Roman Holiday Read online

  Roman

  Holiday

  Pamela G. Hobbs

  This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, businesses, organisations and incidents portrayed in it are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons,

  living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Published 2019

  by Poolbeg Press Ltd.

  123 Grange Hill, Baldoyle,

  Dublin 13, Ireland

  Email: [email protected]

  © PAMELA G. HOBBS 2019

  The moral right of the author has been asserted.

  © Poolbeg Press Ltd, 2019, copyright for editing, typesetting, layout, design, ebook

  A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

  ISBN 978178199-330-9

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photography, recording, or any information storage or retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher. The book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition, including this condition, being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  www.poolbeg.com

  About the author

  A native of Dalkey, Co Dublin, Pamela made use of the local children’s library from the age of seven, every Tuesday and Friday afternoon on the way home from school. By 13 she was penning her own stories, though very few ever got finished. Her dream as a child was to write and illustrate her own books and to that end, she attended the National College of Art and Design studying Visual Communications. Although she still uses her visual side, nowadays she definitely spends more time at the laptop than the easel.

  Being a winner in the Novel Fair 2015 gained Pamela both confidence and experience from being around other writers and she was subsequently selected for ‘Date With An Agent’ (The International Literary Festival, Dublin) in 2016, 2017 and 2018. These events gave Pamela invaluable contacts and also the impetus to write her first short story, Time Heals, which was shortlisted for the Colm Tobin International Short Story Award, May (2017), a part of the Wexford Literary Festival. She is a member of the online writing group, Indulgeinwriting.ie

  As an Adult Education teacher in Kilkenny, Pamela’s days are busy, challenging and fulfilling and her evenings are spent in another world altogether – that of romance and intrigue – it doesn’t matter if she is reading or writing, her favourite motto is, ‘Life can be tough, find your happy ending wherever you can.’

  Pamela, her husband, and two sons lived in the United States, on both coasts, for 12 years and she wore many hats – Florist, Office Manager, Call Centre Supervisor, Colour Specialist for a children’s clothing company, and before moving to Oregon, writing articles predominately focusing on Irish immigration for a well-known Irish Paper in Philadelphia.

  Pamela has included many Americans in her writing and she likes to focus on the numerous family connections the Irish have with the US.

  Acknowledgements

  Thanks again to the men in my life - their belief in me is unwavering. My friends, from various times, stages and locations are a bedrock of support - I never take that for granted. Thanks also to Bibi for invaluable plot advice, for Sarah K for the Italian phrasing and my editor Claire Dean, for being so patient.

  Chapter 1

  “All right, you can go.” Caro switched her phone from one ear to the other as she reached up to take a fresh cup of coffee from the charming waiter. She mouthed her thanks and listened to her son, Toby, chattering on about his proposed school outing. “Tell Grandma I’ll phone her later, before I go to the reception, and we can discuss this together.”

  They spoke for another few minutes and with a laughing “Ciao, bambino,” she pressed the end-call button.

  Caught between a sigh and a smile, she picked up the delicate espresso cup and sipped gingerly. Nope, still not ready for the pure, unadulterated version, so she tore open a slim packet of sugar to empty into the dark brown liquid. And definitely still not ready to bring her son down the path of no return. What was a little school trip when she had a whole heap of secrets to rain down on the poor kid’s head in the not too distant future . . .

  Absolutely not ready, coward though that made her. She wasn’t just going to throw him to the wolves, she reminded herself, not till she’d at least bearded the lion in his den. Okay, that was just stupid – way too many very mixed metaphors and certainly two too many four-legged beasts. She needed these few days to get her head together, her career direction sorted and then . . . then, we’ll see.

  Stirring her coffee absently, she took in her surroundings. The coffee shop had become a regular haunt, if regular could be called her third visit. Nestled on the corner of Piazza Navona, it attracted a tourist crowd, but she figured she could make out the many native patrons, too. The difference being that the Italians stood at the bar downing their “fix” while the visitors, like herself, sat at one of the many little tables scattered both inside and out on the pavement.

  The staff were abrupt in their manner at times and a bit short with some of the more obvious tourists but seemed to have a lovely natural banter with the locals. At least she assumed it was banter – it was hard to hear the actual words and there was a lot of noise, many raised voices and wild gesticulations, but usually a cheeky grin was included somewhere along the line.

  The décor wasn’t much to look at – the chairs a bit uncomfortable, perhaps to encourage short stays and no lingering for an hour over one cappuccino, or perhaps because the staff so rarely sat, they were simply unaware of the discomfort. The walls were a faded ochre covered with old photographs of what she assumed were family members, a few political figures thrown in and, of course, Il Papa. A bit like a pub in the west of Ireland, Caro thought, remembering a few jaunts to ancient hostelries not unlike this. The bar was chest-height, perfect for elbow-leaning, and the shelves behind were packed with a mixture of coffee varieties, wines and brandies, and a selection of coloured liqueurs.

