Gaining Visibility. Pamela Hearon
perfect temperature.
She drew a dreamy breath. Her planning and training and hard work paid off. The interior decorating company she’d started five years ago had shown a fine profit for three years despite her personal setbacks. She’d even been able to expand and take on a partner. And soon, she would begin her conquest of the Cinque Terre. She would conquer this ruggedly handsome terrain just like she conquered the cancer and the depression and the weight gain.
Voices below the balcony caught her attention. One she thought she recognized from yesterday as the stonemason’s. She stood up, catching sight of two figures lingering in the shade beneath the balcony next to hers. Sure enough, Adonis and a young man sipped dark liquid from espresso cups, deep in conversation.
As they talked, a well-endowed blonde sunbathing by the pool stood up to adjust her nearly nonexistent bikini. The young man gave a low whistle, making a motion as if squeezing a proffered breast.
Adonis’s snort held a derisive edge. “Americana,” he muttered. He leaned over and picked up a large, round rock and squeezed it, giving an exaggerated grunt. His companion laughed as Adonis tossed the rock away.
Julia felt her face heat as Frank’s remark that she now came equipped with jawbreakers surged to the front of her mind. He’d been trying to cover his revulsion at her appearance . . . had sought to make light of the horror he tried to hide.
She blinked away the tears. If he’d stuck around, he would’ve been surprised by how supple her fake breasts had become over time, almost lifelike really.
But he hadn’t stuck around.
She’d been fading in Frank’s visibility for years. The cancer caused him to lose sight of her completely.
She stepped back into her room and closed the door on the conversation below. Let them think whatever they wanted, these perfect young men surrounded by their perfect women in their perfect world.
Age would give them a different perspective.
And if it didn’t, God help them.
* * *
Julia’s heart jumped with delight at the sight of the trailhead at Piazza Garibaldi. Everything she’d read led her to believe that hiking in Liguria was the way to see the countryside, but until that very moment, she’d been afraid to trust the information completely. She needn’t have worried. The trail was well marked and obviously very well used.
A group of a dozen or so people dressed exactly like she was—armed with backpacks, hiking boots, walking sticks, and small GPS devices attached to their belts—stood listening to a young man speaking in German with an easy smile.
She hurried to get ahead of them. Although the assurance that she wasn’t alone on a trail in a foreign country calmed the first-time jitters, she didn’t want to share her premiere celebratory adventure with anyone—especially not strangers.
She headed up the shady trail, which was quite steep at the beginning, but eventually was broken by level areas that wound through tall stands of trees. She didn’t recognize them, although the leaf shape indicated some type of oak and closer inspection revealed acorns with hairy caps.
Determined to stay ahead of the German group, she pushed upward until the trees gave way to a meadow and a spectacular, unbroken view of the Golfo dei Poeti—the “Gulf of Poets.” There she paused to munch on the granola bar and water she’d brought along. Looking across the breathtaking vista, she fully understood why Dante and Petrarch felt inspired to write about its beauty, why the Romantics, Byron and Shelley, chose to live here. A fleeting memory of Shelley’s Adonaïs came to mind, which conjured an image of the stonemason this morning. The scenery at this place could apparently make a poet of anyone.
Or a romantic. This beauty was meant to be shared with someone special.
An unexpected stab of loneliness hit her hard enough to make the scenery blur. She swiped away the tears and tucked the remainder of the granola bar into her pocket, no longer hungry.
I’m here, she reminded herself. Alive and healthy. And alone is preferable to being with someone who can’t stand the sight of who I’ve become.
Across the gulf lay Porto Venere and beyond that, the tiny villages of the Cinque Terre waited for her.
But first, she had Lerici to explore.
And if she wanted the pool time this afternoon that she’d promised herself, she had to get a move on.
The olive grove ahead—and the sound of chatter from the first of the German hikers—spurred her to start moving again.
She tuned the playlist in her head to the one that offered the quickest pace—Dance Like Nobody’s Watching.
She used that one often because, of course, nobody was.
* * *
One hour at the pool lengthened to almost two.
Julia slathered on another huge dollop of sunscreen, paying careful attention to her chest area. The modest cut of the one-piece she’d bought for the trip showed only a bit of cleavage and kept all the scars covered, so she was relatively comfortable. Except for the fact that sitting next to the overly endowed americana the young men had spoken about that morning made her wonder exactly what fantasy her mind had been in when she’d also purchased the two-piece hidden in the bottom of her luggage. But the sun and the warm water felt so perfect, she couldn’t bring herself to leave the pool yet. She’d denied herself this pleasure far too long—too self-conscious of her body in a swimsuit to go near a pool or a beach.
Another thing that pinned her to the seat was the spectacular scenery—Adonis, still hard at work. Still hard everywhere. She’d given up trying to make sense of the article in the magazine on her lap, although she kept it there as a prop to thumb through. The man was too great a distraction. Hidden behind her large sunglasses and floppy hat, she’d been enjoying the view for quite some time.
He dropped a stone into place, and suddenly, his head snapped her way as if her stare had called him. A “caught ya” smile played across his handsome, dark features.
Julia went rigid with embarrassment, quickly thumbing another page to prove the arrogant playboy wrong, but a hot flash of seismic proportions sent her scurrying to jump in the pool and wash away the telltale sweat.
As she swam a couple of laps, Adonis took a break, moving to the shade to down a bottle of water. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw him pick up his pad and start to sketch, as he’d done the night before. She went back to her chair and toweled off just as the americana bombshell stood and stretched and readjusted the back of her Brazilian bikini, eyes glued on the stonemason.
In the perfect position to see and hear all, Julia put her invisibility to work. She donned her hat and sunglasses, and opened her magazine as the blonde strutted her stuff in Adonis’s direction.
He flipped the sketch pad closed when he saw the woman approaching.
“You don’t have to be shy.” She came to a stop—more of a pose, really—with hands hugging the back of her hips and breasts thrust far enough forward to look dangerous. “I’ve noticed you watching me all afternoon, and then I saw you sketching me. I thought I’d come over and introduce myself.”
So that’s how the visible crowd did it these days. Even if she were visible and the young woman’s age, Julia never could’ve been that bold. But it was intriguing to watch.
“Mi dispiace.” Adonis’s deep voice carried easily.
The blonde waved her hand in front of her chest and let her fingers play lightly at the base of her throat, drawing attention to her breasts as if they might somehow be overlooked. “You don’t have to apologize. I wanted to let you know I wouldn’t mind posing for you . . . like in a more private setting? We could meet later for drinks and talk about it if you’d like.”
And have sex, of course. Sheesh.
“Sì.” He shrugged. “My friend