A Stroke of Luck Read online

  “Apri, dai, per favore. Open the door, darling, we can’t start our honeymoon like this.”

  Rodolfo has just said the magic words; the words that, like in fairy tales, make the doors open automatically. At least the bathroom door opens. Just hearing them, I couldn’t resist flying to the doorknob to open it.

  Honeymoon?

  I look at the ring on my finger again. I remember the story of the red thread. It seems impossible but I want to believe it.

  As soon as I see him in front of me (he hasn’t put his robe back on) I take two involuntary steps backward, until I’m up against the enormous sink. I look around. Why do the tiles in hotel bathrooms shine like they’re lit from behind? I’ve never gotten them to shine like that in my house, as much as a try, as much as I buy every product advertised on TV, those that promise...

  Rodolfo grabs my hand out of the air; it was on its way to smack myself again. I needed to knock some sense into myself, to get myself out of the stream of stupid thoughts I kept slipping into. It’s something that always happens to me when I’m nervous: I end up thinking about nonsense. And now I am very, very nervous. I don’t think I’ve ever been this nervous in my life. I feel his hand wrapping around mine, and for a millisecond I start to hope again. Maybe my dreams aren’t broken after all. Maybe I just need to make a few small adjustments. Rodolfo Vitti is a lot of man. It’s too early to think that he can’t make me soar like I always thought he would. If I give up some of my preconceived notions, it might even be better. It’s always possible that reality could outdo fiction.

  We are still for a moment, looking each other in the eyes, and then Rodolfo’s hand unwraps from mine. His fingers change position to interlace with mine. My fingers, like tree roots, entwine with his in a game that I never want to end. My mind stays blank; I abandon all the differences I thought I saw between the ideal and the reality. Rodolfo has pulled closer to me so subtly, so slowly, that I didn’t even realize he was moving. But now his nose is brushing mine. His free hand strokes my cheek and our lips meet in such a way that all the butterflies in the world are called upon. All of them, absolutely all of them, now live in my stomach. They flutter like crazy, so strong that for an instant I think I might float away.

  Yes, I could float around that bathroom, go out the door weightlessly and then out the window. I would float over the city like a balloon adrift. A pink balloon in the shape of a heart, powered by this feeling that Rodolfo Vitti is making me feel. His tongue slips expertly into my mouth and I feel as if I’ve never been kissed before. I give in to the feeling. No greater perfection could exist. In this instant I know that all those kisses I gave my pillow, those that fifteen years ago I gave to the back of my hand to rehearse for this moment, were empty kisses. Nothing compared to what was happening now.

  Rodolfo lets go of my hand and it falls to my side; I have no control over it. Both his hands are on my neck. They slide to the back as if his fingertips were covered in velvet. Then they return to the front and begin to go down my chest until they envelope my breasts. Because Rodolfo doesn’t caress me, he envelopes me. He makes me feel like the luckiest woman alive. My skin is on fire as his fingers elegantly trace the curves of my feminine form.

  Rodolfo picks me up in his arms and carries me to the bed. It’s then, from this moment on, that reality outdoes the fantasy.

  By a mile.

  Oh, yes. By a long mile.

  My dreams seem small in comparison. Sex with the men of my past becomes a black and white photo.

  Now all that I see before my eyes are the bright colors that Rodolfo makes me feel as our bodies move as if in a slow waltz. We fit together perfectly.

  I couldn’t wish for anything else.

  ***

  I open my eyes and it takes a few seconds to realize where I am. I see the weightless white fabric of the curtains float in the breeze that enters off the street. A hot air that fills the room with the scent of the Mojave Desert mixed with the smells of the city. I am suddenly certain that I’m in Las Vegas. I know that I arrived here with my friends, but then... I move my eyes to the right, almost fearfully, since I just remembered who I think I’m with. I wouldn’t want it all to have been a dream that I wake up from with my movement.

  I see his black hair, his tanned skin, his long eyelashes closed over those aquamarine eyes that have always left me reeling.

  Rodolfo Vitti is next to me. I didn’t dream it.

