Taking a Chance on Love

By Jacqueline Harmon Butler

Age, difference in language and distance can be fatal for any relationahip, but it's my indecision that almost destroys my affair with Marco. I finally faced my indecision and decided to take a chance on love.

From the hill towns of Tuscany to the glittery lifestyle of San Francisco and back to Lucca, our romance sizzled with excitement and drama..

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jacqueline Harmon Butler
• Release date: May 12, 2011
• ISBN: 9781370575138

Jacqueline Harmon Butler

Jacqueline Harmon Butler is an international award winning writer who's work can be found in many newspapers, magazines, periodicals and online all around the USA, Canada and Europe. Her tales of memorable food experiences leaves her readers salivating for more.

Book preview

Chapter 1 — Food Flirt

I had just begun to peruse the menu when a hand appeared on my left, placing a small dish of crostini in front of me. I looked up and into a pair of delicious chocolate brown eyes, and was instantly overcome with a feeling that I had seen those eyes before, somewhere long ago. The waiter returned my stare, his eyes dilating, as if caught up in a shared memory. Then he smiled, breaking the link, and indicated I should try one of the offerings, a scrumptious assortment of warm toasts garnished with a spread of sausage and creamy stracchino cheese, fried polenta and some funny little fish puffs. I did so, and found it delectable. As I began to pass the dish on to my friends, he stopped me and said something in heavily Italian accented English that sounded like No, they are for you. Surprised, I told him I wanted to share, but he insisted that the goodies were all for me!

Naturally, my friends were finding this just too much, but they calmed down when a second waiter arrived with more crostini and a third brought tall, frosty glasses of prosecco, the local sparking wine. My waiter, with great flourish and a deep intriguing laugh, presented one of the bubbling glasses to me. asked what was going

Left on our own to contemplate the menu, my friends giggled and on with that sexy waiter? I blushed and said I hadn’t a clue. They decided he looked like a brown-eyed John Travolta and I decided he was just plain cute!

That’s how I met Marco fifteen years ago while on holiday in Italy with three women friends, Nancy, Monica and Diana. This was our first visit to Tuscany and we wanted to see, do and taste everything. We had heard so many enchanting stories of the charms of the region from other friends in San Francisco, and couldn’t wait to get there. We were staying at a lovely hotel, once the country home of a wealthy Italian family, situated just outside the picturesque old town of Lucca.

The four of us had spent the day wandering the narrow streets and wending our way through the city. At the Puccini Museum, Monica and I were thrilled to see some of the original opera scores, a piano actually used while composing some of the operas and the musician’s evening cloak on display. We marveled at the baroque architecture of the Chiesa Di San

Paolo, with a statue of St. Michael the Archangel high on the pointed steeple. We stopped for lunch in the Piazza Anfiteatro, its oval shape following the exact form of an old Roman theater that had once occupied the space, then walked along the top of the sixteenth-century walls that surround the city.

The sun was sinking behind the hills, drenching us in golden light, as we ventured out into the evening. Four gorgeous women––two blondes and two brunettes––dressed for the evening in pretty summer dresses, off to dinner at a highly recommended restaurant. We were in good spirits as we circled the tiny streets searching for a place to leave the car. Finally, with map in hand, we marked our trail through the narrow winding passageways to the Buca Di Sant’Antonio Restaurant.

We made a sensational entrance as the maistro di sala, all smiles and charm, led us to a choice table in the middle of the restaurant. Beautiful flowers filled the room and antique cooking utensils and exquisite ceramics added an elegant, homey touch. The walls were washed in pink hued gold and the floors were deep, rich terracotta. Heavy rose-colored damask covered the tables and soft candlelight glittered on silver and crystal.

Sipping my glass of prosecco and nibbling on my crostini, my eyes followed the handsome waiter as he served steaming bows of risotto to the guests at a table near us.

He returned a little while later to advise me on the choices. He suggested prosciutto di Parma con figi and I happily agreed. Then he pointed to the fettuccini al fungi porcini and I nodded in appreciation, thinking this sounded like enough food for one meal. However, he went on from there, describing a dish that featured some sort of fowl that sounded so wonderful I couldn’t resist. At the time my Italian was almost nonexistent and the waiter’s English wasn’t much better, so this was simply blind faith in an adorable face.

