Her lips sought his and nipped and tasted

When Sabastiano opened his mouth, Julie didn’t need any encouragement, and they plundered at will.

Then his mouth stilled against hers. She steadied herself against the vibrations tingling her whole body.

“Well, that was unexpected, but clearly enjoyable. Why did you stop?”

“There are rules. Morals,” Sebastiano explained, though obviously with some difficulty on his part.

“What? Adversaries have morals in this day and age?”

He looked at her askance. “When it comes to taking advantage of damsels in distress, even adversaries in this day and age have rules.”

Julie smiled. “Perhaps it’s time to suspend the rules?”

Dear Reader,

Autumn has come to Grantham again, and it’s time for school!

Julie has been chomping at the bit to have her story told. Let me tell you, it wasn’t easy keeping the opinionated obstetrician at bay. But I think you’ll agree that Julie has met her match in suave hospital administrator Sebastiano Fonterra. Was there any doubt that sparks would fly in a class in Italian conversation? They don’t call Italian a romantic language for nothing.

On a separate note, you’ll see that Julie loves to do needlepoint—a hobby I am addicted to, as well. There is nothing like handwork to clear the mind and relax the body. And in the end, you have something to show for your efforts—though I think my friends and relatives probably have enough pillows by now.

As always, I love to hear from my readers. Email me at tracyk@tracykelleher.com.

Tracy Kelleher

Invitation to Italian
Tracy Kelleher

www.millsandboon.co.uk

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Tracy sold her first story to a children’s magazine when she was ten years old. Writing was clearly in her blood, though fiction was put on hold while she received degrees from Yale and Cornell, traveled the world, worked in advertising, became a staff reporter and later a magazine editor. She also managed to raise a family. Is it any surprise she escapes to the world of fiction?

Many thanks to Maria Engst for her expertise

in Spanish and Dan Shapiro for sharing his

knowledge about obstetrical care.

This book is dedicated to two people:

Bob Bogart, the man to have in a flood.

I owe you much more than a case of beer.

And to Anna Ruspa Fedele—

una professoressa straordinaria.

Mille grazie.

CONTENTS

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

CHAPTER THIRTY

CHAPTER ONE

Sunday, 10:00 p.m.

“I’M HAVING SOME TROUBLE getting a heartbeat,” Julie Antonelli said. Her tone was steady despite the bad news. She looked at the anxious mother in labor who shook her head and turned to her husband who hovered by her shoulder. Too nervous to muster his meager language skills he grimaced in confusion.

“Espere un minuto.” Julie held up a finger before turning to Maria, one of the delivery nurses. By law, the hospital was required to have a translator, and Maria spoke Spanish fluently.

“Tell them what I just said and add that this happens sometimes,” Julie said. Maria translated efficiently and without drama.

The husband nodded stiffly and gripped his wife’s shoulder. She lay back and closed her eyes. The concern was etched in the lines on their faces, but they both breathed a little easier now.

Julie’s breathing, by contrast, sped up. After six years as a practicing obstetrician, she recognized a potential crisis in the making, and she wasn’t about to let that happen. She already carried around enough guilt.

Not that guilt was all bad, she liked to tell herself, or, more accurately, to fool herself. Either way it reminded her just how precious life was. She focused on the nurse at her side.

“Maria, could you explain to Mr. and Mrs. Sanchez that I’m ordering an ultrasound machine brought in? I want to get a better look at the baby.” So far neither a fetal monitor nor a scalp probe on the baby’s cranium had yielded evidence of a heartbeat.

Maria translated while eyeing the monitors. “Two hundred over one-fifty,” she whispered in English.

Julie nodded. The patient’s blood pressure was dangerously elevated. Julie leaned toward the patient. “Carlotta, are you a diabetic?”

“¿Carlotta, es usted diabética?” Maria translated.

Carlotta shook her head.

“Have you had regular prenatal checkups, Carlotta?” Julie continued with a kind smile.

“¿Carlotta, Usted ha tenido chequeos prenatales regularmente?”

Carlotta shook her head. A contraction gripped her. She reached to squeeze her husband’s hand.

Julie leaned over and patted her shoulder, watching the monitors for signs of distress.

Carlotta breathed through her mouth as the pain passed. She wet her lips. “Yo trabajo durante el dia cuando la clinica esta abierta,” she said.

“I work during the day when the clinic is open,” Maria translated quickly. Carlotta spoke some more. “She says that she couldn’t leave work because she was afraid to lose her job.”

Julie bit back an oath. “What kind of job does she have?”

“¿En que trabaja?”

“Soy la ninera de una familia en Grantham.”

“She says she’s—” Maria started to translate.

Julie waved Maria off before the nurse could finish. “That’s okay. Even I get that she’s a nanny. You wanna make a bet that her employer never misses her doctor’s appointments!” Julie could feel her anger mounting, but she needed to keep a lid on it for now. Concentrate on the situation at hand. But later all hell might just break loose.

The door bumped open as Tina, the other nurse, wheeled in the ultrasound machine. Julie wasted no time and moved to the side. “Tell her I need to raise her hospital gown to get a better picture of the baby.”

Maria translated, explaining how the lubricating jelly made better contact with the transducer. Then she pointed to the monitor.

“Now, we’ll get a look, all right?” Julie said calmly. She placed the ultrasound wand on Carlotta’s raised belly.

Carlotta wearily lifted her head. Her husband peered into the monitor at the gray image. “¿Ese es el bebé?”

Julie nodded and flicked some dials. “Yes, that’s the baby.” She switched to another view, hoping to find what she had not been able to register so far. And then she caught it. The rapid, shallow flutter of the baby’s beating heart.

Just then, another more severe contraction gripped Carlotta. She let out a piercing scream. Blood gushed out between her legs and onto the sheets.

The room erupted into emergency mode. Lights flashed, and an alarm sounded. “Call the O.R. for us,” Julie ordered.

Maria got on the phone. Tina whipped open cabinet doors. She reached for some pads, and all three of the women packed them to staunch the blood flow, but it kept coming. “Let’s get FFP going, stat.” Julie didn’t stop working on the patient as she ordered, calling for fresh frozen plasma containing clotting factors.

“I’m already on the way,” Tina called as she rushed out of the room. She hastily pushed aside the ultrasound machine and banged the doors behind her.

“I need it yesterday,” Julie urged.

She turned back to the expectant mother, whose face was streaked with tears as she hiccupped away her sobs. “Carlotta, the ultrasound shows that your baby is very weak. And we can’t wait any longer for it to come out.” Tina stormed in and hooked up the IV bag. She got the line going immediately. She read out the signs to Julie in a trained staccato.

Underneath the hubbub and rapid-fire activity, Maria translated Julie’s instructions, looking from mother to father and back to Julie.

Carlotta blinked rapidly and shook her head. She reached blindly for her husband’s hand. “¿Qué, qué es lo que esta diciendo?”

Julie knew they couldn’t waste precious time. She needed Carlotta and her husband to understand what was going on—now, sooner than now. “You are experiencing eclampsia or pregnancy-induced hypertension. This is a very serious condition. Both you and the baby are in jeopardy, and I will need to perform an emergency cesarean section,” she said quickly, urgently.

“¿Que le pasa al bebé? I don’t understand?” Carlotta’s husband looked from Julie to Maria. His face was contorted in fear. The tendons stood out in his neck.

Julie opened her mouth to spe—

There was no time to answer. Carlotta’s limbs went suddenly rigid. Her eyes rolled back. As if struck by lightning her body jolted, and foam immediately gurgled from the corner of her mouth.

“Magnesium sulfate. Now!” Julie yelled. She needed to control the convulsions. Tina readied the injection and handed it to Julie.

“Carlotta, Carlotta!” her husband screamed, his hands going to his face.

Julie administered the dose and checked Carlotta’s vital signs. “Maria, explain to Mr. Sanchez that we are doing everything to ensure his wife’s safety,” she said, not bothering to stop, let alone look up. The antiseizure medicine was fast-acting, and Carlotta settled into unconsciousness, her breathing aided by an oxygen mask. Julie turned to the nurses. “Let’s get a move on. I want this baby out of here and the mother out of danger. O.R. knows we’re coming?”

“They’re waiting for us,” Maria said. “That was my first call.”

“Then we’re outta here,” Julie ordered. Tina readied the IV poles. Julie put up the side guardrail and bent to push the bed. Maria, at the foot of the bed, pulled backward, banging the door open with her butt.

Julie put all her weight behind her efforts, keeping her eyes on her patient as the bed rolled swiftly forward. “Maria, explain to the husband that he’ll have to stay in the waiting room, but we’ll keep him informed.”

Maria spoke rapidly.

Carlotta’s husband brought up the rear, jockeying to get closer to his wife and reaching out his hand to touch the rolling bed. “You will save her and the baby, won’t you?” he pleaded in Spanish with Maria translating.

Julie didn’t need the English. She could sense what he was asking from the tone of his voice. And she could feel him breathing hard as he rushed to catch up with her. “Le prometo,” she said as she continued to move forward. “I’ll do every—” Hanging on to the bedrails, she swiveled to reassure him face-to-face…

And never saw the ultrasound machine.

The corner clipped her right in the side of her face. She momentarily saw stars.

“Doctor, are you all right?” Tina asked.

Carlotta’s husband blanched. He held out a hand to help.

Julie blinked. “No, no, I’m fine, really. Estoy bien.” She tried not to wince. “It’s my stupidity. Really. Let’s just keep moving everybody.” She pushed the bed and nodded to Tina to get going again. “And, please, somebody get a social worker who speaks Spanish to stay with Mr. Sanchez.” It’s the least we could do, she thought.

They reached the operating theater, and an orderly held Mr. Sanchez by the arm as they whisked through the doors. Julie didn’t bother looking back. All she thought about was the delivery and that it was going to be difficult. She would need all her training and expertise to guarantee a happy ending.

Then—no matter what—somebody was going to pay.

And she knew just who.