  I get up as quietly as possible. I don’t want to wake him. I remember what happened between us.

  “Mmmmm.” I can’t contain the sweet, low sound.

  Oh, do I remember it! It’s a shame I can’t remember a thing about what happened before that. Before I woke up for the first time in this room with that deathly, head-splitting hangover.

  As soon as my feet touch the carpet, I feel such a sting in the little toe on my right foot that I almost yelp. It hurts something awful. I bend over to inspect it and realize that it’s black. Not only that, but the bruise is spreading like an oil stain, like it wants to climb across my foot. When I try to touch it to see what’s happened, the pain shoots all the way up to my ankle. I’m afraid it’s broken. I didn’t think it was so bad, at least not when I hit it. And especially not when Rodolfo and I were making love.

  I limp across the room. The mountain of white tulle that I noticed the first time I opened my eyes is in the same place. I pick it up. It’s a wedding dress, just as I thought. Not exactly a tasteful one either. I hold it against my body to look in the mirror. It’s my size and, yes, it makes me look like a meringue puff. The kind they used to put on cakes.

  I take in that enormous quantity of tulle, the exaggerated rhinestones on the bodice, the ring on my finger, with its cartoonishly large rock. I look at myself. My long hair is tangled. There’s hardly any makeup left; it must have all ended up smeared on the sheets and the pillow.

  I realize how good it felt to sleep. The headache and hangover are practically gone. There’s nothing better for what ails you than... well, than that man I’m watching sleep peacefully. I’m just a little thirsty. I’m about to go to the bathroom to get a drink when I realize there’s a bar. Not a minibar by any stretch, but a full one with stools and a large refrigerator. Inside there’s everything you could want: bottles of different liquors, French and Italian bottled water, juices, white and dark chocolates, and even a basket of strawberries.

  I drink water like there’s no tomorrow, and I eat a few strawberries as I continue around the room. I find a pair of enormous sliding doors made of a heavy, luxurious wood. I open them and on the other side is a room bigger than my parents’ house. Sofas, a table and an enormous television.

  A sick television.

  I peek back into the bedroom; I thought I’d seen that the TV was in there. And yes, there’s a nice flat screen in there. But the one in the other room was like a mini movie theater. It takes up most of the wall. I recline on one of the sofas and enjoy the cool air conditioning. In the bedroom, the stifling heat coming in the open window had completely changed the air. I don’t understand how Rodolfo can sleep so comfortably.

  I try to remember what has happened. There’s only one thing I’m certain of: I’m in Las Vegas. I know that I came here with my friends from Alabama. It was Betty’s bachelorette party and... I furrow my brow, trying to rediscover those lost hours in my memory. I look for my phone, fruitlessly. It doesn’t seem to be anywhere in this enormous suite.

  I realize there are two bathrooms and, like any girl of my generation, it makes me think of Pretty Woman... No, I haven’t prostituted myself, at least I sure hope not. I look at the ring on my hand again and stifle a giggle, still feeling like Julia Roberts. I’ve jumped straight to the middle of the movie. None of the prostitution or bad times, just straight to marrying the leading man. Although, unfortunately, I don’t remember any of it.

  I get up and go to the bathroom. I look at myself in the mirror and can’t wipe the smile off my face. I stretch out a hand and say, ver
y quietly:

  “Hello, I’m Julia.”

  After all, I’m also a redhead. Although I’ve been dyeing my hair darker for years because, between my natural red and Julia’s, there’s quite an abyss. You know, the sort of abyss like the scale from horrifying to beautiful, myself being on the bad end and her on the good end. But hey, I must have something going for me if Rodolfo wanted to make me his wifey.

  My eyes spark. I look good in the mirror, even though I’m more disheveled than ever.

  “Come on,” I say to myself, mouthing the words silently. “Love is the best makeup.”

  I can’t help it; I feel beautiful. Lucky and loved. But above all, very, very lucky.