Fortunately, one of the other waiters, Christiano, spoke excellent English and translated all the menu choices to us. It turned out I had ordered the special of the house, Faraona Ripiena, stuffed guinea fowl, boned and stuffed with a mixture of minced chicken and turkey breast, pork, cooked ham, Parmesan cheese, eggs, and fresh sage, all wrapped in pancetta (bacon) and baked.

As Christiano was engaging my friends in conversation, my eyes kept following the movements of the dark-eyed waiter. His arm muscles flexed under his tuxedo jacket as he carried heavy food-laden trays across the room. His hair was deep brown and I liked the way it curled over the lapel of his jacket. I wanted to run my fingers through it.

Christiano sang the praises of the wines from the Castello D’Ama, located in the heart of the Tuscany Chianti wine-growing region near Radda, and we went along with his suggestion. The wine was dark and sensuous, tasting of wild blackberries and herbs. It was an excellent choice and complemented the food perfectly.

All the while my waiter flashed back and forth, dancing around the table, making sure everything was perfect.

During the wine tasting he was standing by to make sure I liked it.

Throughout the prosciutto con figi he was hovering in the distance, waiting for my smile of approval.

He brought clean utensils between the courses.

He leaned close while grating a dusting of Parmesan cheese over my fettuccini al fungi porcini.

His eyes burned into mine as he poured more wine into my glass.

After serving the faraona he peeked through the plants, his dark eyes flashing with laughter.

He glanced over his shoulder while waiting on other guests.

He filled my water glass.

He presented a bowl of stewed fruit, swimming in sweet wine for me to taste.

He delivered a cup of coffee and a small glass of grappa.

And, finally, he brought me a fragrant red rose, wrapped up in a pink damask napkin with his name, Marco De Luca, and address inside. I almost fainted with delight.

All the way back to the hotel my friends could not stop talking about my handsome waiter and his outrageous behavior. Monica just couldn’t get over the rose. She thought it was the most romantic thing and wished he had given one to her too. I just smiled and held the rose close to my breast.

Marco, I sighed. What a wonderful name.

While preparing for bed, Nancy and I were laughing and discussing all the details of the evening’s events, when the phone rang.

"Sono Marco," said the husky voice in reply to my hello.

He had managed to find out the name of our hotel from Christiano and was calling me from the lobby. It didn’t take much for him to convince me to meet him downstairs in the bar for a drink so we could get acquainted. His heavily accented, faltering English was irresistible.

Who was that? What’s going on? Nancy asked when I hung up the phone.

Marco is in the lobby and wants me to come down, I replied, hurriedly pulling on a pair of flowered pants and a bright orange T-shirt. Turning in front of the mirror I thought, Not too bad for a fifty-year-old woman. I brushed my short dark hair, applied lipstick, and then spritzed myself with my favorite Paris perfume.

Oh, how exciting! Nancy said, giving me a once-over and a nod of approval. He is really adorable. But wait a minute, how can you talk to him, he doesn’t speak much English?

Guess we’ll use sign language. I laughed, swinging out the door.

My heart did a flip-flop as I ran down the stairs and saw him standing there smiling at me. The happy look on his face caused my pulse to race a little and I stumbled on the last stair. He had showered, changed clothes, and smelled deliciously of wild citrus.

The conversation was difficult because of the language barrier. He told me he had been studying English on and off for the past few years, but hadn’t progressed very far. I had a small Italian-English dictionary and so we looked up the words neither of us knew. We laughed a lot, and somehow managed to understand each other.

This is my first trip to Lucca. I am loving getting acquainted with the city and finding so many beautiful things to see.

There are so many interesting places to see. I will show you some of my favorites. My day off is tomorrow, so we could spend the day together. Will you spend the day with me?

I would love to, but my friends and I are leaving for Siena tomorrow morning.

You could stay here and meet your friends later.

Much as I would love to stay in Lucca, I don’t want to upset our plans. We are flying home after Siena and I don’t want to miss seeing that city.

I was tempted to say yes to his invitation but didn’t want to leave the security of my traveling companions. After all, I really didn’t know this man. But still, it was tempting.

We touched briefly on our age difference of over twenty years. I wanted to make sure he understood that he was nearly the same age as my children, but it didn’t seem to matter to either of us. He told me about his life, his children––Sergio, age five and Georgia, three––his total devastation when his wife left him a year ago for another man and their recent divorce.

