Dedicated to Sparkysdreamer
This is a one-shot that is part of the California vs. Ugly Betty Land saga. The incidents described here commence sometime between the beginning of Chapter 11 and Chapter 12 of the story Getty Magic Rossi Romance
~ Cheek to Cheek ~
Maggie hung up the phone cursing her friends just a little. Every chance she got, she'd been ringing up Bee, Katrina, Lynnie, Beatrice—pretty much whoever was available to fill her in on the delightful happenings at the current Getty get-together during Melissa's wedding week. And, what transpired on these calls? She got all these happy updates. Reunions with old friends, new loves in the offing, warm, balmy Cali weather, and, worst of all, adorable Rossis everywhere —hordes of brothers, uncles, cousins—damn them for their tight little muffin butts. Why couldn't those girls lie to her? Didn't they know how she longed to be among them?
Unfortunately, work summoned her constantly. Always work-work-work. She would have done anything within her power to attend the festivities in America, but she just didn't have the money. She was vaguely aware that the wealthy magazine publisher/novelist Rachael Cullen had awhile back given the various Getty Girls sizeable sums of money. Too bad she hadn't joined the Getties until that sweet little payday had passed.
Not that the possibility of financial gain accounted in any way for the appeal of that elite sorority—Maggie had understood from the start that the cash gifts bestowed by Rachael had been a one-time, not-to-be-repeated windfall for her circle of friends. On the contrary, the busy nurse would have parted with any of her own income that she could spare just to hang out with her new online mates and their Rossi honeys. Too bad she couldn't scrounge up the price of a round-trip ticket. Could she be blamed for noting wistfully that a little nest egg to fund her travels would have come in handy just now?
There were only two ways Maggie knew to deaden the sting of not being among her sistas at a time like this—and only one of these remedies didn't involve massive damage to her liver. That one was dancing. A couple of years ago, she had tired of the traffic on the dance floors at the local clubs—oafs who mistook their leaden trotters for twinkle toes, who could barely move their own sorry arses around the room, let alone manage a partner. Thus she had begun to count out her pennies to take advantage of classes offered at a nearby dance school. Not that she needed dancing lessons. Lord knows, she'd been a stellar stepper since her high school days, and time had only burnished her skills.
But the school provided access to what she craved most—partners to match her own level of mastery. The instructors there were fit, graceful, attentive and knowledgeable about their art. They also knew how to keep their charges engaged and challenged, as much a part of their skill set as the actual dance moves. So after this evening's phone conversation with her Norwegian buddy Bee, Maggie dove into her closet, brought out her ruby-colored high-heeled sandals and headed for polished floorboards of the Stathopoulos Studio, owned by one Apollo Stathopoulos.
In the two years since she had begun patronizing his establishment, Maggie had become one of Apollo's favorites. After several hours spent coaxing neophytes to keep their chins up and count to the music as they jerked awkwardly around the ballroom, he looked forward to a chance to spend an hour with a woman who could match him kick for kick, swivel for swivel. He had given a standing order to assign her to him if she called to schedule a work-out—or even simply just showed up—at a time he was free.
Maggie was fond of Apollo and loved that he cherished her company and that he knew how to guide her body effortlessly and masterfully through the tango, the mamba, the samba, the cha-cha-cha. The Latin dances were her favorites. Apollo himself was not her ideal partner—too tall and, in handsome late middle age, not really energetic enough to match her own vivacity, not for a full hour. Nevertheless, they got on well. If she wanted a session with one of the other male instructors from time to time, just to add some variety to her dance ticket, he did not begrudge her. However, tonight he made a beeline for her when she whisked through the door.
"Maggie, I hope you've come to save me," he begged in his Greek-accented baritone. "I'm bored out of my mind. Earlier I had a 78-year-old arthritic granny getting a lesson by way of a birthday present from her kids. Didn't know her left from right foot and couldn't figure how to lift her heels off the floor, so it was shuffle, shuffle, shuffle for an hour. Oh, she was an old dear, very shy, but smiling and pleased for her big night out. Not so hard to take, though the lesson did drag on. But then my last ticket was a crabby middle-aged shrew. Came with her husband. Marina took the male half, and I was stuck with the female. Insisted on leading and tried to push me around the dance floor, with she and the hubby shouting cross comments across the room at each other the whole time. Ruined the atmosphere for the other students. I was praying for somebody to come in who knows how to strut the boards proper."