  That said, after seeing that there are two bathrooms and remembering that iconic movie, I wish I had a walk-man to listen to music in a bath full of bubbles. For lack of music, I empty the entire bottle of bath salts and turn on the faucet, watching the water turn pink. I sink into the aromatic water that caresses my body and I let myself relax. I don’t want to get out until my skin starts to wrinkle. Until I lift my hands and see that my fingertips have turned to prunes.

  Chapter Three

  I closed my eyes and reviewed the facts.

  We were all in Alabama. The fantastic five, that is: Betty, Laura, Sarah, Lorna and me. Betty is getting married in three days and the rest of us planned this surprise bachelorette party. She was convinced that we were just going out for dinner. She had insisted that she didn’t want anything special. But we saved a good bit of money, as much as our retail jobs allowed. We took her to the airport... I’ll never forget her face.

  “We’re not getting on a plane are we?” she said.

  Betty was afraid of flying. Or she thought she was. The poor thing had never actually flown before. It was enough just to think that anyone who fell from that height would never survive. We had to resort to tequila. Margaritas for everyone in an airport bar. We drank, toasting again and again to Betty’s happiness, that Lorna would finally leave her boring husband, and to the rest of us finding good men who would love us. All good reasons to toast. We ended up toasting to the waiter, to world peace and to Hello Kitty suitcases. None of us are particularly fans of the little cat with the bow, but toasting to Hello Kitty suitcases after six margaritas always seems like a good idea.

  I don’t know how many margaritas we had in all. It was enough to make Betty forget all about her fears of soaring above the clouds. We arrived at the gate giggling so badly that they almost didn’t let us on the plane. We had to contain ourselves, and avoid looking at each other because that set off another fit of laughter. Just like when we were in school. Sidesplitting laughter that you can’t contain, not in church, not at a funeral. We couldn’t look at each other if we wanted the airline employees to deem us sober enough to fly.

  The images of our arrival to Las Vegas are fuzzy—I suppose because of what we drank on the plane. I remember more giggles, the white limousine that we rented to drive us around the city. I also know that we put our heads out the sunroof to shout at the handsome (and not so handsome) men that we saw on the way. We felt like teenagers.

  “The things I’d do to that booty...” Laura shouted multiple times. “What?” she asked, seeing our surprised faces. “It’s time to return a little taste of the filth that they’ve yelled at us, don’t you think?”

  Yes, I remember that. I remember how it only took seconds for us all to remember the things shouted at us when walking past construction workers. We’d spent years listening to this sort of disrespect, and this was our chance to throw some of it back. So we took that limousine ride as a chance to right what we felt was wrong.

  And we laughed. Oh man, did we laugh.

  I know, or I guess, that after the limousine we went into one of the hotel casinos, but after that... After that everything is mixed up and blurred. The anger and embarrassment burns. It kills me that I don’t know at what exact moment Rodolfo Vitti appeared, and what happened to get us to where we are now.

  I get out of the bathtub and dry my hair. I closed both the bathroom door and the sliding doors separating the two rooms of this huge suite. I don’t want the noise of the hair dryer to wake my beloved Rodolfo. Once I deem myself presentable again, I double knot my bathrobe so it can’t open by accident. I think twice, then undo one of the knots. Then I undo the other and retie it loosely. I wink to myself in the mirror, smiling from ear to ear. I take a deep breath and open the sliding doors.

  Rodolfo is awake but still in bed. He has one arm slung over his forehead, his broad chest uncovered. He’s looking at the ceiling as if it’s the most interesting thing he’s ever seen and, for a second, it seems like he’s displeased. But I approach him and as soon as he realizes I’m there, he looks at me and smiles.

  I sit on the edge of the bed.

  “How are you?” I ask him. I don’t know what else to say.

  I always imagined all the things we’d tell each other: everything I’d tell him about my life, about my sad childhood, about how hard things had been for me. I always imagined he’d wrap his arms around me and tell me that, now that we were together, everything would be okay. But now, all those imagined words evaporated and nothing was left. I’m completely incapable of starting a conversation with him.

  “Wonderful,” he says, taking my hand. “And you?”

  “Great. I took a bath.”

  Rodolfo strokes my hair.

  “I can tell,” he says, alluding to how clean it is.