CHAPTER TWO

Monday morning

DR. SEBASTIANO FONTERRA folded his arms and leaned on the blotter positioned precisely in the middle of his immaculate desk. A Venetian glass vase, black with orange swirls, was juxtaposed against the flat plane. It was a gift from the board of directors of Grantham hospital, and in Sebastiano’s opinion, hideous. Naturally, he kept it prominently displayed.

Sebastiano offered a sincere nod to demonstrate his attentiveness to the stately woman sitting across from him who had been speaking to him—no, haranguing him—for more than half an hour.

He smiled politely, masking the subversive fantasy bubbling in his brain, the fantasy of jumping atop his desk and, with his arms outstretched and his face raised heavenward, shouting at the top of his lungs, “Per me questo lavoro non vale la pena!” Which somewhat loosely translated to, “They can’t pay me enough to keep doing this job!”

Not that he would ever allow himself to act so…indecorously. So emotionally. Sebastiano didn’t do emotional, let alone fantasy.

What he did do was perform his job as the CEO of the University Hospital of Grantham with admirable skill and considerable grace. He needed both qualities when dealing with the woman seated across from him, the woman who headed up the hospital’s fundraising committee and who had, through personal donations, ensured that her late husband’s name would be emblazoned on the oncology wing of the new hospital.

So with seeming equanimity, he shifted his posture and rubbed his chin thoughtfully. Since he didn’t have the slightest idea what she’d been talking about—having tuned out somewhere between her description of her newest peony cultivar and her criticism of how the ink on the local newspaper, the Grantham Courier, came off on her cream-colored Chanel suit—he offered his tried-and-true conversational gambit. “You always bring a unique perspective, Mrs. Phox,” he said warmly. Then he offered up a smile meant to convey sincerity and sensitivity. Not many could carry off the feat with such visible genuineness.

The society dame rotated her head slightly. If a weighty volume of Emily Post’s Etiquette had been atop her immaculately coiffed gray hair, it wouldn’t have shifted a millimeter. She eyed Sebastiano with arched brows. “I was merely inquiring if you were free for a working breakfast at the Grantham Club on Friday to meet with Rufus Treadway. We need to discuss the impact of the new hospital building on the neighborhood,” she said. Rufus was the former mayor of Grantham and unspoken representative for the historical African-American neighborhood where the hospital was located.

“As I am sure you are well aware, the proposed expansion is not completely welcome in the immediate neighborhood, and I thought that Rufus could prove to be an effective mediator.” She looked at him with a skeptical eye. “And, please, I insist. Call me Iris.”

Sebastiano cleared his throat. “Of course. Iris. What I meant was your suggestion to meet over lunch at the club presents a less confrontational setting.” He wondered if Iris Phox bought it.

She didn’t blink.

Sebastiano sighed. “Listen, I have to apologize. I must confess my mind wondered a second there, not a reflection on your conversation but my own hectic schedule.”

Iris nodded. “You do work hard. And don’t think that we on the board don’t appreciate it. Your efforts at ushering the building plans through the zoning and planning committees have been masterful. Your ability to attract corporate sponsors beyond compare. And needless to say, your embrace of the community hasn’t gone unnoticed.”

Sebastiano had long ago lost count of the number of rubber chicken dinners he’d attended to support various local causes, everything from the Grantham Open Space Committee to the Grantham After-school Program, with the Grantham Historical Society, the Grantham Chamber Music Society and the Grantham Public Library Fund somewhere in between.

“You’re too generous,” he said, still experiencing the indigestion from Saturday evening’s Friends of the Grantham University Art Museum fundraiser. The meal had a Spanish theme in honor of a recent acquisition of a Goya painting. The chicken paella had left a lasting impression.

Iris sat ramrod straight. She placed her gloves beneath the stiff handles of her alligator bag, which was neatly positioned on the side of his desk. “Do you mind if I ask you a personal question?” She tilted her finely pointed chin a precise fifteen degrees.

Sebastiano winced. “Personal?”

“Yes, I don’t mean to pry.”

That seemed exactly what she was trying to do.

“I was wondering…are you happy here?” she asked.

Sebastiano frowned. “If you mean am I content with my job, you don’t need to worry that I am considering other offers.”

Iris pursed her lips. “That’s not what I mean. And I know you’ve been offered positions at larger hospitals.”

Sebastiano raised his eyebrows.

“However tantalizing some of these offers may be, I am a good enough judge of character to know that you wouldn’t think of leaving until new ground is broken and all the funds are raised.” She crossed her still trim legs at the ankles. “No, what I’m talking about has nothing to do with professional contentment. On the contrary, I’m talking about personal fulfillment.” She eyed him closely. “Are you happy?”

Sebastiano ground his back teeth. His dentist had warned him at his last checkup that he was doing this. “What is ‘happy’?” he asked.

“Please, I’m not discussing Schopenhauer here,” Iris said, dismissing his question. “Though after taking a course on German philosophy at the Adult School, I wouldn’t mind. Still, that is not the point of this discussion. What I’m getting at is that to me, you appear disconnected, which is not to say uninterested or lacking empathy. Nor am I referring to the fact that you seem overworked. What I mean to say, and, please, you must remember that I am not one to mince words.”

Sebastiano bit back a grin. “How could I forget?”

“What I mean to say then, is that you appear quite alone, one might even say lonely. Is there anything I can do to help?”

Sebastiano couldn’t think of anything he wanted less than company. “That’s very kind of you, but I’m really quite all right. There’s absolutely nothing wrong, and as a doctor, I make sure to stay atop my physical condition.”

“I’m not talking about blood tests and annual checkups,” Iris clarified.

“I understand, but rest assured.”

There was a knock. His office door swung open.

He narrowed his eyes, hesitated, then focused his attention again on Iris. “Trust me. Nothing’s wrong.”

A sarcastic laugh from across the room mocked his statement. “Well, you might not be able to think of anything wrong, but believe me, I can tell you more than a thing or two!” the irate female voice announced.

Sebastiano stood up. He buttoned the middle button of his charcoal-gray suit jacket. “Mrs. Phox…Iris…excuse this unexpected interruption. I’m not sure if you’ve met one of our obstetricians?”

Iris leaned around the side of the wing chair to get a view of the intruder. “Ah, Julie, my dear, so good to see you again. I was just speaking of you this morning.”

CHAPTER THREE

“DR. ANTONELLI. I WAS unaware we had an appointment.” Sebastiano stood stiffly. He shot the cuffs of his starched white shirt and straightened his sterling silver cuff links.

If he had wanted to appear more intimidating, it would have been difficult to say just how, Julie observed. Well, he could grow four more inches, she thought with a certain amount of self-satisfaction. She was six foot one in her stocking feet. Right now she had on clogs, her usual footwear for surgery, and she topped him by a good three inches.

It was a silly sense of superiority, but she’d take it. Because frankly, Dr. Sebastiano Fonterra scared her witless.

True, the old CEO of the hospital had never been her favorite person. He hadn’t seemed to be the brightest bulb, but he had been approachable, always appearing open to suggestions even when he didn’t have the least intention of following through on those suggestions. Still, he listened.

Sebastiano Fonterra was anything but approachable. He was aloof, often arrogant and, even more maddening, sexy as hell.

There was something about that voice of his—the faint Italian accent to an otherwise flawless command of English. The vowels were more distinct. The enunciation a little crisper. He simply didn’t have the lazy lips of American speakers. Although her female colleagues didn’t normally bring up the topic of enunciation when it came to discussing them.

Still, when she’d come storming in, dressed in her operating scrubs and minus a shower, enunciation had been the furthest thing from her mind. Not that her mind was functioning all that well after having been awake for more than twenty-four hours.

Julie slowly pulled off the blue cotton cap left over from surgery. Her short dark hair was matted to her forehead.

“Dr. Antonelli, I’m waiting,” Sebastiano said again.

Sebastiano might look gorgeous and wield more than a fair share of authority at the hospital, but she refused to be intimidated.

Iris Phox was a completely different matter.

Nevertheless, this was too important for Julie to back down now. “I have something that couldn’t wait.” She took a step forward, positioning herself to the right of Iris, who was sitting in the high-backed chair and within easy spitting distance of Sebastiano. Julie leaned forward and braced her hands on his desk. Spitting from this distance would be a slam dunk.

“I’ve just come from an emergency cesarean on a patient who had seized out from eclampsia.” Through her peripheral vision, she could see Iris’s blinking stare of fascination, but Julie narrowed her eyes and focused on the man across the desk.

“The mother made it?” he asked, still standing. There was no emotion in his voice.

“Yes.”

“And the baby?”

“Underweight and with a low Apgar score, but she’ll pull through.”

“I presume this came as an emergency room admit?” Sebastiano said.

Julie nodded.

“Then you are to be commended. They were lucky that you were on call.”

“This is not about me. This is about the fact that she had never received any prenatal checkups simply because the clinic is not open long enough during the day,” Julie decried in frustration. She threw up her hands…and bumped the glass vase. Before Julie could react, it skittered off the desk and seemed to hang suspended until it fell on the rug, thumped loudly, then bounced twice more. There was an ominous clink as it landed against the metal heater vent.

“Oh, my God, I’m so sorry.” Julie rushed to retrieve the vase. She brought it back to the desk, wincing when she noticed a visible chip in the rim. “Please, I will gladly replace it.”

“You can’t. It’s a one-of-a-kind piece.” Sebastiano spoke so quietly it was clear he was seething internally.

Julie put her hand to her mouth. “Oh, no. I suppose it had sentimental value, too?” What a total screwup, she thought.

“It was a gift upon my acceptance of my position here at the hospital.”

“Oh…” Julie’s voice trailed off.

“Never mind the vase,” Iris said behind her. Julie turned.

Sebastiano glanced at Iris. “As a board member, I’m sure you’re well aware of its value.”

“I never cared for it. If it had been left to me, I never would have chosen it. Black and orange may be the colors of Grantham University, but I always found the piece somewhat garish. I’ll make sure we give you something more suitable to replace it—a simple Paul Revere-style silver bowl.”

“You’re too kind,” he said. That didn’t stop him from glaring at Julie. “But that still doesn’t eclipse Dr. Antonelli’s carelessness.”