"Not so sure if I'm your woman for the job tonight, Pol. Kinda down in the dumps, you know—I was actually hoping for a bit of cheering myself. But I'm game for whatever you can dish up. Just do me a favor and take my mind off my woes."
As soon as Maggie hung her coat, Apollo whisked her onto the floor. "Feel like something a bit dramatic tonight, old girl?" he asked, his eyes shining with anticipation. "What about a paso doble?"
Maggie stared. "But you banned that one! Said it's too showy, not really a 'social dance.' Besides, I don't know how to do it very well."
"I know you know how to follow where I guide you. As for the rules about what's allowed, I make them so I'm the one who can break them. Anyway, we can snatch one of the private-lesson rooms. Look, we don't have to be great at it—nobody judging us here. Let's just give it a whirl!"
With those words, Apollo opened the door to one of the "private rooms"—actually cubicles separated off from the group dance area by glass dividers—and stood aside for her to pass through. Upon entering, he inserted a CD in a stereo player perched on a table by the wall.. Immediately, he assumed the arched, erect preen of a matador and beckoned to his partner. Spirits suddenly buoyed, Maggie laughed and gamely advanced towards him, sultry and rhythmic. It proved true that this dance was not her forte. Perhaps she could learn to excel in time if she worked on it, but for now it was just a delightful experiment. And the lady was confident enough in her talent not to mind playing at something new from time to time, even if it meant making herself look a bit foolish. At any rate, it was good sexy fun.
The primary purpose of the private rooms was to allow an instructor and student to make use of a music selection different from the one being served up to the group classes over speakers in the main hall. Even in the private rooms, "show-stoppers" were generally forbidden because, still visible to the dancers outside, these displays tended to draw attention, bringing activities on the main floor to a halt. "Watching somebody else perform is not what the clientele pay for," the owner frequently admonished his instructors, directing them to keep their instructees focused on their own efforts at all times.
Still, when the matador and his mate concluded their pas de deux, Maggie noted that those outside the glass, if not brought to a standstill by their demonstration, had at least slowed in their paces, heads turned in her and Pol's direction. Their audience's faces bore looks of admiration mixed with some amusement. Maggie's mood had lifted giddily, her disappointment at the party she was missing overseas momentarily forgotten. But then a sudden glimpse of something unexpected brought her back to earth.
Why can't I get those damned Rossis and Getties out of my mind? she berated herself. For a moment there, I swore I saw Gio on the dance floor. These naughty eyes of mine playing tricks on me. See for yourself, Maggie, no young bucks from TV out there now.
She smiled at Apollo abashedly. "I guess we drew a crowd in spite of ourselves," she said.
"Don't worry about it, love. Look, they're all back to their own business already," he pointed.
Maggie's eyes turned back and scanned the group outside the glass. And now she spied him again, unmistakably, a Rossi if she'd ever seen one. No, it wasn't Gio. She saw that now. This fellow was older, a bit of silver at the temples, with a salt-and-pepper mustache and goatee. Early to mid-forties, she gauged him to be, still younger than her but no longer in the bloom of youth. Still he cut quite a dashing figure in a billowy wine-red silk shirt and form fitting black trousers that showcased his well-toned buttocks and muscular thighs. Compact of stature—about 5'5"—he looked to be the perfect height to partner her, if she could only get her shot with him.
Placing a hand on her current dance partner's arm, she pointed at the Gio look-alike. "That bearded fellow over there and the woman in the yellow dress. I don't remember either one here before. Which one is the instructor and which the pupil?"
"I don't know who she is, but he's a new chap on my payroll, name of Ricardo."
"Italian?"
"No, no, a Brit. Only here a couple weeks, but already popular with the female clients, even though it's his first professional dance job. He's a boyfriend of Cheryl's"—Maggie knew Cheryl to be one of Pol's regular instructors—"and she asked me to give him a try-out. I'm sure I'll be keeping him on after his trial period ends. He definitely knows his moves."
"I was just wondering, any chance—?"
Pol smiled avuncularly. "Sure, Maggie, sweetheart. Show me a good time for the rest of the hour—I mean choreographically speaking, of course—and I'll arrange for you to have the next hour with him, on the house."
