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“Rosa?” I hear Mama calling from her room. She gave me that nickname when I planted my first rose. I was eight, and I remember that blooming red beauty.
Mama meets me in the living room, asking about the noise earlier. “Che cosa è stato?”
“Nothing,” I say. The attempted theft is something that we can discuss tomorrow morning.
Paola Scifoni glances at Rob, and then angles her face to me. “You came home with a different man, no?”
Why didn’t she tell me that in Italian? Because she wanted Rob to know, of course. “Mama, why don’t you go back to bed?”
Rob’s gaze discreetly ping-pongs between me and Mama. My mom had me when she was forty-seven. She always says I’m a miracle, my sweet mother. I’m now twenty-four, and inevitably people sometimes think Mama is my grandma. And I’m sure the gentleman I’ve brought home is thinking that too. The way his eyes bulge out when I said ‘Mama’ is gold!
“Mrs. Cannizzaro, I’m Rob Hartley.” He says my new last name perfectly. If only…
Mama stares at him, and then lets out a hearty laugh. “The last time I was called that, I was still a virgin.”
“Mama!” I gape, but inside I’m laughing as loudly as she is. Witnessing Rob’s blushing face makes me forget about my dreadful decision to date that con man whose name I shall not speak again.
“I’m sorry,” Rob says.
“Just call me Paola.” Mama changed her Scifoni surname back to Cannizzaro for me—which my Papa in heaven would probably chuckle over. Outnumbered by us girls, he was used to giving in to our every whim.
People around here call Mama by her first name (no one calls her Mrs. Cannizzaro except the bank people), but she never mentioned to anyone that it was her maiden name—for good reasons.
“I’ll get you a drink, Rob,” she says.
“Do sit down,” I say, still feeling jolly.
My mother serves him a glass of Chianti.
“Mama, Rob is driving.” I know the man is probably capable of handling a car after just one glass of wine—but this late, and looking at his bloodshot eyes, I don’t think it’s a good idea.
“Oh… would you like coffee, then?”
“Actually, yes,” Rob says. “Coffee would be great.” He gives Mama a polite thanks, which sends her into a smiling frenzy.
A date that ends with a simple no doesn’t leave me wallowing in sorrow. But tonight, it was more than rejection. I was robbed and humiliated. Now that Rob is here, I give myself permission to take advantage of his presence. It’s not every day a man like him drops into my life—probably never again. A few hours with him should be enough to help put my dating fiasco behind me, and then I’ll get on with my life. I can’t hope for anything more.
I take a seat next to him, allowing myself to indulge in his company.
“Well, Rob…” I say, looking at the sad teddy, and then at him. God must’ve been very happy when He created this man. White-hot masculinity combined with a dangerously sumptuous face, Rob Hartley is a masterpiece born to bring women to their knees.
“It’s real bad, isn’t it?” His voice is soft, nervous.
And to complete him, God gave him just a small sprinkle of vulnerability—enough to make you believe that he’s not out of reach, despite his perfection.
“Is it yours?” I don’t know what I’d think if he said yes.
“No. It belongs to a boy. His name is Matthew.”
“How old is he?”
“Six.”
Why didn’t he just say it was his son? This man is in his early thirties, I’m guessing, so a six-year-old could very well be his son. Or maybe Matthew is just a boy who’s close to him. But his desperation is no less than that of a parent. If you’re not the father, why would you come to a stranger’s house, a woman’s, this late at night?
“Do you have his missing arm?”
“Yeah.” He produces a bag and pulls out a teddy arm with wood shavings coming out of it.