“Let’s move on for now,” Iris ordered, ignoring the obvious tension in the room. She turned to Julie. “I’m curious as to your comment about the clinic,” she said. “I wasn’t aware there was a problem.”

“With all due respect to Dr. Antonelli, if I may?” He measured his words.

Julie crossed her arms. She tapped her fingers on her elbows. She didn’t like being preempted.

Sebastiano forged ahead. “With all due respect, the clinic is open three days a week and one evening, more than the state mandates. Moreover, the hospital maintains these hours despite the cuts in government spending.” He waited, looked at Iris, then back at Julie.

She wasn’t ready to give up yet. She raised her hand.

“Which way are you aiming this time?” he asked, jutting his chin out.

Julie paused. She knew just where she’d aim. But she didn’t. Instead, she clenched her jaw. “I realize the hospital is trying to do its part for the community—but it’s simply not good enough. Here we live in one of the richest towns in the country, and we still find expectant mothers risking death due to inadequate medical care. Do we really want it written on our tombstones that we exceeded state mandates? Wouldn’t we rather be known as the local hospital that did everything it possibly could?”

Sebastiano lowered his eyes to the blotter of his desk. He lined up his Montblanc pen exactly in the middle, parallel to the horizontal edges. “You know there are proper channels for lodging a complaint about hospital policies.” He lifted his head and focused on Julie. “An unannounced visit to my office while I am discussing business with the head of the board is not one of them.” He didn’t threaten.

He didn’t need to.

Julie wet her lips and realized that some of her fury was starting to seep away. Maybe it was all the hours with no sleep. Maybe it was the thought that she could lose her privileges at the hospital. And then maybe it was staring into Sebastiano Fonterra’s disturbing deep-brown eyes that finally took the wind out of her sails.

She had felt she was right to barge in when she did. Maybe that was the problem. Too much emotion, not enough strategy. When would she ever learn?

Julie held up her hand. “You’re right. I apologize. To you and to Mrs. Phox.”

Iris nodded in acceptance. In fact, she seemed to have an amused look on her face. “No need to apologize, dear.”

Julie swiveled on her clogs to leave but caught herself before she had fully turned away. “I still have to ask, though.” She couldn’t help herself.

He waited silently.

“How can you live with the thought that a baby could have died knowing we could and should have done more?” She peered at him closely.

He remained standing like a man in charge, barricaded on the other side of his desk, but something about him—be it his normally entrenched aura or some indefinable spirit—appeared to contract within.

Until finally, after what Julie felt was one of the most awkward moments of her life, he responded, “I do what I do every morning. I get up and try to do what I think is best for the future of this hospital.”

“And you can be sure that members of the Grantham community recognize that,” Iris said in support.

Oh, hell, who was she kidding? Julie thought. Iris was right. Sebastiano had improved things at the hospital. He appeared to have an almost miraculous green thumb when it came to raising money, and he had spearheaded interim renovations on the chemotherapy infusion clinic besides increasing the number of social workers to help patients navigate the intricacies of insurance coverage for various levels of care. Charging full steam into his office, wanting to do the best for her patients, she’d made a mess of things. “As those of us on staff at the hospital realize what you’ve done, as well,” she said belatedly.

Suddenly she ached, inside and out, and she wasn’t sure what hurt more. She brought her hand to her cheek and rubbed it. She felt a bump. That’s right. That stupid ultrasound machine. Well, she’d have a doozy of a bruise tomorrow. That was for sure. The sooner she got out of this predicament, the better. “So, if you’ll excuse me…” she said, easing her way toward the door.

“Before you go, Julie.” Iris caught her in midflight. “Just the other day, Sarah was showing me the baby pillow you made for little Natalie—my granddaughter,” she said by way of explanation to Sebastiano, with a beaming smile. “And then she gave me the sampler pillow you made for me. It’s beautiful, and it will definitely take pride of place in my library. And I just love the saying, ‘If I had known how much fun grandchildren would be, I would have had them first.’” She mimicked writing the words with queenlike aplomb.

Then she turned abruptly toward Sebastiano. “You do know, of course, that Julie does absolutely magnificent needlepoint, extraordinary stitches.”

He raised his eyebrows. “No, I learn something new every day about Dr. Antonelli.”

“Yes…well…I have many facets, including my innate ability to run half-cocked into a situation. So, if you’ll excuse me again…” She winced. The talking was really starting to take a toll on her composure, not to mention her sore cheek.

Sebastiano frowned. “Actually, you’re not excused. If you ladies would stay here for a moment, there’s something I need to do. I’ll be right back.” He circled the desk and left the room quickly.

Julie looked over at Iris. “Well, that was a little weird,” she said, feeling embarrassed.

Iris looked at Julie, then glanced over her narrow shoulder at the open door before slowly turning back to Julie. She waited a second before commenting, her pearls shining with a yellow, old-monied hue in the morning light coming through the bank of windows. “I believe you’ve taken him out of his comfort zone.”

“Is that a good thing or a bad thing?” Julie asked.

Iris smiled. “We’ll have to see, won’t we?”

CHAPTER FOUR

SEBASTIANO COOLED HIS heels beside his assistant’s desk while she ran his errand. But he needed to do more than cool his heels. His temper had reached the boiling point, as well. And all because of Julie Antonelli.

He had always found her an annoying presence—constantly emailing him with suggestions, or, rather, demands, on how to run the hospital.

Even more infuriating was the fact that she was undeniably attractive. She had a kind of insouciant sexiness. Too tall, of course, but one couldn’t deny the appeal of her coltish figure and the way her legs seemed to go on for miles. Normally, he wasn’t fond of women with short hair, but somehow her boyish cut worked with her larger-than-life brown eyes, her classically straight Roman nose and her sharply delineated cheekbones. One of which he couldn’t help noticing during the course of their conversation—no, confrontation was more accurate—was rapidly suffering from edema and a contusion.

“Thank you,” he said to his assistant when she came hurrying back. He didn’t bother to offer any explanations. Then he marched back into his office. “Sorry for my brief absence.” He thrust his arm at Julie. “Here. Take this.”

Julie looked down, confused. “A towel? I mean I know my hair is all sweaty and I need a shower….”

“It’s not your hair that concerns me,” he said gruffly. He forced the bundle on her before circling back to the safety of his side of the desk. “That’s an ice pack. Your bruise is swelling quite nicely. Now, please tell me you didn’t infuriate someone else on these premises, thus necessitating another ice pack and a call to our legal counsel?”

Julie unwrapped the towel and saw the plastic Ziploc bag filled with ice cubes. She shook her head. “No, I didn’t irritate anyone else. It was entirely my own clumsiness. But thanks anyway…for this.”

“Don’t thank me, thank my assistant. She was the one who ran to get it. I can just imagine the rumors circulating through the halls already given the noise of the vase crashing.” He looked sternly at Julie.

She grimaced.

Sebastiano should have felt triumphant, only he didn’t. Another source of irritation.

“Yes, one can just imagine,” Iris said with a chuckle.

Julie pushed the towel-wrapped ice pack up against the side of her face, causing her short hair to stick out the side. He had an incredible urge to lean across his desk and gently pat it in place….

Don’t be ridiculous, he chastised himself. He gulped purposefully. “Dr. Antonelli, I can appreciate that in the heat of the moment and after an arduous night you are tired and upset. Still, the hospital has proper protocol for handling complaints.”

“I know, and I am sorry,” Julie said. “And once more, I apologize, Mrs. Phox. I know how much you’ve done for the hospital and the people of this community.”

“Don’t even mention it, my dear. And next time you see your father, please give him my best. I always tell everyone that I would never let anyone else touch my Mercedes.” She looked over at Sebastiano. “You’ve been to Antonelli Auto Mechanics, haven’t you?”

Sebastiano fought the urge to roll his eyes. “I can’t say I have.”

“You must. It’s immaculate. You could eat off the floor.”

He saw Julie suppress a smile.

“And they have very good espresso,” Iris added.

“I’ll remember that the next time I need to take my car to the shop—or need a coffee.”

Julie held out the towel, carefully folding it over to catch where the bag of ice cubes had started to leak. “Here. Thanks.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. You need it more than I. It’s the least we can do as a proper hospital.”

“You sure you don’t need my insurance card first?” she asked.

“Don’t press your luck,” he warned.

“Dr. Fonterra, Mrs. Phox.” Julie nodded and left.

“An interesting woman,” Iris commented.

Her words brought his attention back into the room. “Dr. Antonelli certainly is…ah…unique.”

“If you mean she has chutzpah—”

Sebastiano frowned. “Chutzpah?”

“Yes, such a lovely Yiddish word. It just rolls off your tongue. I find Yiddish so useful when dealing with people. I can see that I must give you a Yiddish dictionary.”

Sebastiano had this uneasy feeling they were about to go down the rabbit hole again. “I take it that it means rude?” he asked.

Iris pursed her lips thoughtfully. “Rude, yes, I suppose so. But at the same time passionate.” She paused. “I’m no expert of course.”

By which Sebastiano took it to mean that Iris thought she was indeed an expert.

“But,” Iris continued, “I would think that in her line of work that kind of passion—or should I say compassion—often goes missing after the first year or so on the job.”

Sebastiano picked up his pen. “There’s merit in what you say. But I would also argue that sometimes one’s strength is also one’s weakness.”

Iris touched her chin and laughed softly. “You put a lot of stock in logic and order, don’t you?” she asked.

“For someone in my position, they are traits to be expected, I suppose.”

Iris studied him closely. Then she picked up the leather-bound folder resting on the corner of the desk and flipped it open. She slipped on a pair of reading glasses. “You have the agenda that I sent over?”

Sebastiano slid his copy out from under the blotter. Whatever he might think about Iris Phox—and unfortunately, there seemed to be way too much spare time in his evenings to ponder such questions—she was impeccably organized.

“Now,” she said, “as you will note, there are several items for discussion.” She paused, lifted her head and blinked in his direction. “However, I’d like to deviate from the usual protocol, take a moment to digress. That won’t prove inconvenient for you, I trust?”

Only several other pressing appointments and meetings, not to mention the rest of my life, Sebastiano thought.

