Maybe Hazel didn’t like him. She’d left that room so fast after she’d practically given him an electric shock. Either way, she made his head spin. What was he doing here? Was he getting any better? No. It didn’t seem like he was going to find a job to distract himself either. Atillio had told him that Hazel was the only person in town looking for an English speaking contractor. No one else had any use for someone who couldn’t speak Italian. And Hazel clearly didn’t want him.

Hazel wasn’t his only worry. Why had Adam suddenly backed off on the pressure yesterday? Would he go behind his back with the director? And Isabella, was she over him? And more to the point, did he care if Isabella was over him? Was it over between them? He knew if Hazel were to give him the slightest indication she was interested in him that he would swoon all over her like groupies swooned over him. There was just something about her. She seemed to be just about the realest person he had ever met in his life.

“Just because you don’t have a job doesn’t mean you don’t have to work… here!” Stella shoved a grocery list into his hand. “No use moping here all the day. You help me.”

He stared at the list. Did he have the energy to go downtown?

“Hello? Dean!” Stella was clicking her fingers in front of his eyes and shoving him out of the chair with her other hand. “Outside… go!”

He laughed and took her list. “Okay, Stella. I’m off. Maybe I’ll stop in to see Atillio as well. Any, you know, ‘message’ you want me to pass on?” He winked at her and was rewarded with her lovely blush.

“You’re a bad man, now get out of my kitchen.” Stella turned back to her cooking.

* * *

It was market day, and the streets were packed with people. Row upon row of stalls crowded the edges of Via Bottega selling fruit, clothes, salami, cheeses, shoes and more. He squeezed into the narrow aisles between the stalls and wandered along slowly. A few odd stares and some heated whispering alerted Dean to the fact that there were folks in Borgotaro from further afield today. His presence in the town had caused a few days of ruckus, but now he’d become one of the crowd. Folks called out, “Ciao!” and gave him friendly pats on the shoulder as he passed through the busy aisles. A few even stopped to attempt chit-chat, even though his Italian was appalling. Because this was a tourist town, most of the residents had a smattering of English. He had it in mind that he would look for a gift for Isabella today. He was feeling guilty about his undeniable attraction to Hazel. He had always brought Isabella gifts, so perhaps the normality of the gesture might ease his anxiety a little. He’d once surprised Isabella with a silk scarf he’d seen in an antique market. It had a kind of old Hollywood elegance that you didn’t find in women’s clothing anymore. As soon as he’d spotted it, he had imagined it on her. Come to think of it. He’d never seen her wear it? How had he missed that? She hadn’t worn it once.

He stopped at a stall filled with tablecloths and flashed back to yesterday with Hazel. When he snatched that biscotti, he’d known he was dripping crumbs onto her tablecloth, and he had known it would drive her crazy. Her type A personality brought out the playful side of him. It was fun to challenge her a little. And he liked to fluster her even more. Laid out on the stall in front of him was a beautiful, classic, red and white checkered, linen cloth. The vendor saw him fingering the fabric and reached over to spread it out further. It was humongous. A picnic cloth for sure. He imagined it spread on some soft grass somewhere under a setting sun, it was big enough for two if they lay close together. He nodded to the vendor who folded it into a bag.

“Thirty Euros, please.”

Dean handed over the cash. Hazel would love it.

* * *

He took a shortcut through a side street and headed to Via Bellinzona, the main thoroughfare. He wanted to talk to Atillio, and he was pretty sure he knew where to find him.

“Mr. Movie Star. Hello!” called a loud voice from Gio’s bar and restaurant. It was Gio himself, of course, seated at a table on the sidewalk patio with Atillio, a glass of red wine in front of each of them. Gio wore a server’s apron over his t-shirt, but it was spotlessly clean. His role seemed to be more of a drinking companion than a server. But, Gio was one of the beloved permanent fixtures of Via Nazionale, and even with his relentless teasing, Dean already loved him.

“Dean, come and share a drink!” Atillio said.

“Posso (may I)?” Dean asked, as he picked up an empty chair from a nearby table crowded with old men and moved it to sit next to Atillio.

“Get the movie star a drink!” Gio called out loudly. Suddenly there was a glass of wine in front of him.

He swirled the rich red in the glass and smiled, he couldn’t understand the chatter around him, but it didn’t matter. The hum of conversation and clink of glasses on the patio tables under the warming sun on this ancient street was soothing. Next to him, an old man started to sing, probably a folk song of some kind, and the men at the surrounding tables all joined in, even harmonizing like a choir. This was the life.

He waited until the song had wound down and the buzz of conversation began again before turning to Attilio.

“I didn’t get the job.”

Atillio winked at Gio, who reached into his pocket and withdrew a Euro, slamming it onto the table. They both burst out in fits of laughter. “You need to persuade that lady to come down to the town with you; soften her up a little,” Atillio said.

“Ha! I can’t persuade that lady of anything. She hates me.” He stared gloomily into the bottom of his glass.

“The lady doesn’t hate you. Her head and heart she left in America. Only an empty body is in Borgotaro. If she doesn’t leave the house, she will never find her head or her heart. She needs to let Borgotaro help her.”

