Bella Rosa Proposals. Barbara McMahon
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a microwave stashed in one of the cupboards?”
“Nope. And, believe me, I’ve checked every last one of them. Apparently the guy who owns this place stopped short of renovating the kitchen. This is original to the house.”
“So I can see. What’s wrong with the owner? He’s not a fan of eating?”
“He’s not a fan of cooking. My sister said he doesn’t spend much time in Monta Correnti and when he does, he takes his meals elsewhere.” Angelo’s brows drew together. “You know, I have a feeling that’s what my brother had in mind for me when he booked my accommodations.”
She chuckled. “Sounds like a bit of a set-up.”
“I’ll find a way to make him pay,” he muttered as he crossed to the equally ancient-looking refrigerator.
While Angelo pulled out an assortment of covered bowls, Atlanta rooted through cabinets and drawers, and came up with plates and silverware. They decided to eat the pasta cold, pairing it with fat slices of thick-crusted Italian bread. She decided to indulge in what Zeke had considered an absolute no-no and combined olive oil and some dried herbs she found in the pantry in a shallow bowl to dip the bread in. Then she took the dishes, utensils, bread and herbed oil out to the patio table. Night had fallen. Hanging lanterns illuminated the pool and patio area, while down the hillside the lights from scattered homes mirrored the stars that winked in the sky. Angelo joined her a moment later with the pasta, a bottle of wine and two glasses whose thin stems were wedged between his fingers.
“No wine for me, thanks,” she said.
Even so, he set one down in front of her plate. “Just in case you change your mind. Nothing brings out the rich flavors of a meal like a nice glass of wine.”
“Okay, half a glass.”
Before they finished their meal, Atlanta had consumed a second half. Angelo was right about the wine. It complemented the flavor of the tomato sauce perfectly. Indeed, she couldn’t recall the last time she’d enjoyed a meal as much as this one.
“This is incredible,” she said, forking up the last bite of pasta. “I’ve always been a fan of Italian cuisine, although I can’t quite place all of the flavors in this sauce.”
“It contains a special kind of basil. It’s grown locally. Very exclusive.” A deep groove formed between his brows. “When I arrived here the other day and smelled the sauce simmering in the kitchen, I remembered going out with Alex and my father to pick the herb. I would have been a preschooler.”
“I’ve heard it said that smell is one of the most potent senses when it comes to memory recall.”
“I believe it.”
He didn’t sound happy about it, so she didn’t ask if the outing with his father and brother was a good memory. Even if it were, the intervening years surely would have soured it.
She’d finished off her wine. He pointed to the empty glass. “Would you like some more?”
“No, I’ve had enough.”
“I believe the word they use here is basta,” he told her.
“That’s right.” She nodded. “It’s a handy word to know.”
“Just be careful,” he warned. “If you use it too often you’re likely to miss out on a lot of…adventure.”
Angelo expected Atlanta to say she wasn’t up for any more adventure in her life. He wouldn’t blame her for feeling that way, especially with a new scandal brewing over the photos that had been snapped of the two of them in Rome’s airport. Instead, she studied him in the soft light that cascaded from the patio’s scattered lanterns.
“I guess I’ll have to use my best judgment, then.”
“You do that.”
Angelo finished his Chianti and leaned back in his chair on a contented sigh that morphed into a yelp of pain when he tried to stack his hands behind his head. He lowered his arms immediately and reached for his shoulder before he could think better of it.
Atlanta’s eyes were wide with concern.
“Don’t say it.” His words held more of a plea than a warning.
“Fine. I won’t ask about surgery or rehabilitation or quality of life,” she promised. “But I am curious.”
The pain was abating. He squinted at her. “About what?”
“What do you plan to do after baseball?”
After? The word hit him with the force of a fastball to the chest. There was no after. Just as he’d convinced himself over the years that there had been no before. Baseball was both his alpha and omega.
“I’m not going anywhere.” Even before she raised her eyebrows, he knew he sounded belligerent. That didn’t stop him from adding, “The Rogues still need me. I’ll be suiting up next season, make no mistake.”
“I’m not talking about next season. Or even the season after that. You can’t play ball forever, Angelo.”
It wasn’t anything he hadn’t heard from other people, including younger players speculating on what the future held for them post-career. Usually, Angelo deflected the conversation with a witty comeback. This time, seated next to Atlanta in the cool evening air, he not only accepted reality, he met it head-on.
Gazing up at the stars, he admitted, “I don’t know what I’ll do.”
“You have lots of options.”
He did. He could branch off into coaching. One of the farm teams had already approached him with an offer. He could buy one of the existing franchises when it came up for sale. Ownership certainly held appeal. Money wasn’t an object. The endorsement well showed no signs of drying up, despite his latest injury. But…
“Baseball is everything.”
“Not everything,” Atlanta replied softly.
“To me it is. It saved me. Literally. Baseball and Alex, they were what kept me from becoming a statistic.”
“What do you mean?” she asked.
This wasn’t something he talked about freely, let alone with a beautiful woman who had her own set of problems. But the timing, the woman who was willing to listen, they both seemed right.
“I was bound for trouble and taking the express train to get there. I was too young and too stupid to care about consequences. And I was just plain ticked off,” he could admit now.
“At your father,” she guessed.
“Him, yeah. And my mom.” Angelo snorted. “Hell, I was angry at everyone.” The sky held a million stars. He concentrated on one of them and continued. “No one seemed to give a damn about my brother and me. Our mom came home drunk most nights. She worked in public relations as a consultant. She kept a roof over our heads and, when she remembered to go grocery shopping, food in the pantry. But, honestly, I don’t know how she managed to keep a job.”
“Not all alcoholics are falling-down drunks. Some are quite capable of leading dual lives, at least for a while.”
“That was Cindy. She wasn’t a mean person, just disinterested in motherhood and, I think, angry with Luca that their marriage hadn’t worked out. From what little she said on the subject, they’d met while she was vacationing here, she got pregnant and they got married. They barely knew one another. Not exactly the recipe for long-term success.”
“No.”
“Anyway, I think she was desperate to stay young and free of responsibility.”
“That’s pretty hard to do when you have twins,” Atlanta inserted.
“Yeah, well, it didn’t stop her. She spent more time out partying at trendy nightclubs than