But since he really had no choice in the matter, he smiled graciously. “For you, Iris, I have all the time in the world.”

CHAPTER FIVE

Monday, noon

“I DON’T KNOW WHO was the bigger ass—him or me,” Julie confessed. She rested her head in her hands and rubbed her tired eyes. It was lunchtime, and even though she’d showered and changed, and downed several cups of black coffee, she still felt like crap. Whatever. She would just have to deal with it. Besides, it was her day off, and here she was with her best friend, Katarina. The two of them were sitting at the kitchen table at Katarina’s grandmother’s house. She should count her blessings.

Which was hard when she’d just been relating what a fool she’d been.

Katarina settled in against the pillows in the window seat. “Hey, watch your language. Babika may be upstairs checking on the baby, but, trust me, she has ears more sensitive than the latest CIA listening device.” Babika was Slovak for “Grandmother” and harked back to Lena Zemanova’s Eastern European origins.

“Sorry,” Julie said, nodding. “Anyway, what can I say? As usual I flew off the handle—not that it wasn’t a matter of urgency. But he got all officious, with that ‘I’m in charge’ attitude.” She gingerly felt her bruised cheek. She’d applied massive amounts of concealer, hoping to cover the worst.

“Just please tell me that bruise isn’t his fault. I can put up with temper in a man—God knows I’m living with a teenage son. But violence is completely unacceptable.”

Julie waved off her concerns. “Not to worry. Il Dottore had nothing to do with my shiner. I have my own klutziness to thank for that. Then, there was the glass vase I also chipped today.” She left out the part about it belonging to Sebastiano Fonterra in her own defense.

“I don’t understand how you can be so coordinated at sports, and the next minute trip over your own feet. My God, I remember during the summers as kids how you were the star of the swimming and softball teams. Didn’t they even recruit you to play in the men’s basketball summer league when you were in high school and college?”

“No, by college I’d called it quits. Anyway, I might be coordinated when it comes to sports, but in real life—forget it.”

Katarina studied her childhood friend.

Did she know? The reason I’d quit? Julie wondered. She had never talked about it with Katarina, and she still couldn’t now. Only her family knew why she’d given up a full basketball scholarship to the University of Connecticut, and even they’d never discussed it with her. Ever.

Not that Katarina was the type of person to dwell on the past. After all, she had her own issues growing up with a single mother, who was always moving. From what Julie had gleaned, the only source of stability in Katarina’s life had been her grandmother Lena.

Maybe that’s what drew them together: a refusal to dwell on the past. Or maybe it was because they both loved red wine and sappy movies, and that despite the unspoken vagaries of childhood and young adulthood, they were still there for each other.

From upstairs in the small clapboard house, a fierce cry could be heard. Katarina immediately tuned in. “Ah, it sounds like my son and heir is awake. I knew it was too good to last. Thank goodness Babika was able to watch him while I met with Rufus.” She slanted her head to listen to her grandmother’s sturdy footsteps descending the stairs. Then she leaned toward Julie. “I was there to help him evaluate his financial situation if he decides to sell the bar—”

“He’s going to sell the Nighttime Bar? It’s a Grantham institution. He can’t just sell it!” Julie protested. The Nighttime Bar might have been a hole in the wall off Route 206, but it was a hole in the wall that had attracted some of the top names in jazz over the years, musicians who sought an intimate, knowledgeable crowd and Rufus’s easy bonhomie.

“We’ll see. But let me finish, would you!”

Julie sat back against the cushions and crossed her arms. “I’m waiting.”

“Okay. While Rufus and I were talking, somehow the conversation got sidetracked onto the hospital expansion.”

Katarina looked up when her grandmother came into the kitchen holding her son. “Ah, my favorite little boy,” she cooed and clapped her hands. “Hello, Rad. Did you miss your mommy?”

The three-month-old baby boy was named for Lena’s late husband, Radko, who had died before Katarina was born. His still sleepy eyes were red from crying, but they lit up as soon as he saw Katarina. She held out her arms, and he immediately cuddled close, his mouth rooting around her breasts.

“Men, they’re all alike,” Katarina complained as she unbuttoned the front of her loose blouse and undid the snaps on her nursing bra.

Lena looked on, smiling. “He slept the whole time you were gone, I’ll have you know, so he deserves a reward. And it’s a gift to nurse your child.”

The baby latched on and started to suck with a steady determination.

“Oh, my goodness, your cheek, Julie!” Lena exclaimed. “What happened? Do you need something? Calamine lotion? I have a bag of frozen peas in the freezer.”

“It’s nothing, really,” Julie assured her. “Just a little bump.” She needed more concealer, clearly.

Rad’s voracious eating produced a smacking noise.

Julie laughed and leaned across the table to stroke his tiny fingers. Julie’s touch made him quiver, and he shifted to grip the skin above Katarina’s nipple and feather it with his tiny fingers.

“What little starfish hands,” she marveled. “I’m always amazed the way they come out with all the little wrinkles at the knuckles and tiny little nails.”

Katarina glanced her way. “All the better to scratch me with.”

“And you wouldn’t give it up for a moment,” Julie replied. She heard Lena clattering pots and pans behind her and swiveled around. “Can I help you with anything there, Mrs. Zemanova?”

“How sweet of you to offer.” Lena turned on a stove burner and placed a frying pan on it. She cut a generous hunk of butter and dropped it into the pan to melt. “I’m just frying up some onions to go with the pirohy,” she said, referring to the Slovakian stuffed dumplings. “Just a little something light, you know.”

A little something light? Julie mouthed to Katarina behind Lena’s back.

“But if you really want to do something, you can get the container of sour cream out of the fridge and put it in a bowl.” Lena nodded toward an overhead cabinet to indicate where the bowls were kept.

Julie slid across the window seat, got up and headed for the refrigerator.

“If you think we need more to eat, there’s mushroom soup that I made in a Rubbermaid container on the left,” Lena said in a raised voice as she fried the chopped onion.

Julie chewed her lower lip. “It’s tempting. What do you think, Katarina?” She turned to her friend.

Katarina moaned as she shifted Rad from one breast to the other. “Please, I’m trying to lose weight after the baby. Not all of us can eat anything and everything and still look like a long toothpick.”

“I guess no soup then.” Julie finished dishing the sour cream into a blue-and-white pottery bowl. “I’ll put this on the table, okay?” she said on her way to the dining room.

“Yes, that’s good,” Lena called out. “Put it next to the silver serving spoon. Meanwhile I’ll start to put up the pirohy because it looks like our little man is just about finished.” She removed a clean dishcloth covering a cookie sheet and exposed a neat array of crescent-shaped dumplings. She carefully dropped them into the pot of boiling water, and when they floated to the top, she ladled them out and placed them on a large china platter. She had already dished the sautéed onions into a matching bowl. “Who wants to take these in?” she asked.

“Julie, why don’t you take the baby, and I’ll help with the food,” Katarina said, passing him over and doing up her bra. “He still needs to be burped so take the receiving blanket. Otherwise he’ll upchuck all over your sweater.” She smoothed her long red hair off her shoulder.

“That’s what dry cleaning is for is what I say.” Julie mugged at Rad as she held him up. She confidently maneuvered the baby to her shoulder and patted him repeatedly on his back.

“Okay, Babika, now I’m all yours. Give it here.” Katarina nudged Lena aside and lifted the platter. “My God, you’ve got enough to feed an army.”

Lena picked up the onions and marched on her Easy Spirit walking shoes to the dining room. She might be in her early seventies, but she was fit as a fiddle from tennis three days a week and tai chi classes at the Adult School.

“I know, I know,” she said, “but I wasn’t sure if Wanda was going to join us with little Natalie. They have music-and-little-tikes class today.” Wanda was a retired high school math teacher who now lived with Lena and took care of the one-year-old daughter of Julie’s other friend, Sarah. Sarah was a physiotherapist and her husband, Hunt, Iris Phox’s son, was in med school.

“You have enough here to invite the whole class,” Katarina joked. She rested the platter on the corner of the dining room table. For the occasion, Lena had set the table with a white damask tablecloth. The silver shone and the Bohemian crystal sparkled. A round glass bowl in the center held an informal arrangement of purple lobelia and feathery pink asters from her small garden.

Lena took her place at the head of the table. “Here, Julie, you can sit on this side while Katarina can sit next to the bouncy baby chair.”

“No way I’m giving up this cutie,” Julie said as she followed everyone else in. She continued to pat the baby on his back until he emitted a loud burp. “Good one, Rad.” She let him snuggle into her shoulder and breathed in deeply. “Don’t you just love the smell of babies?”

“Julie, you’re so good with babies. I’m still terrified I’m going to drop him.” Katarina pulled out her chair and sat.

“Just be the oldest daughter in a large Italian family and you’d be good with babies, too. Trust me, it doesn’t take any special gifts, just a lot—and I mean—a lot of practice. Anyway, my brother Dom hit the floor a few times, and he seems to have survived intact.” She deftly switched Rad to her other shoulder and raised her plate to Babika so she could dish up her dumplings.

“You should have children of your own. It’s much more fun than minding little brothers,” Lena said as she passed Julie back her plate. A succulent aroma filled the room.

“Have you been talking to my mother, Mrs. Zemanova? Or maybe my grandmother? Sometimes I think I see her staring at me, visualizing the size of my ovaries. She tells me she has powers, you know? Supposedly even the evil eye,” Julie said with a laugh. “Hey, come to think of it, maybe that’s what’s been keeping all those eligible bachelors away.”

“She would never do that!” Lena looked aghast, as if she had taken Julie seriously. “Here, have some sour cream. It will make you feel better.”

Julie took the bowl. “It can’t hurt.” She plopped a generous amount on her plate, then passed the dish to Katarina.

Katarina studied it and frowned. “Oh, all right. But that means an extra thirty minutes on the stationary bike tonight.” She added a modest dollop of sour cream to her dumplings, paused and added a speck more. “You know, let me just throw this thought out, knowing full well that you’ll probably shoot it down immediately. Maybe, just maybe, the problem isn’t your grandmother, but you. I mean, you never get out at all.” She took a bite of dumpling with sour cream and onion and smiled. “Oh, bliss!”