* * * * * * * * *
"He - e - e - y, you're good!" Maggie beamed with pleasure at the accolade. She had just finished her first number with Ricardo, a smoothly executed cha-cha-cha. From the first step, he had locked the rich chocolate drops that passed for his eyes firmly on hers. A thrilling little tickle ran down her body as she felt his strong arm take possession of her waist, holding her firmly yet lightly as he piloted her through the staccato motions of their dance. "I press a little here, I sway you, turn you, and you respond instantly. Nothing better than that in a dance partner," he complimented her, dropping his voice to add, "or in a woman." Wow! No wonder this new guy was a hit with the clientele.
Cheryl, his reputed lady love, stunning in a flouncy turquoise dress, nodded gaily at them as she trotted past in the arms of her own partner, a prematurely balding, ginger-haired young man who couldn't seem to lift his eyes from his own feet. Maggie imagined that Cheryl was happiest when she saw her man tied up with a customer who appeared to be no competition, for example, an older woman like herself. Maggie calculated that she had about 20 years on the young blonde. Ricardo himself probably topped his girlfriend by at least a decade.
The hour sped by, and Maggie, despite some fatigue setting in, was glowing. Ricardo was obviously pleased to have an accomplice in his arms who allowed him to show off the more complex maneuvers in his repertoire. Pulling closer to her now, he spoke softly in her ear, "Next I'm going to twirl you out, draw you back and dip you to the floor. After that, when I reach out my hand to pull you up, try sliding up the side of my leg, pressing your body against mine and I'll take over from there." Maggie felt her heart beating faster, and realized it was the Getty girl in her taking possession. She knew steps like he described were forbidden here, but the idea of executing such a move with such a partner excited her in ways that were irresistible. She flushed, nodded, and suddenly he set her spinning.
For a moment when she touched down to the floor, she worried that she might not have the strength to elevate herself again and thought fleetingly she should have tipped him off about her tricky back. But no worries, as he dragged her to her feet again, his well developed biceps provided all the power that was needed for the job. Furthermore, the way her torso rubbed against him as she slid upwards left her tingling. It felt almost like having sex in public and her blush deepened.
"I should have warned you, dearie," she whispered hoarsely, "Apollo won't like that at all. I hope you don't get in too much trouble."
"But wasn't it fun?" he was smiling back at her, flashing his white, white teeth wickedly. "If I get a scolding it was worth it. Anyway, we'll make nice for the rest of the number, and then it will be time to go. Hopefully, that will win me some mercy."
For the moment, Ricardo's gaze was concentrated solely on the woman in his arms, but out of the corner of her eyes, she noticed Cheryl steering the ginger-haired man in their direction again. The blonde's face now bore a pasted-on smile that communicated she was clearly not pleased with what she had just watched. "Apollo may not be the only one ready to crack the whip," Maggie commented to her companion. "It looks like your girlfriend's not happy either."
"My—? Oh, you mean Cheryl. Yes, she can be a bit possessive at times, wants to call all the shots. But, you know, she's a girlfriend, not the girlfriend. We're not exclusive or anything. She's had other blokes meet her here after work, and I've been fine with that, so she certainly can't dictate what I do on the dance floor with a customer."
"Good, so long as our little pattycake there didn't disrupt a big romance for you."
A minute later, the music stopped. "That's it for the night, ladies and gentlemen," announced Apollo from the back of the ballroom. "Please come again."
As the hall emptied, both Apollo and Cheryl started moving in Ricardo's direction. Each appeared highly disgruntled and Maggie decided now was the time for her to make a quick exit. That would allow her partner in crime to deal with their wrath without the further complication of her own presence. "Thanks for the spin around the floor. See you next time I'm here," she murmured and started toward the coat rack.
"Wait!" he called after her, a touch of urgency in his voice. "Could you wait outside for me? I'd like a word. I won't be long . . ."
Her heart leapt a little. What could this be about? "Um, sure," she agreed. Glancing back as she skipped out of the door, she saw the wolves descending on their prey. She felt a bit the coward.
* * * * * * * *
The air was nippy. Maggie pulled up the collar of her coat, shivering a little as she lingered, hoping Ricardo hadn't forgotten her. She had begun to consider taking a powder, when a man and woman's voices, raised in a heated exchange, became audible though muffled behind the closed door at her back. Then the door flew open, and she heard, ". . . took a chance on you and you blew it!"
"Aw, you're just jealous. You didn't like me having fun . . ." That one was clearly Ricardo's throaty voice.
