She didn’t know the word, but she caught the meaning from the question in his eyes. “Berkwith. B-e-r-k-w-i-t-h.”
He held out the journal and a pen, and she wrote it down for him.
A pat on her leg surprised her. Doctor Old-But-Still-Interested had finished taping up her toe, and she hadn’t even felt it, she was so caught up in Vitale’s conversation. Or in the man, if she dared admit that.
She reached for her purse, but the doctor waved it away and said something she didn’t understand. In her head she translated it as, “No, no. You are such a ripe and luscious woman, it was my pleasure to tape your toe merely to have the opportunity to fondle your shapely legs.”
Vitale’s voice vacillated between stern and forceful to mellow and cajoling, and if hand gestures meant the same as in the States, he told the person on the other end to let his fingers do the walking through a tornado. Twice.
The doctor pointed to her and to the single crutch he’d brought with him. She made a couple of laps around the tiny room to satisfy him. The crutch bore the bulk of the weight on that foot, but she could still touch it down, so she didn’t lose her balance. This was going to be okay. She should be able to do plenty of sightseeing, and the whole vacation wasn’t going to be a bust after all.
“Grazie, grazie mille.” She shook the doctor’s hand warmly.
“Prego.” He patted her hand and responded with something that probably meant, “When you decide you want to bed that Italian Hettie talked about, give me a call.”
At least she wasn’t invisible to him, though, and for that she was grateful. She wasn’t invisible to Vitale either, but it wasn’t lost on her that Vitale was taking care of her the same way she took care of Hettie.
The congenial doctor said his “Arrivederci” and headed out as the hotel manager flitted in again, bringing two more ice cubes for her toe. Ice must be a precious commodity, and she gave them a once-over to see if they were being recycled from left-over drinks from the bar. The faint telltale lemon scent had her worried.
“Mr. Moretti.” She wanted to catch him before he made another round to the bar. “I’d like to stay here a few more days. Would it be possible to keep this room? Or I can move to another if this one is booked?”
He looked at her like she’d asked for the impossible—like more ice. “Aaiee, signora, the room, she is reserved. All the rooms, they are reserved for two week.”
“All of them? You have no rooms available?”
“No, signora. The tour arrive tomorrow.”
“Tour?”
“Sì. The tour come each July.”
“So, I can’t stay here.” That would put Monterosso back in the plans. Oh crap! “Vitale!”
But he was already hanging up the phone, and the smug smile on his face said it all. “You have no reservation, Julietta, and you pay no money.”
“Well, you got that right.” She inwardly cringed when his smile broadened. Gotta quit using sarcasm around this guy. No way was she going to ask him to call and try to get the reservation again. She tossed the crutch on the bed and plopped down beside it.
“Julietta, you are not happy?” Vitale moved over in front of her, looking down at her with soulful eyes. Damn gorgeous soulful eyes.
This guy could never lie and get away with it. He gave everything away with his face. She thought briefly of Frank’s poker face but shoved it out of her mind.
“Vitale, I appreciate everything you’ve done. Really.” She leaned her weight against one arm and ran the other hand through the hair at the top of her head. “But Mr. Moretti says I can’t stay here, and we just canceled my reservation in Monterosso, and my toe is broken so I can’t hike the Cinque Terre, so I’m thinking I need to cut my losses and go on to Pisa or someplace where I can work.”
Vitale swung his gaze around to Mr. Moretti, and Julia watched it harden.
“Is this true?” he demanded.
“Sì, Vitale.”
And then came a flurry of words such as she’d never heard before. She wouldn’t call it an exchange—one didn’t wait for the other to finish. Instead, they talked at the same time, spoke over each other, gestured wildly. Faces reddened, voices rose, and Julia watched . . . fascinated.
It ended when Mr. Moretti stormed out of the room, still talking.
She stood up and limped awkwardly toward Vitale with no idea who had won . . . but he didn’t look happy. She reached out to pat his arm in a friendly gesture, but he caught her hand, and she caught her breath.
“No rooms.” He squeezed her hand gently, and she had to force herself to quit watching his mouth and listen to his words. “But I find you the place to stay.”
“No, you don’t need to do that.” She jerked her hand away, feeling silly at the excitement his touch roused in her. “I know I blamed you earlier, but I was just upset. It wasn’t your fault. I should have been watching where I was going.”
“I want to do.”
“Why? You don’t even know me.” She squared her shoulders, preparing to take the blow when he said she reminded him of his mother—or worse.
“Because you work hard.” His fingers skimmed lightly down her arm, causing her to reach across and clutch the crutch with both hands for grounding. “You come to Italy. To Lerici. You cannot hike, but you can enjoy. You want to be here. It make you happy.”
“Happy?” Sarcasm crept back into her tone. “My whole vacation has fallen apart, and you think I’m happy?”
“You are happy. The body, she say happy.”
“How in heaven’s name do you get ‘happy’ out of my limping around the room on a crutch?” She threw the words out like a challenge.
“The finger . . . sometime the toe.” He nodded to her hand resting on her hip. “She dance to the music inside you. On the table when you eat. On the chair by the pool when you rest.” He pointed to the imprint in the comforter where she’d been sitting. “On the bed.”
His answer stunned her. To battle the depression after her cancer diagnosis and the ensuing divorce, her therapist encouraged her to use music as therapy—make playlists of songs that made her happy—to keep her mind occupied with something other than fear. She’d never realized she tapped the rhythm unconsciously.
But Vitale noticed?
That was actually kind of nice. “But . . .” It still didn’t make sense for a perfect stranger to go to this much trouble, dancing finger notwithstanding.
“No but.”
He touched his finger to her lip, and she fought the sudden urge to draw it into her mouth and suck on it. Her brain shouted at her to stop that line of thinking, but other parts of her body seemed to have a mind of their own.
“I want to do it, so I do it. I leave now to finish the work. But I find you the place to stay. I come tomorrow morning to take you there.”
“Well, here.” She grabbed her journal from the table. “The hotels where I have reservations in Florence and Rome are here.” She copied the listings from the first two pages and handed him the paper. “Maybe one of them will have a room available, and I’ll just spend more time there.”
He looked as though he was about to comment, but then he stuffed the paper into his pocket and walked out, head held high, reminding her of stories of demigods in Roman mythology.
Poor mortal women. Never stood a chance.
* * *
Julia needed fresh air.
She needed to check in with