Julie stopped patting Rad’s diaper-covered bottom. “I do so get out. I’m here today, aren’t I? I see my folks. And what about the girls’ nights out with you and Sarah?” Actually, since Katarina and Sarah had gotten married and had children, the sad truth was the three of them rarely had time to get together. If they did find the time, they were usually so tired that they tended to lie around Julie’s condo, watch DVDs and eat too many chips and salsa.

“Somehow I don’t hear the mention of any men, outside of family members, in that scenario,” Katarina said. The baby started to fuss on Julie’s shoulder. “Here, let me take the squirt. You haven’t even touched your food.”

“I’m fine,” Julie protested.

“No, you’re not.” Katarina stood up and walked around.

“Here you go, lover boy.” Julie reluctantly let Katarina take the baby. “I think you might find he needs his diaper changed.”

Katarina sniffed the baby’s bottom. “Oooh! You are stinky. It never fails after I feed him. I’ll just go change him and be right down.”

Lena winked at her great-grandson and made kissy noises. Then she addressed Julie with perfect sincerity. “Maybe what is necessary is for you to go some place where you can find single men?”

“Listen, I am not about to start hanging out at bars, looking for a pickup,” Julie said circumspectly.

Lena rested her fork on her plate. “I would never suggest that!”

Katarina stopped at the doorway to the hall. “How about at the hospital? Didn’t you just tell me you ran into an eligible doctor this morning?” She laughed and headed up to the bedrooms.

Lena pressed her hand on the table. “You don’t mean you bumped into Sebastiano Fonterra? Now I understand the cause of the bruise.”

Julie shook her head. “No, Katarina got it all wrong. I just had a run-in, a disagreement. What makes you say it was Sebastiano Fonterra? Don’t tell me you have special powers, too?”

Lena shook her head. “No, no. I met him a while back at a hospital fundraiser, and since then at my regular physical therapy session with Sarah—my tennis elbow, you know. She talks all about the new hospital administrator.” Lena leaned more closely. “So tell me. Do you think he’s as sexy as Sarah says he is?”

“Well, it depends on what you mean by sexy,” Julie hedged.

“Tall, dark and handsome?”

“Well, he’s tall, but not as tall as me. And I suppose he’s got brown hair, but I wouldn’t call it dark-dark. And I’m pretty sure there’re even a few wisps of gray starting to show.”

“You noticed that, did you?”

“Yeah, but it wasn’t like I noticed-noticed. I mean, between you and me—and probably the whole hospital by now—Sebastiano Fonterra and I don’t exactly see eye-to-eye.”

Lena picked up her fork again. She had a sly smile on her lips, which with her short gray bob and dazzling blue eyes, made her look like some Eastern European pixie up to no good. “So you are taller, but only a bit.”

Julie could see which way this was headed. “It’s not so much a height thing. It’s more that we are diametrically opposed to each other,” she clarified.

Lena shook off her remark, fork in hand. “Good! Forceful opinions are good! That shows passion!”

There was a loud knock at the front door.

Lena and Julie looked up.

“Maybe Wanda made it after all?” Julie asked.

“No, she has a key.” Lena shook her head. “I’m not expecting anyone that I know of.”

“Let me get it,” Julie said. It was a good excuse to change the topic of conversation. She started to get up.

Lena put a wrinkled but firm hand on hers. “No, I’ll get it. You are a guest, and you haven’t even had a chance to have one bite. Please, I insist.”

The knock repeated.

“Don’t bother, Babika,” Katarina called out, coming down the stairs. “I’m already on my way.”

Lena smiled. “She’s a wonderful granddaughter. I am so lucky. Just like your grandmother is lucky to have you,” she added to Julie.

From the dining room, they heard the wooden front door being opened. There was a sound of muffled voices. Julie tried not to eavesdrop and dug into her food. “Oh, my God, this is like heaven! I can’t tell you the last time I ate, and that was probably a candy bar.”

Lena looked horrified.

The footsteps grew louder as they made their way down the central hallway to the dining room. Lena raised her chin and looked over the centerpiece. Her mouth dropped open.

Julie saw Lena’s startled expression, turned and saw Katarina standing awkwardly in the doorway. She held the baby tightly in her arms as if protecting it from gale-force winds.

Next to her stood a middle-aged woman. Her thick braid was dark blond with streaks of gray. Her face was tanned and lined from the sun. She wore a fleece vest, jeans and work boots.

“Lena,” the woman said, offering a tentative smile.

Julie stared at the woman’s cornflower-blue eyes. She was sure she’d seen ones just like it before. She glanced over at Katarina’s grandmother.

“Julie,” Katarina said.

She turned.

“I don’t know if you remember. It’s been many years. But this is my mother, Zora.”

CHAPTER SIX

“FOR AN OLD MAN, you can still pound the ball.” Sebastiano mopped his forehead as he walked to the bench beside the tennis court.

“I may be fifty-three, but I’m not old. I just feel old most of the time.” Paul Bedecker stopped to gulp down half a bottle of Gatorade. Still breathing hard, he wiped his mouth. Despite the years, he had a wiry build. Dark red stubble covered his gaunt cheekbones. If the man had an ounce of fat on him, he was hiding it well.

He waggled his racket menacingly in Sebastiano’s direction. “Just don’t get the idea that I’m about to start playing like an old man. Those little dink shots. The underhanded serves.” He demonstrated some ditsy hand motions. “Don’t you just hate them?” He pulled the beak of his baseball cap down over his shaved head. It bore the logo of a reality TV show from a bunch of years back, a remnant of his time in Hollywood.

Sebastiano deliberately folded his towel into thirds and draped it over the end post of the net. “So you played and lost to an old man recently I take it?”

Paul shrugged. “Monday, which was…was it just yesterday? I’m starting to lose all track of time these days.”

Monday had been one to forget for Sebastiano, as well, thanks to Dr. Julie Antonelli. Why that woman insisted on periodically getting to him was beyond him. He did his utmost to maintain control over his emotions and his life, and she seemed somehow…somehow…to upset the applecart. Sebastiano smiled. He liked that image. Metaphors in English frequently seemed mysterious to him, but this time he could easily picture Julie lying sprawled on the ground as a mound of tempting red apples spilled over her long, lanky torso. Her tempting torso… Sebastiano’s smile became more thoughtful.

He shook his head and looked at Paul. Their relationship was the closest thing Sebastiano had to a friendship in town—a friendship basically consisting of a standing tennis game once a week. They played at eight in the morning, before Sebastiano went to the office and Paul helped out at the family garden center or nominally worked on his novel. The two had met a few months ago, right after Paul had returned to Grantham. Talk about the prodigal son. Paul had been a whiz kid who seemed to have it all—top of his class at Grantham High School, Ivy League education and hotshot job in Hollywood. But the air had gone out of his dream bubble—due to his own fault, Paul would have been the first to admit. And now he was back living with his father and helping out with the family business.

Sebastiano wasn’t a snob. He didn’t need to hobnob exclusively with members of the upper tax bracket, let alone the glitterati. In fact, he was more comfortable with Paul the way he was now—for many reasons. He liked Paul’s humor, his sardonic take on the world. He even found his edginess interesting. But that didn’t mean Sebastiano was blind to Paul’s faults.

“Paul, are you okay? Something bothering you?” He paused. “Have you started drinking or using again?”

Paul breathed in deeply. “Thanks for asking. And, no, I’m not using. And I haven’t touched a drop.”

“I’m glad to hear it because I haven’t seen you at the A.A. meetings lately.”

“Hey, I know you’re my sponsor, but you don’t need to keep tabs on me. I was busy with my father. I had to take him to his eye doctor for a checkup. His eyes were dilated, so he couldn’t drive. Then there was my niece’s birthday. Other stuff, too.” He idly watched a doubles match a few courts away.

Sebastiano waited.

Paul sighed. “Okay, it’s just that being back in Grantham has a way of dredging up old memories, not all of which are good. But, I can deal with it. Really. I know not to sit around and let them get to me. Anyway, sometimes you just miss meetings, you know? Everyone’s done it, even you.”

Sebastiano hadn’t. Ever. Not for six years anyway. Not since he decided to get control of his life, stop drowning his guilt in vodka and join Alcoholics Anonymous. It hadn’t solved all his problems, but it allowed him to wake each morning and face each new day and do the best he could. In fact, hadn’t he just explained yesterday in his office to Julie Antonelli that he worked daily to do what was right by the hospital? Sebastian blinked, startled at where his line of thinking had unintentionally wandered. Julie Antonelli? Suddenly insinuating herself into his very thoughts?

THAT SAME MORNING, Julie headed to Fine Threads, Grantham’s premier knitting and needlepoint shop. After poking around the piles of needlepoint canvases spilling over the table in the center of the store, she approached the cash register with one she’d chosen. “I saw you had a trunk show, so I decided to come in.”

Caroline, the owner, held up the printed canvas. “It so looks like something you would do, Julie. I can see all your different stitches on the flowers and along the geometric border.”

Julie rested an elbow on the gray granite bench surface and admired the pattern on the canvas. “I really liked the Hungarian peasantry feel to it. And after getting the twenty-percent-off coupon, I couldn’t resist.”

Caroline, a thin middle-aged woman with short gray curly hair and the placid demeanor of a seasoned kindergarten teacher, beamed. “You got the coupon? That means it’s your birthday this month! Congratulations! When is it?”

“Oh, I have days to go.” Julie waved off her enthusiasm. “Besides, I’m at the stage where I try to ignore birthdays.” Actually, Julie had made a point of ignoring her birthday since she was twenty.

Caroline shook her head. “You’ve got a long way to go before you get to that stage. Anyhow, do you want to pick up the needlepoint thread, too? It’s twenty percent off the entire purchase, you know.”

“I’m not sure what I need, but maybe I’ll just take another peek at the pile?”

“Take your time. And you know what? I was going to call you. I just put together your latest pillow, and I’ve got it downstairs. I’ll just go look.” Caroline headed down to the storage area.