My wife, Maria, and I owned a small café just outside the city walls but after our breakup I left the café to her and looked for other employment. I am a trained chef, but there weren’t any jobs for me. Then I was offered a job as a waiter at the Buca Di Sant’Antonio. The Buca is one of the most important restaurants in the city, so I took the job. I felt like it was a step backward but the money was good and I could stay in Lucca. Being near my children is very important to me.

I loved the way his eyes sparkled and tenderness crept into his voice when he talked about his children.

We moved from the bar to the more private sitting room and I found myself trembling a little as he sat down next to me on the oversized sofa, our thighs just touching.

Sergio is very athletic and wants to play soccer. I think he is still too young, but, well, you know how boys are. Does your boy play soccer? And your daughter? Does she play sports?

No, Tim loves most sports but prefers surfing or riding his bike. He never learned how to play soccer. My Laura is quite an artist and enjoys arts and crafts much more than sports. I have a wonderful relationship with both of my children. We are very close. Now, tell me about Georgia.

"Ah, she is la mia bambolina, little doll, so sweet and adorable. You and I are so lucky to have one boy and one girl each. Dimmi, tell me, Jacqueline, what happened to your marriage?"

I told him that my marriage had also ended sadly a few years back, when I found out my husband was having an affair with another woman. About how I had been broken-hearted for some time and that my children pretty much took over running the house, themselves and me, but eventually I began to get on with my life. I told him about the difficulty I experienced re-creating myself from full-time wife and mother to career woman.

But now I have a job I really love. I’m a sales representative for Technomonique Watches.

Oh yes, I know those watches. They are very popular here in Italy.

As we continued with small talk, he took my hand in his. I felt the warmth of his hand flowing through my body and as he leaned closer, the smell of wild citrus was intoxicating. Then we exchanged a few tentative kisses and I found myself tingling from head to toe with desire. When the kisses became more passionate, he said something about a place where we could be alone, for we were interrupted by the arrival of two German couples who were laughing and talking loudly.

Looking at me intently, Marco said, "My friend at the front desk has given me a key to a room. Will you come there with me?’

I was apprehensive and unsure of myself but the electricity between us was strong enough for me to follow him to a place where spoken language was no longer important.

He led me up the stairs and down a dimly lit hall. Pausing in front of a beautifully carved wooden door, he kissed me then unlocked the door.

Nervously, I followed him into the room. The dim lamps bathed the room in romantic light, accenting the soft peach of the walls and shining off delicate touches of gold on the ornate moldings. The antique furniture looked as if it had been in use for centuries. The chamber was dominated by a very grand bed with a massive carved wooden headboard and piled high with soft linen-covered pillows, leaving no doubt in my mind about what was going to happen next. I felt very self-conscious as I looked around the room for a place to sit other than on that huge bed.

Stalling for time, I walked over to the windows and opened the glass doors leading to a small balcony. The scent of night-blooming jasmine filled the air and somewhere in the garden a bird sang a sweet love song. The silver moon hung low in the sky and millions of stars twinkled overhead. The night seemed made for love. My inner voice kept asking me what I was doing. You don’t even know this man. Suppose he is a murderer? Suppose he is a gigolo who just wants money from you? You are making a fool out of yourself. You can’t seriously think this guy is attracted to you for anything other than what he can get out of you. You’d better just walk out the door and go back to your own room. Taking a deep breath, I turned to face Marco.

He smiled as he took my hand and led me to the bed. He looked deeply into my eyes and as he slowly lowered his lips to mine all my resistance slipped away. I felt a warm tingle flowing through my veins as his hands traveled from my shoulders down the length of my back. As his kisses became more insistent, he began peeling off my clothes. My T-shirt lay like a bright orange puddle on the dark-tiled floor. His lips trailed down my neck as his hands unclasped my bra. My nipples hardened as his tongue flicked from one to the other. My fingers fumbled on the buttons of his shirt, which, once opened, revealed skin that was smooth and firm over his muscular frame, with just a sprinkling of hair on his chest. My shyness melted away as we delighted in uncovering each other’s bodies. I felt alive, sensuous, and incredibly beautiful as he ran his hands over my body and softly whispered my name. All my doubts seemed to melt away as I surrendered to his arms. I hadn’t been with a man for quite some time and couldn’t seem to get enough of him. Our lovemaking transcended everything. My desire ignited his passion as again and again we soared in ecstasy.