"You weren't there to have fun. It's a job, don't you understand? A job. Right now I can't even look at you. Maybe I'll call you tomorrow, but don't hold your breath."
Then Cheryl, now wrapped in a black wool trench coat, came tramping angrily out onto the sidewalk. Seeing the older woman standing there, she drew up short, surprised, then sneered. "So, Maggie, you're the next in the queue, are you? Better show him a good time, toots, or you'll lose your place in line, and be assured there's plenty waiting to pick up your slack. Don't think you're special." With that she trudged off down the street.
"Forgive her. She presumes a lot." Maggie turned to see Ricardo leaning against the wall next to the entrance, shaking his head apologetically.
"Ricardo, what happened? That sounded worse than I was expecting."
"No worries, love. I just got fired."
"You what?!"
"Cheryl's right. I knew better. Apollo has a strict rule against exhibition dancing, and I flouted it. And of course, I stupidly used you to do it with, when everyone knows Pol's sweet on you."
"That's nonsense!" sputtered Maggie, truly taken aback. "He's no such thing!"
"You haven't noticed? Cripes, you're thicker than I thought. And of course he saw there was a spark between you and me. No, don't deny it."
"But, but . . ."
"Look, how about stepping across to that pub over there for a pint? I feel like talking."
He offered his arm to her and, not hesitating a split second, she linked hers through it. "By the way, Ricardo, you haven't told me your last name."
"Haven't I, then? Very well, it's Rossi. Ricardo Rossi."
* * * * * * * *
". . . and Apollo really put it like that? I'm disappointed. I thought better of him."
"You have to make allowances for a man in love."
"I tell you again. Apollo is not in love with me! I've known him for two years and he's never tried anything."
"Well, you're a customer, after all. Apollo's attitude is nothing if not professional, and he wouldn't want to presume. Especially if he wasn't getting any signals from you that you were open to more."
"I'm just as glad he didn't act on his crush, if indeed there was any. It's true I don't really have those feelings for him, though he is a cute old stud. At least, I thought he was. Now I can't decide if I'll even go back."
"Please, don't let this incident rob you of a hobby you obviously enjoy. Don't put yourself in that position for my sake, a stranger."
Maggie reached across the table and squeezed Ricardo's hand impulsively. "Stranger? I can't let you get away with that. That little dance we did, that was a little . . . intimate . . . wouldn't you say, for us to be considered strangers now."
"So we're what? Friends?"
"Sure, friends," replied his drinking companion, adding to herself, Friends at the very least, you little hottie.
Glancing at her wristwatch, Maggie noted that it was nearly 9. Their class together had ended at 7 and here they still were together. Clearly, they were good company for one another. Out loud, she remarked, "Listen, Ricardo, Pol mentioned to me that this was your first professional dance job. You're so good, that's hard to believe. What were you before this?"
"Would you believe a pizza-maker? No really, it's the family business. My Mum and Dad fled to London from Italy with my oldest sister Gracia in 1943. Still in their teens, running from the Nazi invasion and all that. They set up a pizza business right away and proceeded to produce a houseful of future employees—my other sisters Edda, Pola and Claudia. But they kept trying until they hit gold with a boy, namely me. I took my time about it, arriving on the scene a full 24 years after Gracia, and the truth is I was spoiled rotten. At 18 my Dad Alf—short for Alfredo, of course—brought me into the business and right away gave me precedence over my sisters, who'd been working there for years. I was to be the heir and eventually they would work for me. My father was an old-fashioned guy. Well, Dad passed on this year, leaving the reins for me to pick up. Only I didn't want 'em, never have. For one thing, it's not fair. The place should be Gracia's, she's worked there since before I was born. Furthermore, my life is half over already, and I don't want to spend the other half of it scattering stray bits of food on wheels of dough. It's not my calling."
Here Ricardo paused, upended his pint, and thus fortified continued his story. "All my life I've loved dancing, and when Cheryl told me about this opening at Stathopoulos, it seemed the right time to make my move. Like it was destiny, the timing was so right. I left the pizza parlor in my sisters' hands. They're grateful to get it without ugly family recriminations, I'm grateful to be rid of it. All problems solved. . . . Now why are you looking so bemused?"
"I was just thinking, I know another pizza maker, also named Rossi, and he could be the spitting image of you, though he's a generation younger. Actually it's more his wife Elena who's a friend of mine. But from everything she tells me, her Federico is a good guy."