Julie wandered over to the display. Neat rows of needle point threads in silks and wool, some shot with glittery strands, covered the walls. Jars of buttons, knitting needles and books rounded out a cozy seating area, where knitters of all ages gathered together.

Julie liked the shop and Caroline immensely. In fact, she sometimes thought of Fine Threads as her little club. When she wasn’t working or thinking about work, she was most likely curled up in an armchair in her apartment with the television tuned to some sports channel, while she compulsively needlepointed.

The bell over the front door chimed, signaling a new customer. Julie glanced around. Her heart sank. Not again.

“Julie, my dear, fancy meeting you here. And to think I was just about to get in touch.” Iris Phox entered the small shop, preceded by a well-loved L.L. Bean canvas carryall and her oversize confidence.

“Mrs. Phox. How nice to see you, too,” Julie said. Maybe she’d just forego collecting her pillow.

“Here you are, Julie,” Caroline announced, mounting the stairs to the checkout counter. She carried a blue Fine Threads bag with a sausage-shaped pillow peeking out from one side. “It looks fabulous.”

“Oh, I must see.” Iris undid the belt and buttons of her Burberry raincoat.

Caroline removed the pillow from the bag and unwrapped the plastic covering. “Isn’t it magnificent. I love the way you mixed in beads and buttons with the needlepoint. And the idea to roll the canvas into a bolster pillow was brilliant.”

Julie looked over Iris’s formidable shoulder. The large patchwork of scrolls and hibiscus flowers in a mixture of warm yellows, oranges and brick-reds, coupled with the light greens and beige and pale yellow background, had come out nicely, even she had to admit it.

“Yes, the shape is quite clever.” Iris squinted. “Whatever made you think of doing that?”

“My grandmother has been complaining that her lower back hurts, and I thought it would provide some support when she’s sitting down.”

Iris ran a boney index finger over the loopy stitches with beads attached that formed the anther tips of the flowers’ stamen stalks. “Yes, very clever. Indeed, you’re just the person to help me.” Iris marched back to her carryall that she’d left on the high worktable in the center of the shop.

“I am?” Julie asked, looking warily at Caroline before turning to Iris.

“Yes, indeed.” Iris pulled a giant canvas from her bag. “I’m making a Christmas stocking for my granddaughter Natalie—the start of a family tradition—and I am having trouble with Santa’s beard. According to the instructions, it’s supposed to be something called Turkey Work, but I am completely baffled. Clearly, the instructions were not written by an educated person.”

There was much to be learned from a person like Iris, Julie realized. Here was someone who felt no compunction about blaming others for her own failings. She, on the other hand, assumed she was responsible for any and all failures.

And she would have liked to tell her so, but she decided instead to be nice—as hard as that was. She had already messed things up yesterday, and Iris was too powerful a figure in Grantham to risk further alienation. “I don’t know if I can help very much, but let me try,” she said with the correct amount of humility. “Turkey Work is one of those stitches that I seem to have to reteach myself every time I do it, using the big black stitch guide that Caroline carries here in the shop.”

Iris raised an eyebrow at Caroline, who immediately grabbed a copy from the store bookshelf.

The doorbell jingled again and a group of women came in. They carried bulging bags and were laughing. Then two more women came in. Julie smiled as they all walked by and headed downstairs to the lower level where the classes met.

“That’s my afghan knitting group,” Caroline announced. “If you and Mrs. Phox are all right up here, I’ll leave you?”

“No problem.” Julie flipped open the book and found the right page. She placed it on the center island and looked at Iris.

“Just a moment, please.” Iris reached into her leather purse and extracted a pair of tortoiseshell reading glasses. The necessity of pleasing a granddaughter apparently won out over vanity. Then she passed over the canvas printed with a Victorian illustration of Father Christmas.

“What I tell myself when I do Turkey Work is two forward front, one back behind.” Julie demonstrated as she spoke. “Then you just need to remember to alternate the loop with the flat stitch on the front.” She glanced at Iris. “Why don’t you try?”

Iris peered closely and held up her hands. “Yes, I think I understand.” She asked Julie to repeat the mnemonic once more and pursed her mouth in concentration.

After a few more minutes of practice while Julie offered encouragement, Iris stopped, resting her work on the table. She took off her reading glasses and placed them on the needlepoint. “You’re very good at this type of thing. A good teacher. No wonder your patients speak very highly of your communication skills in addition to your expertise.”

“Thank you, that’s very generous,” Julie said. Was it possible that Iris was a nice woman after all?

“Yes, it is.”

Well, maybe not completely.

“And it’s the same generosity that spurred me to convince Dr. Fonterra that you might be allowed to make amends for your…shall we say…physical outburst yesterday?”

“I don’t know what to say.” Julie really didn’t.

“A written note of apology addressed to my home address on fine stationery is always appropriate, much preferable to email. Dr. Fonterra strikes me as someone who only reads email though. Still…” Iris let the single syllable hang in the air.

“Still?” Julie asked.

Iris smiled serenely.

Julie spotted trouble immediately.

“Still, even the most finely penned apologies don’t totally address the problem.”

“The problem? Oh, you mean my breaking the vase. I’m happy to reimburse the board, if that would help.”

“Yes, there is that. Might I suggest, shall we say, a nice contribution to the new hospital fund?” Iris named a figure that easily equaled the monthly mortgage payment on Julie’s condo.

Julie worked hard to keep her jaw from scraping the floor.

Iris slipped the needle through the webbing in her canvas and folded the piece deliberately. “But I think we’re talking about more than money.”

“We are?”

“Dr. Fonterra pointed out to me—and very wisely, indeed—sometimes one’s strength is also one’s weakness.”

“And did he mention what mine was?”

“Your passion,” Iris answered.

Julie felt a wholly uncalled-for flutter in her stomach. “He used that exact word?”

“Actually, that was my word. His was perhaps better left unsaid.”

The flutter turned to a knot.

“Nonetheless, it was clear that the best way to establish a better working relationship and to demonstrate remorse for the destruction of a valuable gift, accidental as it might have been, would be to demonstrate your appreciation of his way of thinking.”

Why did Julie get the feeling she was being painted into a corner by a master, a master whose clout at the hospital was second to none, who just happened to be the mother-in-law of a close friend and who could easily drop a negative word here and there about her father’s garage, thus causing his business to dry up faster than a day-old prune?

“And what exactly did you have in mind?” Julie asked, trying to tamp down her anger.

Iris paused dramatically, placing her hand to her throat. “Let me see. The issue becomes what type of activity would harness that passion of yours in a social context yet still foster your wonderful interactive skills.”

Julie didn’t buy Iris’s putting on her thinking cap one whit. Then she saw the older woman dig into her sewing bag and pull out a pamphlet.

“As I said, we need to focus that keen mind of yours onto something other than medicine, thereby allowing you to take pleasure in the world around you and mitigate outbursts due to a singular focus on work, which transforms it into a strain rather than a calling.” She said all of that in one magisterial breath before slapping the pamphlet on the white work surface.

Julie furrowed her brow. “Grantham Adult Education School? I’m not sure how that is going to mitigate or curtail or…to do whatever it is I’m supposed to be addressing.”

Iris sat up extra straight. “Never doubt the power of learning.” She flipped open the cover and read out loud from the introduction. “‘Above all, we at the Adult School believe that education does not end with a diploma. Hence, our motto—Education: the Wellspring of Life.’”

“That’s very commendable,” Julie agreed. And totally predictable, she realized in one of those ah-ha moments. Twice before, Iris had manipulated her friends Katarina and Sarah into participating in her pet project.

Iris gazed over the words. “Commendable, indeed. I know. I wrote them.” She flicked the pages to where a sheet of paper was inserted. “Do you speak Italian with your parents?” She turned her head.

“Why, yes.”

“I recommend the advanced Italian conversation class then.”

Julie leaned forward and read the description. “And you really think this is the best way to say I’m sorry to Dr. Fonterra?” She glanced at Iris and saw the woman raise a condescending brow. Julie looked at the booklet again. “Okay,” she agreed. Then she noticed a critical bit of information. “But it says here that the class meets every Wednesday at seven-thirty for an hour and a half? What if I’m in the middle of a delivery?”

“Then you’ll deal with that when it happens, won’t you? Besides, I doubt all babies are born on Wednesday evenings. And before you offer any more excuses, may I just point out to you how adept you were at explaining to me about Turkey Work. Clearly, you are someone who shines in a classroom scenario, whether as teacher or pupil.” Iris tucked her glasses into the side of her bag and gathered up her work.

Julie scrambled to stand up, too. “But I’m not registered.”

“Don’t worry. I’ve already registered you and paid the fee. You may write a check to me and include it in the note that you will be sending me. Oh, in case you were wondering, the Adult School has a strict policy of taking attendance. And needless to say, in my capacity as head of the Adult School board, I’m always there for the first week of the semester.” Iris slipped on a pair of gloves and carefully smoothed the kidskin leather down each finger. “By the way, I recommend a generous application of powder to cover that bruise on your cheek.”

It would have been simpler just to wear a paper bag over her head. And I hope the good doctor realizes how much I am sacrificing, Julie couldn’t help thinking.

Unfortunately, when it came to Sebastiano Fonterra, that wasn’t the only thing that Julie couldn’t help thinking.

CHAPTER SEVEN

KATARINA LOOKED UP from washing the pots and pans from dinner. Only the day before yesterday her mother— Zora—had dropped back into her life after one of her periodic absences. One of those absences had included not coming back from Antarctica after Katarina had been shot in a robbery at an ATM in Oakland. In fairness, Katarina had insisted she was fine, but still…? And while Zora had made it to Katarina’s wedding, she had scheduled her departing flight in the middle of the reception. They’d barely had time to exchange pleasantries.

Needless to say, when Radko was born Katarina hadn’t even bothered to invite her mother back to Grantham to celebrate the event. Instead, she’d sent an email with all the relevant information. Her mother had mailed a little hooded sweater she’d knitted from genuine yak’s wool from a trek she’d made in Mongolia on some sponsored research grant. Unfortunately, the oils in the yarn seemed to irritate the baby’s tender skin.