When at last we parted at daybreak, we promised to write to each other, but I didn’t think we would. After all, there were the barriers of language, distance and age to consider. Any one of those problems could be a fatal flaw to a relationship. But I didn’t want to think of anything except the way his lips felt on my body. I didn’t want any hint of reality to douse the flame that was burning in my heart. I felt wondrously alive after what seemed like a lifetime of sleepwalking.

I quietly tiptoed back into my room, hoping I wouldn’t awaken Nancy. I was barely in my bed when I saw her turn over, blue eyes wide open and looking at me intently.

Well? Nancy asked, plumping up her pillow. What happened?

It wasn’t long before she wheedled all the details out of me.

Oh Nancy, I can’t remember when I’ve been so turned on and excited. His touch seemed like fire on my skin. Talk about fireworks! I’m surprised the hotel didn’t burn down. I don’t think I’ve ever felt like this before.

Nancy laughed and reminded me of several old boyfriends, but I insisted their lovemaking was definitely not in the same class as Marco’s.

I just wish he didn’t live so far from San Francisco. He said he would write to me, but I don’t know. I’m afraid our affair began and ended in just one night. And yet, I feel like I’ve known him all my life. We really communicated––not just sexually, but from our souls. The difference in our ages meant nothing and we really understood each other. I can’t believe this was our first meeting. Really, Nancy, it seemed like we were just picking up where we’d left off. I’ve never experienced that before. Do you think it’s possible we knew each other in a past life or something?

Nancy didn’t have an answer for that. She looked thoughtfully at me with a worried look on her face. In all the twenty years of our friendship, she had never seen me quite this worked up about anyone or anything. Nancy had been there when my marriage fell apart. It was Nancy who kept giving me pep talks, helped me put a resume together and pushed me to go on job interviews for positions I was barely qualified for. She had shared in my delight when I found a great job as the West Coast representative with Technomonique, the wildly popular French watch company, and when I won the Salesman of the Year award. She was there when my children, first Laura, then Tim, had moved out on their own. Yes, she had seen me through thick and thin, and she thought she knew me better than anyone, and felt certain that I was in for a big disappointment. This was surely just a hot one-night stand. A vacation fling. Nancy didn’t really buy into the past lives idea. She had always thought I was a bit off the wall with some of my strange ideas and study of the occult. Even though, she had to admit that I had been very insightful and almost scary with some of my Tarot readings, she couldn’t quite get into the past lives/reincarnation concept. Nancy, always the pragmatist, agreed with me that it was a beautiful romance but that it probably wasn’t going to go anywhere.

She'll Never Be the Same

She'll never be the same you know

But then she knew she wouldn't be the same.

She tinted her hair violet,

Violet! I tell you.

Has she gone mad? Over the edge?

Round the bend?

Did the Toscana sun damage her brain?

She talks of sunshine and sunflowers

And certain Italian words

Have crept unnoticed into her vocabulary.

Unnoted - or maybe noticed.

She has a funny smile as if holding back a laugh

And her eyes sparkle with hidden secrets

She moves different too

To music only she hears.

She's changed, different.

She's not the same you know,

But then she knew she wouldn't

Be the same.

Chapter 2 — Surprise

But we were wrong. Marco’s first letter, along with a photo, arrived a few weeks after I returned home from Italy. The letter, really just a quick note, was thrilling to me.

I hope you remember me, he wrote. I am sending my photo to remind you. I often think of you and wonder if you ever think of me.

I had to admit that I had thought about him a lot since our magical night together. I had been drafting a letter to him for days, hesitating to send it. Nancy had cautioned me not to make too much of my one night with Marco. Let it go, she advised.

However, I didn’t want to just let it go. And now, it seemed Marco didn’t want to let it go either. His letter and photo proved that to me. Studying the photo, I remembered his deep, sexy voice, his laugh, and his touch. Slowly I stroked the cleft in his chin, then traced my finger over his mouth, remembering the fire of those lips on mine.

I went over to my desk and pulled out my letter to Marco. I had written about the remainder of my time in Italy and how hard it was to get back to work after such a wonderful holiday. I told him Monica was still talking about the rose he gave me, saying it was almost the most romantic thing she had ever seen. I added a few lines thanking him for sending the photo and saying that, yes, I thought about him often too. I quickly put my letter into an envelope, along with a photo of me standing in the rose garden at the hotel in Lucca, sealed it, stuck on an international stamp, walked across the street to the post box and mailed it.