"So that's why you looked so odd when I told you my last name. Maybe we're related. I know my Dad always said there were a whole parcel of Rossis who fled Italy to America over the last century. It would be fun to meet them sometime. Maybe you could hook us up at a more felicitous moment, once I get on my feet again."
"So you're determined to stick with dancing, are you?"
"Dancing is the perfect life, the perfect career, the perfect consolation. I wish there were dancing here." He leaned in closer, breathing huskily. "Baby, I'd love nothing more than to hold you in my arms all night long and float with you. I wouldn't have to think about what comes next for me till tomorrow arrives."
"I know a place where there's dancing like that. About four blocks from here, if you don't mind walking."
"What kind of a club? What kind of music do they have?"
"Salsa."
"Mmmm, I love salsa. And what's the name of the joint?"
"Club Maggie. It's my flat, if that's not too bold. I've been practicing on my own there and it would be nice to dance with somebody besides my shadow."
* * * * * * * *
"You know what I like about you, Maggie? You're the perfect height for me to dance with." After helping her to clear furniture out of the way to make space, Ricardo had been dancing with Marg for about an hour now. They had started with the salsa, but now were taking a break with something slow and dreamy, in order to give his hostess time to catch her breath.
"That's nice to hear," she responded. "I was thinking the same about you. You know, you're an attractive young man. If I were a younger woman, I'd be tempted . . ."
Ricardo stopped dancing abruptly and stared at her intently. "I like to hear I'm tempting you. But why should your age stop you?"
"Well, after seeing you with Cheryl, I'm assuming your tastes . . that is, I think most folk would agree I'm a bit long in the tooth for a man like you to be thinking . . . "
". . . of romance? Because if they agreed on that, then they'd all be wrong." Here he circled her back with his right arm and set them to swaying again. "Tell me this, if a string of girls were lined up in front of me, all with different hair colors, would you just presume that the blonde was the one I'd pick? Or the redhead?"
"Well, no, but I don't see . . ."
"If it were a string of girls of various heights, would you assume I'd want the tall, willowy one or the more petite one?"
"Maybe the latter, given your height?"
"Well, you're frank," he said, his eyes shining merrily. "But you're wrong. Even though they're a disadvantage on the dance floor, a few inches has never held me back. Any more than a few years has. I do like girls Cheryl's age, I like 'em even younger in fact. But age is no more a factor for me than hair color or height. I also like women older than me. Truth be known, I like those better. I can't explain why. Maybe it comes from being the baby in the family, raised by a doting mother and older sisters. But then again, maybe not. At any rate I'm not thinking of you in a brotherly way."
"But it's not just my age. I mean, look at you, you're gorgeous and I know you know it. And me, well, I'm ordinary and carrying a spare stone at least above my ideal weight. And on somebody my height, a stone's a lot."
"Again, that's not a disadvantage. I like a little meat on the carcass, you know, when it comes to women. Pardon if it's a little crude to mention, but nothing draws me like a nice round apple of an ass. One like this in fact." Suddenly, his right hand slid down her back and cupped the firm cheek below, causing his hostess' eyes to pop.
"Uh-oh, well, see what you've done now," she admonished. "I can't just let that go by, I'm afraid."
"Yeah, so what are you going to do about it?" he challenged.
"Honey, you've just given me leave to do what I've wanted to ever since I saw you in those trousers." And now both her hands reached around and grabbed his own tightly honed bum.
"Ooph! I like that!" he exclaimed. "But you've left me wondering, what do we do now? Just keep dancing?"
"Sure, just dance me right through that door over there."
"And is that . . . ?"
"The bedroom? What do you think? After all, you still haven't showed me your tango, and I'm dying to see it. You know, the horizontal kind."
"Why, you fresh little thing!" And with that he caught her lips up in his and, lifting her off the floor, carried her, legs dangling, into the flat's cozy inner sanctum.
* * * * * * * *
Afterwards, Maggie cuddled up to her new lover, her hand on his chest, her head snuggled into the crook of his neck. She felt his fingers in her hair stroking her head like she was his pet kitty. It produced a lovely, pleasurable, relaxing sensation.
"I was right.," she declared triumphantly. "You make love the way you dance."
"And how's that?"