Nevertheless, Katarina still harbored a sentimental notion of family. That’s why she had made dinner and invited her mother to meet her husband, Ben, her stepson, Matt, and, of course, to get better acquainted with Zora’s new grandson Rad. She should have known it was a mistake.

Rad had a slight fever and was cranky. She’d kept him up until her mother had arrived late—something about having to check the tire pressure on the pickup truck she’d rented and not being able to find a gas station with a free air pump. Who rented a pickup truck anyway? Katarina had wondered. In the end, then, her mother barely managed a pat on the baby’s bald head before Katarina put him to bed.

Perhaps Matt should have gone to bed early, too. He’d been a monosyllabic teenager over the dinner of lamb stew while Zora grilled him about a physics course. What could you expect of a teenager, overstressed from waiting to hear about college acceptances? Katarina asked herself.

But thank God for Ben. For a man who professed not to be a people person, he’d had the inspired idea to ask Zora about her work—something she had no trouble discussing, especially since Ben made sure the wineglasses were full.

Katarina wiped down the tile countertop and put away the dishcloth. She had tried to create a “normal” family with Ben and Matt and Rad, and of course, Babika, and her life really was good. She had nothing to complain about, she told herself regularly. But still, that hadn’t prevented her from feeling an emotional hole in her being.

Julie sometimes complained about her mother and father—and her scary grandmother—micromanaging her life. Katarina often wished she could voice the same complaint. She had never even known her father, nor had anyone else. Sometimes, she wasn’t even sure if her mother knew, having led what she referred to as “a liberated existence.” And except for the summers in Grantham with Babika, she had never called any place home. They had moved incessantly, as her mother pursued college, then graduate school in geology, then field studies, post-docs, and appointments at a government lab here, a university there. When Katarina had broken her elbow horsing around on the high dive board at Grantham Community Swimming Pool, Babika was the one she had called. When she’d broken up with her boyfriend in college, she’d known not to bother her mother but to call Babika, who had consoled her, telling her there were bigger fish to broil—she never could get her American sayings straight.

But tonight when she needed her most, where was her grandmother?

“Wanda and I are catching a quick bite at the Chinese restaurant around the corner before we go to our tai chi class at the Adult School,” she had said, begging off. “We can’t possibly be late to the first class. Besides, you two have a lot of catching up to do. You don’t need me.”

Katarina was thirty-three years old, and she wasn’t too proud to say she needed her grandmother, especially when it came to dealing with the mother she never really knew and certainly didn’t understand.

She heard footsteps coming down the hallway.

“Oh, there you are,” her mother said blithely as she entered the room. “I didn’t expect to find you here—the little woman in the kitchen.”

Katarina tried not to be riled by her mother’s barb. She affixed a smile. “You’re going so soon, Mom?” She saw her mother scowl. “Sorry, I mean, Zora. You’re leaving already?” Zora had on a windbreaker. A small knapsack was slung over one shoulder.

“Yes, well, the dinner was lovely.”

“I’m sorry the potatoes were a little undercooked.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. I’ve never even mastered making scrambled eggs. You can imagine my mother’s dismay.” Zora paused. “Anyway, I decided as long as I was back in Grantham for a while that I’d keep myself busy. I saw a pamphlet on the sideboard from the Adult School and noticed an entry for an Italian conversation class. It’s been years since I did field work at Vesuvius, and it’s time for a language refresher, especially since I’ll be giving a lecture at the University of Naples later this fall. I think I may have mentioned my plans to you?”

Katarina picked up the dishrag again and began wiping down the counter tiles that were perfectly clean already. “I can’t say that I remember you doing that.”

Zora awkwardly patted her daughter’s upper arm. “We’ll have other evenings, and the first class meets tonight. Luckily when I called, they still had a spot.” She fished her keys out of a side pocket of her backpack. The toggle from the rental agency hung from her hand. “I don’t want to be late then.”

Katarina realized her mother had small, almost childlike hands. But then, she was small in stature, a good three or four inches shorter than she. Strange. She had this memory of her mother being taller.

Katarina sighed. “Yes, it wouldn’t be good to be late to class. I’ll let Ben know you had to leave.” He had left earlier to take Matt back to school to work on editing the school newspaper.

“Thank you. He’s a lovely man. You’ve done quite well for yourself. Ben, Matt, the baby. This house. I’m glad to see you’re settled so nicely.” She squeezed out a smile.

“Settled so nicely. That’s a funny expression coming from you,” Katarina said. Then because she didn’t want to pick a fight, she leaned in and gave her mother a quick hug. For a moment, she felt the other woman melt into her embrace. The moment passed. Katarina stepped back.

So much for trying to create the happy “normal” family. Maybe she’d give Julie a call and find out just who in her family was bugging her now?

ZORA DROVE THE DARK winding road from Katarina’s house back to town. She gripped the wheel tightly. She’d driven a pickup before, but this rental model was far larger than she was used to, and she hadn’t been able to resist the appeal of its outdoorsy, independent image. She sank her teeth into her upper lip and squinted.

Oh, who was she kidding? It wasn’t the driving that had her on edge. She was anxious about coming back to Grantham, to her mother. To her daughter.

So why had she come home?

Guilt for one. How long had it been? About a year? Not that bad, really. No, it was a different kind of guilt that gnawed at her. Despite all her university appointments, prestigious research grants, the accolades from her colleagues, Zora felt restless, unsettled. She found herself searching for a sense of inner peace in her life that she had never really needed before.

Okay, so she was having a midlife crisis. Somehow, she had hoped coming back to Grantham would provide a certain ease that came with the familiar. Yet despite the outpouring of love from her mother, Zora couldn’t help noticing the ever-present vertical crease that bisected her brow. Then there was Katarina, her daughter. She never said a critical word, but Zora could feel the resentment bubbling beneath the surface. And she could also see the strong bond between Katarina and Lena. If anything, they seemed to share what would be a classic mother-daughter relationship, which of course, meant Zora was the odd man—or woman in this case—left out of the equation. That hurt. Not that she’d ever admit it. Or should she?

But then she could imagine their retort.

“What do you expect if you spend more time with rocks than with your own daughter, not that I am not proud of you,” her mother would say, damning her with faint praise.

“It’s not personal,” Katarina, ever the pragmatic survivor would reply. “It’s just that she was there and you weren’t.”

They needed to have a heart-to-heart even if Zora didn’t do heart-to-hearts. Too much emphasis on past decisions that couldn’t be changed anyway. Too many recriminations for old offences that were best forgotten. Still, she should talk to her mom. Her daughter. And she would. She really would. Just…just…not right now.

Now she just wanted to take it easy. Find pleasure in just being. Regain that sense of confidence that had always come so naturally, but now seemed to have given way to doubts and unnamed desires.

Zora parked the truck on the street near the high school and grabbed her knapsack. She hiked the short distance to the school, passing along the familiar tree-lined sidewalk, the football field and tennis courts. The building had changed since her day. Heck, a lot had changed. Her daughter was married and had a son. And a stepson. God, that made her a grandmother twice over. No wonder she was depressed. Then her mother had gone and gotten a roommate—her old high school math teacher Wanda Garrity, no less. When she came down late to breakfast in the morning, Zora had almost expected to find a detention notice.

She headed toward the main entrance of the original brick building with its Gothic tower. The course listing gave a second-floor room number, and Zora honed in on a stairway down the hall and to the left. The hallways were teeming with adults, some chatting, some seemingly lost. A few officials from the program and what looked to be students from the high school were there to give directions. She spotted the familiar face of an imperious older woman at the central crossroads. It had to be Iris Phox. Great! Another person from her past she’d just as soon forget. She had always felt the woman looked at Grantham as her personal fiefdom.

“I can’t stand her. She’s such an elitist snob,” Zora had announced one day when she’d stopped by her mother’s hardware store after high school. She had just witnessed Iris Phox lecturing Lena on the inferior quality of the hot water bottles she was now carrying.

Zora would have gladly told the woman where she could put her water bottle, if Lena hadn’t shot her a warning glance. She waited until Iris had glided out the door like the Queen Mother—she even carried a pocketbook over her wrist the same way—before turning to her mother. “I can’t stand her. The way she treats you like a peasant.”

“That’s just her way. Besides, we should all be grateful to her,” Lena had argued. “Most rich people keep all their money to themselves. Iris gives away to people who need. And that makes her feel needed, too.”

Zora, with the black-and-white perception of the world that only an eighteen-year-old could bring, had shaken her head defiantly. “And if she gives away money, it’s because she likes to control people.”

“Sometimes that’s the same as being needed,” Lena had said with a shrug of her shoulder before turning to serve the next customer.

And now Iris Phox was approaching her. Zora tried to pretend she didn’t see her making a beeline in her direction and tucked her chin down into her coat. She swerved to the right toward the stairway.

“Zora! Zora Zemanova!” Iris called out. Her high brow tones carried above the anxious din of the crowd.

Zora stopped. There was no point in pretending she hadn’t heard. She turned around and only marginally masked her irritation. “Mrs. Phox, a voice out of my past, a voice that one might say carries an unmistakable quality.”

Iris pursed her lips. “Yes, my son Hunt once said I sounded like a Boston Brahman foghorn, which I always took as a mixed compliment.”

Zora smirked. She never really knew Iris’s son, but she had a newly found regard for him.

“I see you’re taking advanced Italian conversation,” Iris went on.

Zora raised her eyebrows. “You memorized all the class lists?” She saw the sheaf of papers stacked neatly atop the folder in Iris’s arms.

“I am the president of the Adult School, you know.”

“No, I didn’t, but why would I have thought otherwise,” Zora said.

If Iris had felt the criticism in Zora’s words, she didn’t show it. “I wanted to welcome you back to Grantham and commend you on your choice. It’s been one of the more popular offerings over the years, one we’re quite proud of. In fact, I personally recommended that Julie Antonelli enroll in it. You know Dr. Antonelli, of course? I believe that besides your dear mother, her family practically raised your daughter, Katarina, over the years?”

She had felt the criticism, Zora realized, feeling the sharp blade of Iris’s words. “I’m forever grateful to them,” Zora responded, knowing when she had been bested.