The following week I enrolled in an Italian language class and began writing to him slowly and carefully in Italian.

We wrote each other at least once a week. The letters were almost formal in their content, with comments about our lives, our families and the weather. "Cara Jacqueline, he wrote, I’m writing you from the kitchen at the Buca. It’s late, we just closed. Christiano is here helping me write this. He sends his greetings."

…I’m up in the Garfagnana Mountains today. It’s very beautiful here with huge marble cliffs all around. The famous caves of Carrara are straight through these mountains. I would love to share all this with you. I’m thinking of you and wishing you were here with me…

…business at the restaurant has been good lately. I’m saving as much money as I can because my dream is to open my own restaurant within the next few years…

…Sergio is racing around the yard kicking his soccer ball, pretending he is a big star. Georgia is sitting under the fig tree playing with her dolls. I’m drinking a glass of wine and thinking of you.

"…I’m remembering our night together. Oh, Jacqueline, mio tesore, my treasure, I wish you were here with me…"

A few months later, I opened my mailbox hoping for a letter from Marco. The Italian stamps and familiar foreign-style handwriting on an envelope caused my heart to race. Excitedly I tore it open and pulled out Marco’s letter. Although it was written in a mixture of Italian and English, and I had difficulty translating some of the words, I could understand that he was planning to visit me in San Francisco next month. He also mentioned that he thought of me every minute of every day and was sending me a million kisses.

Wow! I exclaimed, looking at my daughter Laura and her fiancé Alfred over the top of my reading glasses. Guess who’s coming for a visit from Italy?

Not that Marco creep, moaned Laura, looking absolutely aghast. Mother, you can’t be serious about this.

Who is Marco? asked Alfred.

He’s mother’s young Italian Stallion, spat Laura with disgust. She met him on her trip to Italy. Here’s his photo, she added, grabbing a framed photograph from the bookshelf and thrusting it at Alfred.

The photo revealed a handsome man of medium height and build standing outside the Buca Di Sant’Antonio restaurant. He was wearing the obligatory waiter’s tuxedo, which showed off his broad shoulders and trim waist. His dark brown curly hair was a bit on the longish side and tumbled over his shirt collar. His eyes were looking directly into the camera lens and his lips curved into an infectious smile.

What’s wrong with him? Alfred asked Laura. How come you haven’t mentioned him to me before? asked Alfred. Then, turning to me, he continued, He looks like a nice guy.

Yeah…and he’s almost the same age as me, commented Laura indignantly, and he doesn’t even speak English. I hadn’t mentioned him to you because I thought he would just quickly fade into history. Glaring at me, she continued angrily, Honestly Mother, I hope you aren’t letting him stay here in your apartment. I’m sure he’s just planning to use you. Does he want a green card or something? Then, putting her arms around me she said Oh, Mom, I just don’t want to see you get hurt or into a situation that wouldn’t work out. Does he know how old Tim and I are, and more importantly, how old you are? You look great for fifty, but don’t forget he is twenty years younger than you.

Oh dear, I thought, this is going to be very interesting. I don’t know why you are so against him, I said, putting the photo back on the shelf. You haven’t even met him yet. This will be a wonderful opportunity for you to get to know him. He really is nice. He’s never been to San Francisco. In fact, he’s never been out of Italy before. I’m sure you’ll like him.

I watched with dismay as Laura adjusted the band on her honey blond hair, then gathered up her coat and handbag. Until this moment we had been enjoying the unusually warm summer day. We had taken a long walk along Ocean Beach, which is right across the street from my condo, then gone up to the Cliff House restaurant for fried calamari and a crisp, fruity Pino Grigio wine from the Veneto region of Italy.

Now Laura was scowling at me, with undisguised disapproval flashing from her dark eyes.

Well, Mother, I sure hope you come to your senses on this one. Maybe talk this over with Nancy or your other friends. Maybe they will be able to convince you this is all way too much. No one wants to see you get hurt, Mother, and somehow this guy seems like he might be trouble. Come on Alfred, it’s time we headed back up to Marin.

Laura had been living on her own for several years since age twenty, when she started a very popular greeting card/giftware line. Now, at thirty, she was a full-time student at Dominican College, a highly rated private school in San Rafael, California. She had a cute studio in Marin County, just a few miles north, over the Golden Gate Bridge from San Francisco.

Her brother Tim, fifteen months younger, had gone off to the University of Southern California at nineteen. He ultimately