Dean decided right then that Atillio was some sort of Oracle, full of wisdom. He looked down the street at the people wandering. Not one of them looked stressed. They all were just going about their daily Monday activities as though they had all the time in the world. Sure, there were those that were working today, but right now they would probably be at home eating with their families. After they worked in the afternoon they would wander downtown for an apperitivo. Then they’d stroll up and down Via Nationale until they had worked up an appetite for their evening meal. Then the Borgoterese would either go home to share a meal at a huge table with the entire family, or they would wander into one of the many restaurants in town and while away the evening with food and wine. He compared this to the rushed, individualistic life in LA and he felt a little broken. Italians knew how to do life right, and they were teaching him how not to be broken. Hazel needed the same cure.

Stella would kill him if he weren’t back at the house in time for lunch, so he finished his wine, tried to hand Atillio some Euros which he waved away, and rushed over to the forno for the focaccia. He had picked up the rest of what she needed at the market. In a moment of spontaneity, he also grabbed a huge bunch of wildflowers for Sara. She had been looking pretty down lately, and she needed cheering up.

Waving to the old men lounging at Gio’s, he headed out of Via Nationale. As usual, he crossed the street in front of the old hotel. A feeling of wistfulness crept over him as he made his way up the stones steps to the empty hotel patio and peeked in through the grimy windows. This place was calling out for some loving. He could just make out the majestic soaring ceilings of the space on the other side of the window. A massive oak bar, it’s size and grandeur imposing, stood against the left-hand wall, and dusty chandeliers hung over the large room.

He imagined tables with crystal and roses and delicate china plates. He felt a pang of sympathy for this neglected old place. Ever since Stella had started him thinking about his carpenter past, he’d found his hands itching to get into a project. That’s why the idea of working with Hazel had excited him; at least he had convinced himself that was the reason. Now he wondered who owned this grand, old dame of a building and decided to ask Atillio. Maybe the owner had plans to renovate soon. Maybe he could offer his assistance. He turned reluctantly from his fantasies, crossed to Via Bellinzona and began to climb the hill. The sun pounded on his head, and he stopped to catch his breath after only the fourth house. Old Mr. Parala passed him, and he felt a bit embarrassed. He started his climb again. Sara had told him that Mr. Parala was 91 years-old, and here he was flying by Dean on the steep hill.

He’d just decided that when he got back to the townhouse a nap was in order when he heard a commotion from a house up ahead. Was that Hazel’s house? Yep, there was Hazel’s voice. He heard her curse loudly, he’d never heard her curse before, and there was a male voice protesting loudly, as well as the occasional scream of either frustration or amusement, it was hard to tell which, from the mother. What was her name? Rainbow or something? He quickened his pace and headed to the back door.

“Why did you do that?” Hazel was screaming.

“I did not a thing!” yelled the man’s voice. “I cannot take a bath?”

“Of course you can take a bath, but not on every floor, oh for goodness sake put some clothes on!”

“Ahhhhhh, aahhhh.”

“Mother, you’re not helping.”

And then he heard water dripping, no, not dripping, pouring, inside the house. He dropped his purchases on the back step and raced inside. He headed into the living room; no one was there. He hesitated briefly but then turned and headed up the steps. Maybe he was trespassing, but surely Hazel couldn’t be angry if he was coming to help.

He followed the second floor hallway, tracing the source of the screaming, to a bedroom on his right. The door was open, so he crossed through and tried to take in the chaotic scene before him.

A teenage boy, that he’d never seen before, was running around the bedroom. He was dressed only in a towel wrapped around his skinny waist (it was amazing that it was staying there) and trying to mop the floors that were swimming with water. It was everywhere. The bed was a pool of sodden bedclothes, the rugs were squishy with absorbed water, and there was more pouring rapidly through a crack in the ceiling. The mother was racing around the room screaming and trying to move items away from the water, but it was pointless.

And there, in the middle of it all, was Hazel. She was standing on her tippy toes, on a wobbling chair, pressing a blanket against the ceiling and trying to block the tsunami pouring through. It was a pointless effort , but she didn’t seem to know what else to do. Obviously she’d been caught by surprise and the perfectly put together Hazel was far from her usual buttoned-up self. She was wearing a tiny pair of khaki shorts and a white t-shirt that was now soaked through. Her black bra was visible down to the shape of the lace. Her hair was loose, long and dripping wet; the water from the leak was pouring directly over her head and streaming down her long locks like a waterfall. Her face was flushed pink from exertion and make up free, except for some sexy smudges of eyeliner left over from the night before. He’d never seen a more beautiful woman.

“Aaaaah… a knight in shining armor!” screamed the mother, running forward and throwing her arms around him. He was instantly soaked.

The boy looked up from his useless mopping, “Mio Dio, Grazie. Auito! Aiuto!”

Hazel looked up, caught his gaze, and her eyes flashed in irritation. She shook her head, water splattering from her in all directions, and said, “Oh God, what are you doing here?”