“Yes, well, it’s always good to see one of our own return. Here in Grantham, we like to think our little town has much to offer in the way of scholarly stimulation as well as personal guidance.”

“A little bastion of academic exclusivity to nurture the soul?”

“I prefer to think of it as intellectual chicken soup for the heart.”

Zora wasn’t sure if Iris had just made a joke. She wasn’t really sure if Iris Phox even had a sense of humor.

“But don’t let me keep you from your class,” Iris said before Zora had a chance to make up her mind. “Do you need my help to find where you’re going?”

Zora shook her head. “No thank you. I’m sure there’re others who need more guidance.”

Iris studied her. “You’d be surprised.” Then she dismissed Zora with a serene nod and honed in on a lost-looking man.

Talk about judgmental! Zora fumed. But she pushed thoughts of Iris to the back of her mind as she headed up the stairs to the second floor of the school. She checked out the numbers above the doors, until she found the right one. She pushed open the door and entered a world in which she felt entirely comfortable.

During the day it must have served as a Spanish classroom because there were posters of Machu Picchu and a map of Spain.

Zora maneuvered her way down the first aisle, nodding at her fellow students in the front-row seats. They seemed to be mostly women over fifty, casually but well dressed in cashmere turtleneck sweaters. Zora clutched at the open neck of her green anorak. Underneath she wore an oversize men’s button-down Oxford cloth shirt, its sleeves rolled up. It was still wrinkled from her duffel bag, and ironing was something she avoided at all costs.

Everyone seemed to be talking loudly, mostly in American-accented Italian, though she thought she detected some other native inflections like Spanish and French.

Then she saw a face that she recognized. Julie Antonelli, Katarina’s old childhood friend whom she’d seen only the day before yesterday at Babika’s. She was slouched down in a seat toward the back of the room and seemed intent on texting or checking email on her phone. Iris may have recommended the class to her, but it didn’t appear that she had embraced the learning experience with much enthusiasm.

Maybe she was worried about her language skills? Good, thought Zora, ever the competitor. Julie—and the entire Antonelli family, for that matter—might know more about her daughter’s secrets, but Zora was sure she could surpass her in the classroom. Zora’s Italian might be a little rusty, but she doubted the good doctor had spent a sabbatical stay in Italy like she had. And she marched to the back of the room, no need of anyone’s guidance at all, thank you very much.

JULIE SLUMPED IN the seat at the back of the class. Rubbing her forehead with her index finger, she glanced without much interest around the room. A dusty-looking piñata hung from the ceiling in one corner.

Her phone vibrated in the pocket of her jacket and she instantly liberated it, hoping against hope that some emergency needed her attention desperately. She glanced at the message. It was from Katarina, wondering who in her family was bugging her now.

Julie texted back.

The family’s at bay, but I’m at an Adult School class. Iris Phox’s idea. Could you have guessed?

She grinned and wished she’d felt happy instead of irritated at being railroaded into being there—all because of some stupid vase, and…all right…her impetuous behavior. Still, if Sebastiano Fonterra had been a more reasonable person instead of…instead of…frustratingly…ooh! She wanted to scream. How could someone be so pigheaded and so attractive at the same time?

It wasn’t fair. Life wasn’t fair. Why else had she been forced to go back to Grantham High School of all places? Unless you’re the prom queen, who really wanted to go back to high school. She growled, and this time didn’t bother to keep it inside.

“I’m sorry. Is this seat taken?” a woman asked.

Julie looked up. Speak of the devil. No, not Sebastiano Fonterra, but Katarina’s mother, of all people. Julie straightened. “Zora, right?” She held her hand out to the empty seat, trying to be friendly, or at least her best imitation of friendliness.

“That’s right. We saw each other at my mother’s house.” Zora took a stack of three-by-five cards and a pen out of little pockets in her knapsack. She looked ready to attack any and all subjects.

“Well, it’s nice to recognize a face,” Julie said. “Everyone else seems to know each other, not to mention belong to another world. Take the woman over there.” She nodded toward an older woman dressed in pressed designer jeans. Her frosted hair was set off by mega-carat diamond stud earrings. “She’s been going on about how sad she was to find out that George Clooney sold the villa next to hers on Lake Como. Apparently, I quote, ‘He’s so down-to-earth.’”

Zora laughed. “I can believe it. Only in Grantham.” She held out a note card. “Can I lend you something to write on?”

“That’s okay. I’m here under duress. If I really need to make any notes, I’ll enter them into my phone.” She waggled her iPhone in its black case, in keeping with her black crinkly jacket, black tank top and black pants.

The class door started to open, then stopped.

“At last, our teacher,” Julie whispered without much enthusiasm. “I gather from all the conversation that they all lo-ove her. Gabriella this. Gabriella that. They even know that she went back to see her family in Modena over the summer.”

The door opened wide.

“Unless our teacher’s had a sex change operation, I don’t think that’s Gabriella,” Julie observed. “On the other hand, if it is, it could really liven up the discussion.” She looked over at Zora, who seemed for all the world like she’d just seen a ghost.

The “regulars” started chattering away again, and Julie figured it was a false alarm. Just a late student. He looked vaguely familiar, like someone she’d seen at the dry cleaners or the supermarket—not that she had the chance to frequent the supermarket all that much.

So she stared at him, not quite placing the face and certainly not knowing the name. He was middle-aged, thin, like someone who kept himself in shape. His head was shaved, and an outline of stubble showed his red hair was starting to recede. His face was lined, not so much from laughter as from too much time in the sun, too many worries or too dissolute a lifestyle. Still, he looked pretty good for a middle-aged guy, and in his expensive leather bomber jacket—Julie pegged it for Façonnable—and faded designer jeans, he clearly had more than a passing acquaintance with high-end boutiques.

She turned to say something under her breath to Zora, but Katarina’s mother continued to appear as if she’d gone into anaphylactic shock. “Zora?” she asked, concerned.

“Zora?” Mr. Bomber Jacket asked a beat later. He stopped in the aisle and stared at Zora.

“Paul?” Zora shook her head. “I never expected to see you here.”

“I could say the same,” he said, still standing.

For an awkward moment the two just studied each other. The only movement was a whole lot of rapid blinking. Finally, Julie spoke up. “There’s a free seat over there if you want it.” She pointed to the empty desk next to Zora.

“Oh, yeah, thanks.” He swallowed and slipped into the vacant seat.

Julie stared at Zora, and when she finally looked up from straightening out her index cards and uncapping her pen, Zora acknowledged Julie’s wide-eyed inquiring expression.

“Oh, sorry. I didn’t realize you didn’t know each other. Julie Antonelli, Paul Bedecker. Paul and I went to Grantham High School together.” She held up a hand in his direction.

Paul waved a discreet hello. “That’s right. Zora and I also went to Cornell together for a while.”

“Before I transferred to Rutgers after my freshman year,” she said, setting the record straight.

Another tense beat of silence followed.

“If you’re Paul Bedecker, is that like Bedecker’s Garden Center?” Julie asked, narrowing her eyes as she dredged up distant memories. “My dad always bought his tomato plants there, and I think you used to help out at the nursery a long time ago.”

“That’s right. I remember you now. Tall, skinny kid. Your father used to call you Giuli—”

The door opened with a start, catching Paul mid-word.

“Buona sera, tutti. Scusatemi per essere in ritardo. Sono il vostro supplente.”

There was a barely stifled collective groan from the in-crowd at the news. A substitute teacher!

Julie slumped as low as possible in her chair and covered her face with her hand.

It was Sebastiano Fonterra.

CHAPTER EIGHT

AT THE SOUND OF the muffled groans, Sebastiano doubted yet again the wisdom of his agreeing to teach the class. Perhaps agreeing was not really the appropriate word. Railroaded. Yes, railroaded. He liked the sound of that. The image was almost—not quite—as painful as what he was experiencing now.

One thing was for sure. Iris Phox owed him big-time.

“Hello, everyone,” he started again and reintroduced himself, this time in English, hoping against hope that this language would bring him a better response. “I’m Sebastiano Fonterra, and I will be substituting for Gabriella. I know you all were expecting to have her as your teacher, but unfortunately at the last minute she had to return to Italy because her father needed to have emergency heart surgery.”

Immediately there were gasps.

“Is he all right?” “Do you have an address?” “Will she be checking her email?” “When will she be able to return?” “Soon?”

Not soon enough, Sebastiano thought. He forced a smile. “I don’t have all the details, and I don’t personally know Gabriella except through email. I’m just jumping in at the last minute as a favor to the Adult School, and I presume she will be able to come back in a matter of weeks.”

This last remark elicited an audible sigh.

“In the meantime, she explained the scope of the class, and how she normally emails around an article from the Corriere della Sera or another Italian newspaper, and then uses that as a starting point for discussion. She was kind enough to suggest an article for the first class, which I photocopied and brought with me.” He slid his briefcase on top of the teacher’s desk and unbuckled it.

He’d come directly from the office, having eaten half a plastic-wrapped turkey sandwich from the cafeteria at his desk. He couldn’t make it through the second half. He still wore a suit and tie, which he now realized was much too formal. The few men seated in the front seemed to favor khaki pants and sweaters. In the back? He couldn’t be sure but he thought he caught sight of Paul or at least his leather jacket.

He lifted the lid of his briefcase and fished out the material. “So, my thought was that I would pass around a pad and pen. You can sign your names and give me your email addresses.” He leaned forward and passed them to the woman in the front row. “I also have the handouts, and I thought we could pass those around at the same time.” Sebastiano circled the desk and gave the sheets to another woman.

“Grazie,” she said, thanking him, with a confident American accent. She had a gravelly voice.

“And lastly, I have here a class list that I’ll read off, so I can see who’s here and also put some names to faces. But since you all are so busy writing, why don’t I first tell you a little about myself? In italiano addesso?” he asked, switching to Italian.

He undid the button of his gray suit jacket and swung one leg over the desk, propping himself up on the corner. “Mi chiamo Sebastiano Fonterra. Sono medico ed administratore dell’ospedale.” Sebastiano explained he was a doctor and hospital administrator.

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