"I mean you lead exquisitely. You shift me around the bed the way you shift me around the dance floor—smoothly, effortlessly, masterfully. You obviously know all the moves and you execute them so well. . . . And now I see why—those biceps, they're huge, swollen things. So strong—I find that devastatingly attractive."
"Aw, hush up, sweetness. You're gonna make my head huge and swollen. Now I have to throw it right back at you that you're the perfect partner—so responsive, so free with your body. You know, I often wonder which came first—dancing or sex?"
"What do you mean?"
"I mean, what men and women do out on the dance floor—it seems clear to me that it's a mating ritual designed to mimic what we do in bed. But on the other hand, what if in bed we're just mimicking what we do when we dance. I mean, the grace, the variety—it's like no sex you see anywhere else in the animal kingdom. So I'm asking, which is the chicken and which is the egg?"
"Well, not to be too prosaic about it but I believe sex came first, or else where would all the dancers come from?"
"You've got a point. Trust a nurse to favor the biological explanation." He lifted his head, turning to plant an emphatic kiss on her forehead, his goatee tickling her at the top of her nose. "By the way, speaking of reproduction, how does it come to be that a prize like you isn't out of circulation, raising a brood? Are you recently divorced? Did some idiot lout let you get away?"
"Never married, actually. I don't know why it never happened. I've had boyfriends—actually quite a number of them. And that's not counting the number of bedridden patients who in the throes of a lingering illness convince themselves that nursey is their true soul mate. It's simply that nothing ever developed for me in that direction. I can't think of a single man from my past whom I now wish I had tied myself to for life. Of course, it would have been nice to have kids, but I guess I work my need to nurture out through my profession."
"And you never regret what you've missed?"
"I can't say that. But if I'd had a family, who knows? I might not have had dancing, at least not on a scale I enjoy it now. And I might never have met you."
"Not unless you fancied pizza. Listen," he continued, "It seems I'm free tomorrow night. Could I interest you in another date? There's a salsa bar across town I'd love to take you to and show you off."
Maggie giggled, amused at the idea of this dashing fellow showing her off. "I'd love it!" she agreed. But a moment later, reality brought her back to her senses. "But wait a minute, do you really want to commit to letting me tie you up for another evening? I heard Cheryl say she'd call you tomorrow."
"I think she said maybe she'd call. But, at any rate, let her. I don't owe her anything any more. And our last conversation was full of just the kind of drama I don't fancy. It wasn't just that one time, you know, she's quite the drama queen. No, Maggie, I may not be the type for long-term commitments, but committing to tomorrow night is certainly something I can deal with."
* * * * * * * *
In the wee hours, Maggie awoke with a start, disoriented to find somebody in the bed with her. It was something that hadn't happened in a very long time now. And then she remembered and smiled. She had fallen asleep with Ricardo spooning her, one arm wrapped around her protectively. But at some point in the night, he had turned away from her, and now they lay with their butts pressed up against each other. It was a delightful sensation, casual yet intimate, like they'd been bedmates forever. She lay there for a time, listening to him as he slept. He didn't snore, but there was a bit of a whistling woven into his even breathing.
After awhile, she realized she wasn't going back to sleep anytime soon. She thought of slipping off and calling California for the latest update, but then thought better of it. It's still Thursday over there, she thought and I think this is the hour Ugly Betty's on in that time zone. Nobody will appreciate it if I interrupt during their hour of Gio-ey goodness. Maybe somebody's emailed me, though. She tiptoed out to the living room, turned on a lamp and booted up her laptop. Just one email awaited—from Beatrice, this time—such a kind, solicitous (and at the moment very pregnant) friend. It had been sent many hours earlier:
Hi UKhere! (that was her login name in the Getty girls' forum)
Lots of happenings today… Roman will arrive this afternoon and her new Italian boyfriend from the plane is driving to meet her here. (I told you about them didn't I?)
YOU ARE AMAZING UK!!! Your emails are so funny and just what I need right now. My babies are not budging. I think when they come out (if ever!) I will give them a bill for rent money.
I keep trying to think if there's a way we could get you here by Saturday. That's when the wedding is you know. You should be thinking too… There are so many Rossis here… you would be in heaven just looking even if you don't have one of your own. You could probably squeeze a little here and there too if you were sneaky… And Lauren and Nino could put you up. There's nobody staying at their place right now.
Oh I wish I could see you and hug you!
