Breathing Room

Vittorio chucked Giulia under the chin. “Everyone in Tuscany has secret places to find porcini. But it’s true. Giulia’s nonna was one of the most famous fungarola in the area-what you would call a mushroom hunter-and she passed on everything she knew to her granddaughter.”

“We will all go, yes?” Giulia said. “Very early in the morning. It is best after we’ve had a little rain. We will put on our old boots and take our baskets and find the best porcini in all of Tuscany.”

Ren brought out a tall, narrow bottle of golden vinsanto, the local dessert wine, along with the plate of pears and a wedge of cheese. One of the candles in the tree chandelier sputtered out, and an owl made a soft whoo nearby. The meal had passed the two-hour mark, but it was Tuscany, and no one seemed in a rush to finish. Isabel took a sip of vinsanto and sighed again. “The food has been too delicious for words.”

“Ren’s cooking is much better than Vittorio’s,” Giulia teased.

“Better than yours, too,” her husband responded, mischief in his smile.

“But not as good as Vittorio’s mamma’s.”

“Ah, my mamma’s.” Vittorio kissed his fingers.

“It is a miracle, Isabel, that Vittorio is not one of the mammoni.” At Isabel’s puzzled expression, Giulia explained, “These are the… How do we say this in English?”

Ren smiled. “The mama’s boys.”

Vittorio laughed. “All Italian men are mama’s boys.”

“So true,” Giulia replied. “By tradition, Italian men live with their parents until they marry. Their mamas cook for them, do their laundry, run their errands, treat them like little kings. Then the men don’t want to get married because they know younger women like me won’t cater to them like their mammas.”

“Ah, but you do other things.” Vittorio traced her bare shoulder with his finger.

Isabel’s own shoulder tingled, and Ren gave her a slow smile that made her blood rush. She’d seen that smile on the screen, usually just before he led some unsuspecting woman to her death. Still… not the worst way to go.

Giulia leaned against Vittorio. “Fewer Italian men get married all the time. This is why we have such a low birthrate in Italy, one of the lowest in the world.”

“Is that true?” Isabel asked.

Ren nodded. “The Italian population could decrease by half every forty years if the trend doesn’t change.”

“But it’s a Catholic country. Doesn’t that automatically mean lots of children?”

“Most Italians don’t even go to mass,” Vittorio replied. “My American guests are always shocked to learn that only a small percentage of our population truly practices Catholicism.”

The headlights of a car coming down the lane interrupted their conversation. Isabel glanced at her watch. It was after eleven, a little late for visitors. Ren rose. “I’ll see who it is.”

A few minutes later he came into the garden with Tracy Briggs, who gave Isabel a tired wave. “Hey, there.”

“Sit down before you collapse,” Ren growled. “I’ll get you something to eat.”

While Ren went inside, Isabel performed the introductions. Tracy wore another expensive but rumpled maternity dress and the same run-down sandals she’d had on yesterday. Despite that, she looked gorgeous.

“How was the sight-seeing?” Isabel asked.

“Lovely. No kids.”

Ren emerged holding a plate piled with leftovers. He slapped it in front of her, then filled a glass with water. “Eat and go home.”

Vittorio looked shocked.

“We used to be married,” Tracy explained as the last of the candles sputtered out overhead. “Ren has leftover hostility.”

“Take all the time you want,” Isabel said. “Ren is being insensitive as usual.” Not so insensitive, however, that he didn’t make sure Tracy had plenty to eat.

Tracy looked longingly toward the farmhouse. It’s so peaceful down here. So adult.”

“Forget it,” he said. “I’ve already moved in, and there’s no room for you.”

“You haven’t moved in,” Isabel said, even though she knew he had.

“Relax,” Tracy said. “As much as I enjoyed getting away from them, I’ve been missing them like crazy for hours.”

“Don’t let us keep you a minute longer.”

“They’re asleep by now. No reason to hurry back.”

Except to begin making peace with your husband, Isabel thought.

“Tell me where you went today,” Vittorio said.

The conversation moved on to the local sites, with only Giulia remaining silent. Isabel realized she’d been subdued ever since Tracy had appeared, almost resentful. Since Tracy had been friendly, Isabel didn’t understand it.

“I’m tired, Vittorio,” she said abruptly. “We need to go home.”

Isabel and Ren walked them out to their car, and by the time they got there, Giulia had recovered her good cheer enough to invite them to their house for dinner the following week. “And we will go funghi hunting soon, yes?”

Isabel had been enjoying herself so much she’d managed to forget that Giulia and Vittorio were part of the forces trying to get her out of the house. Still, she agreed.

As the couple drove off, Tracy headed for her own car, munching a bread crust on the way. “Time to get back.”

“I’ll take the children for a while tomorrow if you’d like,” Isabel said. “That’ll give you and Harry a chance to talk.”

“You can’t,” Ren said. “We have plans. And Isabel doesn’t believe in sticking her nose into other people’s business, do you, Isabel?”

“On the contrary, I live to interfere.”

Tracy gave her a tired smile. “Harry will be halfway to the Swiss border by lunch, Isabel. He won’t let a little thing like talking to his wife interfere with his job.”

“Maybe you’re underestimating him.”

“Or maybe not.” Tracy hugged her, then Ren, who gave her shoulder a comforting squeeze and helped her into her car. “I’ll give Anna and Marta a big tip for watching the kids today,” she said. “Thanks for dinner.”

“You’re welcome. Don’t do anything stupider than usual.”

“Not me.”

As Tracy drove away, Isabel’s stomach took a roller-coaster dip. She wasn’t ready to be alone with Ren, not until she’d had a little more time to come to terms with the fact that she’d nearly decided to let herself become another notch on his splintery bedpost.

“You’re getting jittery again, aren’t you?” he said as she headed for the kitchen.

“I’m just going to clean up, that’s all.”

“I’ll pay Marta to do it tomorrow. Stop being so nervous, for God’s sake. I’m not going to jump you.”

“You think I’m afraid of you?” She grabbed a dish towel. “Well, think again, Mr. Irresistible, because whether or not our relationship goes any further is my decision, not yours.”

“I don’t even get to vote?”

“I know how you’re voting.”

His smile sent out a sexy smoke signal. “And I’ve got a pretty good idea how you’re voting, too. Although…” The smile faded. “We both need to make sure we’re clear about where we’re going with this.”

He wanted to warn her off, as though she were too naive to figure out that he wasn’t proposing a long-term relationship. “Save your breath. The only thing I could possibly-and I emphasize ‘possibly,’ because I’m still thinking about it-the only thing I could possibly want from you is that amazing body, so you’d better let me know right now if I’ll break your heart when I dump you afterward.”

“God, you’re a brat.”

She gazed up. “You’re not, God. Forgive Ren for being disrespectful.”