  “This,” I say, stretching out the hand that the ring is on, “Is this real? Wait.” I press my finger to Rodolfo’s lips so he doesn’t say anything. “I’m not talking about the diamond, you already told me that it’s real and I don’t doubt it for a second. I just look at how it shines in the light. The shine, the color. It’s... it’s gorgeous.”

  “I’m glad you like it,” he replies, playfully nibbling at the fingers I have over his mouth.

  “Wait.” I don’t want him to interrupt me or I’ll never work up the nerve to ask the question. “What I’m asking is if this ring means what I think it means.”

  Rodolfo raises an eyebrow and I feel like my entire body is a flaming candle, melting bit by bit.

  “What do you think it means? Say it.”

  I clear my throat.

  “Marriage? When you asked me to come out of the bathroom you said that I was your... your...”

  If he doesn’t stop looking at me like this, I’m never going to be able to say it.

  “Are we married?” I blurt at last, in the least sexy and sutble way possible.

  “Sure are,” he says, kissing my hand.

  “Why?” Okay, the previous sentence wasn’t the least sexy one possible. This was it. Oh my god, why was this the question that croaked out of my mouth?

  “Don’t you like being married to me?” he asks me, with that irresistible pout I’d seen so many times in his movies.

  I melt inside in an instant and I can’t lie: I’m over the moon to be married to him. It’s what I’ve always wanted but, deep down, didn’t think was possible.

  “It’s just... just...” I can’t find the words. “I don’t understand, why me?”

  “Because you’re the most charming woman I’ve ever seen in my life.”

  Okay, that I can’t believe, no matter how much my heart is willing it to be true. I know perfectly well that I’m not the prettiest, or... I don’t know, we haven’t even had time to get to know each other. Rodolfo can’t possibly know if I’m charming or not. He doesn’t know anything about me.

  “What do I do for a living?” I ask, looking at him sideways like it’s a test.

  “Be my wife?” he asks tentatively, in an attempt to make me smile. When it doesn’t work, he tries again. “From now on, you can do what you want. That’s the perk of being Rodolfo Vitti’s wife. You can do and have whatever you want. Who cares what you did before? Listen to me,” he says, grabbing my hands, “I know this might be a big change for you. But you said I do w
ith just as much certainty as I did. Was it sudden? Sure, but we said it from the heart. Things don’t have to have a set timeline. Where’s the rule that says it has to be a certain way? Other couples need years to get to know each other. Not us. We looked at each other and said I do from the heart.”

  “But I don’t remember saying it!”

  “Really?”

  I nod, biting my lip. I get up to close the window; the heat is starting to bother me. As soon as I put my hands on them, I hear Rodolfo’s voice behind me.

  “Wait, don’t close it please. The air conditioning is horrible for the voice and I have to film tomorrow.”

  “But aren’t the fumes from the cars worse? The dust from the desert? This humidity?”

  Rodolfo shakes his head.

  “I’m Sicilian. I miss the heat.”

  I hang my head. I know, I know where he’s from. I know everything about him, except for why he married someone like me.

  Without letting me ask more questions, he picks up the phone and orders a fabulous breakfast, which I devour without a word. It’s as if I haven’t eaten in days. Rodolfo points out that, actually, it’s been nearly two days since I ate anything. From the time I left Alabama with my friends to the moment I’m devouring the fried eggs and pancakes, it’s been exactly fifty hours.

  “Where are my friends?”

  “I don’t know,” replies Rodolfo honestly.

  Once he’s satisfied that I’ve eaten enough not to pass out on the road–he explains that we have to catch a flight to Cairo soon for his next shoot–, he catches me up on what happened.

  “I’d never seen eyes like yours before,” he says, at which I open my mouth slowly to protest.

  “They’re hazel,” I argue. “The plainest color in the world.”

  “You’re wrong. They’re the most exquisite hazel, the sweetest hazel in the world. You were at the bar with your friends, we bumped into each other and you fell. I thought you’d never forgive me if I hurt you. But I helped you up and you looked at me with those beautiful eyes and I...”