Love
B
Maggie clicked the letter closed and smiled to herself. Such a typical Beatrice message—the ebullience, the affection, the compliments, the humor. She suppressed a wistful little sigh, but then thought of Ricardo. I may not have a plane ticket or a wedding to go to, but I do have a date with a Rossi, and that would never have happened if I'd left the country. The thought more than consoled her.
But she was still wide awake. What to do until sleep overtook her again? Glancing at her list of emails, she sighed. So much spam and junk mail, it was disheartening. Pages and pages of the stuff she'd never bothered to clear out—probably not since before last Christmas, she thought with chagrin. She guessed now was as good a time as any. She moved down the page, moving her mouse by rote, clicking and deleting, clicking and deleting, now and then moving an old message to be saved in the appropriate folder. Several pages into her task, she clicked on an unfamiliar piece of junk mail and then stopped short, her finger hovering over the button to delete. A message from a "Sweetie"—now why did that sound familiar? The only Sweetie she knew was Rachael the Getty girl, but she wasn't one of the ones who wrote to Maggie regularly. What could she have emailed her about? Maggie felt bad that she hadn't read it and sent a reply sooner. She clicked on the message:
i have noticed you are now here a lot and have become one of the getty girls. awhile back i sent all the girls a certain gift and now i think you should receive one too. look in your acct at . i hope this is a nice surprise for you.
It was unsigned, but clearly with the Getty reference, this was indeed the Sweetie who was Rachael Cullen. Maggie thought about her account. She hadn't used it in awhile—not enough money to be shopping online. She wondered if she could even find her password. After a few minutes' hunt, she managed to get into the acct and there it was—a deposit had been made for $50,000. More than enough for the trip to California. She was so excited! She was going to see all the Getty girls! B was going to get her hug! Forgetting for the moment that somebody was sleeping nearby, she let out a whoop.
Scarcely a moment later, Ricardo was in the room with her, rubbing his eyes sleepily.
"Why are you making so much noise? What's going on?" he muttered.
"Ricardo, do you mind if we postpone tomorrow's trip to the salsa club? I promise we can go sometime soon."
Ricardo frowned, still blinking at the light in the living room. "You're breaking your date with me? Already taking me for granted, are you?"
"No! I'm not breaking the date. I'm offering you a better one! Seeing as you lost your job and you're free now, how would you like to go to California with me? As soon as we can hop on a plane. I just got some money I can use to buy our tickets. You can meet your Rossi cousins—oh I know you're not sure they are your cousins, but I'm sure, just from seeing your face. You'll be sure, too, once you meet 'em, which will be soon, because we'll be staying with one of them and his girlfriend. He's a young man named Antonino and you'll like his lady—she's a transplanted Brit herself named Lauren."
Her new lover was now thoroughly awake. "Wait a minute! Wait a minute! You're offering me a trip to America? Expense paid? Why would you do that for me?"
"Maybe I didn't completely fill you in, but I have a thing for Rossi men. Just thought there was a good chance I'd never meet one face to face. Now, all within a few hours I'll have gotten to A—meet one, B—dance with one, C—make love with one, and D—get to attend a grand get-together of Rossis with my very own Rossi in tow. Come on, make my dream come true, Ricardo! Say you'll go!"
Ricardo chuckled. "So now it comes out—you only want me for my name. I feel so used! But, hell, that's okay. Use me, babe. California, here we come!"
At his words, Maggie flew out of her chair, hugged him soundly and covered his face with kisses. Ricardo laughed and stooped to wrap his arms around her legs, just below her butt, allowing him to lift her well off the floor and spin around with her merrily. But after a moment of gleeful tomfoolery, he lowered her gently and set her on her feet again.
"Maggie, really, thank you. I'm thinking this could be the start of something between the two of us—something that could last for awhile. You may just be the best dance partner I've ever had—vertical or horizontal, I might add—and now you're giving me something very special, the chance to meet family I never knew I had and to go on the most romantic second date I could ever imagine. I just wish I could give you something back."
Maggie raised a hand to caress his cheek and gaze into his soft eyes, then gave an affectionate tug on his goatee. "That was very sweet, what you just said, Ricardo. And actually there is something you could give me."
"Anything! Ask it!"
"Just kindly turn around and march yourself back to the bedroom, please. Very slowly, mind you, take your time. I'll be along behind you in a moment, after I've had my chance to enjoy the view."