
“Who am I now?” he whispered. He thought of the suits he’d carefully hung inside the garment bag. Memories of the meetings he’d worn them to filled his distraught mind as he struggled to soothe himself with a familiar thought. The charcoal gray lightweight wool suit was Charles’ favorite; he had worn it for his last promotional meeting. He’d been the last one to enter the mahogany-paneled meeting room that day after the bank’s board members had discussed the various candidates for executive branch manager. A few other candidates had been summoned in before Charles, but he’d felt unusually calm that morning.
As he’d walked past the mirror on his way into the boardroom, he’d caught a glimpse of himself and had been surprised at the confident, successful-looking man peering back at him. The man looked so sure of himself, as if he could take any circumstance and turn it into a smashing success. Charles had quickly dismissed such thoughts about his own image and chalked it up to the suit. Since then, if he sought success in a situation, he always turned to his favorite charcoal gray suit. It had never let him down.
In a flurry of movement, Charles jumped from his chair, knocking it backwards to the floor with a thunk. He leapt toward the garment bag and unzipped it with trembling hands. Normally he removed his suits gingerly from the bag, but this time he yanked them out one after another until his lucky suit was in his hands. “Thank god, thank god you’re here!” he exclaimed, clutching it to his chest. It would be fine now; everything would be fine now, he thought as he stripped down to his neatly pressed boxer shorts and white dress shirt. One piece at a time, he put on the suit: the pants, the vest and finally the jacket. Calmly, he walked back to the table and righted the fallen chair. Before sitting down, Charles removed a leather-bound booklet and pen from his suitcase, and placed them side by side on the kitchen table. He sat down and opened to the first page of the yet-unused booklet.