Malena Lott - Dating da Vinci

“So you like it here, then?”

“In charge of these crazy Americans. This way I get free room and board and some spending money and can still watch over them. And the work is never tedious.”

I stepped out from the desk, proud of his English. Most frat guys wouldn't use the word 'tedious'. “You care about them, don't you?”

“Everybody needs somebody to look out for them. Like you did for me.”

I could feel the tears wet my cheeks. “I'm sorry, da Vinci. I'm just crying because I'm so happy for you. I mean, look at you. You made it.”

He reached out for my hand. “And look at you. You seem happy. Truly happy.”

“I am. I'm glad things worked out for you here. If you need some place to go for Christmas, I'm sure the boys would like to see you.”

Da Vinci tucked his longer hair behind his ears. It seemed like ages ago that I had done the very thing for him. Like another life. I resisted telling him he could use a haircut.

“I miss William and Bradley. But Chiara is coming for the holiday. I was wrong to believe that distance would make me love her any less.” He pointed to his chest. “Even though I couldn't see her, she was right here all along.”

ANH PLOPPED HER KEYS on the kitchen counter and Vi on my lap. She paced back and forth, and I'd been friends long enough to know not to push her. Finally, she leaned on the kitchen counter and looked me squarely in the eye.

“Who have I become? Really? Because what I'm feeling inside doesn't match who I've always thought I was.”

“Am I really supposed to answer that?'

“Vi's mother wants her back.”

I held Vi closer. “And you don't want to give her back.”

“Is that not the damndest thing? I've been complaining practically since Vi's birth that I don't want to raise her and how I want her parents to be more involved, and when they finally wake up and want her, I can't give her up.” Anh's face screwed into a cry. “I can't. She's mine. I never wanted to believe it, but she's my baby. She calls me ‘Mom,‘ which is a helluva lot better than ‘Grandma,‘ by the way, and I know I can give her a good life.”

“Of course you can. So you'll fight for her. You'll fight for what you want.”

“And in the midst of my breakdown, what does my American boyfriend do?”

“Proposes to you.”

“How did you know? So much for an anti-climactic moment.”

“I've been waiting for you to tell me. He told Rachel before Thanksgiving he was going to.”

“And you kept this from me why?”

“I wouldn't want to ruin your surprise. It's not often a woman gets proposed to. Wait a minute. I forgot who I'm talking to. So where's the ring?”

“Ring? Ring? I didn't say yes! But saying no felt like lying. Which is why I came here to ask my PhD friend who just did a damn dissertation on love why I wish I would've said yes.”

“Because you love him.”

Anh made a face and went to the pantry to retrieve food-prob-ably junk food, the stuff that I rarely ate anymore. She turned around, her mouth dropped open. “Ohmigod. You finally got rid of the peanut butter.”

“I did. It was time.”

“Good for you.” She motioned to the Christmas tree in the living room. “And you decorated this year.”

“The boys helped.”

“Still.”

“Still. I know. And as for you…”

“I should say yes.”

“Fourth time's a charm.”

“I thought it was the third time? That was my most disastrous marriage yet. Where does that saying come from?”

“America. No one knows exactly, but the precursor to it was Elizabeth Barrett Browning, who in a letter in 1839 said, ‘The luck of the third adventure‘ is proverbial. Then it was spotted in 1912 in a snooty newspaper report about a mature woman getting married for the third time.”

“Women are such optimists. Talk about your American perseverance.”

“We push on. As for love, it's worth the chance, I think.”

“Are we talking about me now, or you?”

“You. Of course. Though I might heed some of the advice.”

Anh grabbed a fistful of Cheetos. Okay, I hadn't gotten rid of the junk food completely. “ I'm sure the duck house looks splendid this time of year.”

The invitation arrived in the mail the next day, a silver envelope with a crisp white card inside with silver foil lettering.

You are cordially invited to a Christmas Party at the home of Cortland Andrews on Friday, December 23rd at 7 p.m.

I traced my fingers over the lettering. I'd only seen him twice in the last month, our schedules for coming and going out of sync, which was for the best. Every day I thought of him-every hour, though I wouldn't admit it-and I had so much I wanted to tell him but ended up calling up someone else instead to share the news. But instead of feeling satisfied, the things piled up inside of me: that I had accepted the job at UT to teach three days a week in the liberal arts program, that William had won the local chess tournament, that I had now organized every drawer and closet in the entire house and the boys were miraculously keeping their rooms clean.

The little things, too, things that only Cortland might appreciate: that I'd completed the New York Times crossword in record time the day before, that I'd seen four ducks walking in front of his house last week on their way to a local pond, and they had stopped and looked at his house as if they knew they were welcome there.

The invitation did not ask for an RSVP, so I decided I would just drop by. He had probably invited all the neighbors, though many would already be out of town visiting relatives, and it would be rude not to wish him happy holidays in his first Christmas in his home.

More than ever, I felt Joel's presence in our home. As I removed the clutter, peace fell over me, the anxiety washed away. I missed him all the same, but as Deacon Friar had suggested, I felt Joel in my heart instead of pushing him out. Thinking of him had transitioned from hurt to comfort.

This would be my first Christmas After with la vita allegra. I'd baked Joel's favorite Christmas foods-banana nut bread and peanut butter cookies-and doled them out to the neighbors. I had taken the boys to the ATO house to deliver four dozen cookies to da Vinci to share with his guys, and another three dozen to the Panchal Center. I had saved one loaf back to take to Cortland's party.

Judith and Barbara took the boys to a Christmas party at Life so I could go to Cortland's party alone. I walked across the street at 7:05 p.m., not wanting to be the first one there, but no other cars were in the driveway. As I rang the doorbell, I heard Christmas music coming from the inside-the classics, Frank Sinatra. I wondered if the other neighbors had done as I had and simply walked over, though there were no other footprints on the snowy sidewalk.

Cortland answered the door, wearing a red sweater and pressed slacks, handsomely festive. He took the banana bread I offered him. “You came,” he said as if he couldn't believe it.

“Merry Christmas.”

“Merry Christmas. Oh, come in. Let me show you around.”

“Wow.” The place was completely transformed. New tile, new paint, new granite and stainless steel kitchen, just as he'd described. I admired his vision for change. “It's all so different.”

“You like it?”

“Like it? I love it. Wait 'til all the other neighbors get here. They'll be jealous.”

He took my coat and hung it in the entry closet. I followed him to the kitchen and sat on the black bar stool and noticed two martini glasses on the counter. Two and not ten, twenty?

“Can I pour you a Christmastini?”