  Something about this coffee bar attracted her. Whether it reminded her of her very first visit so long ago or just the pleasant atmosphere, she wasn’t sure, but she’d stumbled on it during her first evening in Rome and had come back twice since. It was handy, just a two-minute stroll from her borrowed apartment on the fourth floor of a very narrow building nestled three streets away.

  She’d been almost giddy with excitement that first evening, inhaling the sounds and smells as much as the sights, memories flooding in, feelings bubbling over. She’d needed that first shot of ridiculously strong coffee to alert her to reality – this was now – a new visit to Rome and nothing to do with fourteen years ago. She was different, everything was different – even Rome was different. Well, that’s a big, fat lie, Caro chuckled to herself as she swept her gaze about. Rome was called the Eternal City, for goodness’ sake – not much change happening here.

  She tilted her head back and looked up, bypassing the three main fountains, at the beautiful architecture gracing the piazza itself. So many lovely buildings with nooks and crannies, and decorative features of sculptures alongside ugly gargoyles. Gorgeous soft hues coloured the stunning buildings that faced the square. Caro assumed that most of them these days were businesses rather than personal homes, but she wasn’t sure. She watched people going in and out of various doors, and some were definitely homes.

  Wow, she thought, imagine living right here in the heart of Rome. Would it be terribly noisy? Proba
bly, but totally worth it. She let her gaze wander the crowds and land here and there on interesting sights or unusual-looking groups of people. It was such fun and so relaxing just to sit and “be” for a while. Her work would start soon enough and then moments like this would become rare treats, so she intended to enjoy every second.

  A frown crept between her brows as she dwelled briefly on the other reason, the main, Toby-related, reason she was here and her stomach clenched at the vast unknown awaiting her. Too bad, she scolded herself, it was beyond time to “man-up”. Her phone vibrated quietly on the table by her hand and she reached over to read the screen. A smile spread across her face as she answered the call.

  Nick Sullivan looked over at the woman smiling delightedly into her phone. She looked to be in her early thirties and was eye-catchingly attractive. Chestnut brown hair swung around her head as she absently flipped it out from the back to ruffle it about. Shorter at the front, like a fringe, she blew it and the strands danced in the air before settling back into place.

  From his stance at the bar he couldn’t see the colour of her eyes, but they crinkled charmingly as she talked excitedly to her caller. Dark lashes framed their shape and her wide blush-pink mouth seemed to be permanently in a smile. No, she wasn’t beautiful, Nick thought, sipping his espresso slowly, but she radiated joy as she spoke. Not in the Italian way, not loud or with wild hand movements, but restrained, her movements impossibly ladylike.

  Nick grimaced. Ladylike? Did he even know what that looked like? But it was the word that struck him as he watched this lovely unassuming woman talk on her phone. She wore a crisp white shirt, blue jeans, a navy blazer and sensible loafers. Nothing particularly ladylike there but the whole picture oozed simple charm.

  She laughed suddenly and the husky, raw sound sent a spear of lust straight to his groin. Christ! he needed to get laid, he thought, when a stranger’s laugh can make him horny. Nick rested his cup on the counter and turned to make a quick exit before he made a fool of himself and approached her.

  “Ciao, Dante, grazie.” He turned back to the barman a few metres away.

  “Arrivederci, Signore Nico,” Dante called back with a toss of his head.

  Nick swivelled round and just about had a heart attack. He heard the clink of a cup and saucer wobbling precariously as he automatically reached to steady the dark-haired woman he’d been watching moments before, who was now almost toppling backwards as he stepped into her path without looking. He stared into deep blue eyes, opened wide in surprise at that moment, and suddenly, he was at a loss for words.

  She, thankfully, wasn’t.

  “Oh, God, sorry!” she gabbled.

  English-speaking, then, he thought, but she instantly broke into perfect Italian.

  “Colpa mia. Chiedo scusa. Mi dispiace molto.” She righted the cup and saucer and tried to step back from his grasp.

  He realised he was still gripping her and let go instantly.

  “Di niente. L’errore è stato mio. Non stavo guardando.” He knew he was being formal as he took the blame and told her it was his fault, but he felt tongue-tied, like a schoolboy. This wouldn’t do. “And maybe you should have been looking where you were going, too?” he asked, still in Italian, an eyebrow raised enquiringly.

  She glared at him, not at all put off by his brusque, defensive tone.

  “I think we can share the blame equally, don’t you? No harm done.”

  Her accent was very good, almost flawless, and a non-native probably wouldn’t realise she wasn’t speaking in her mother tongue. Who was she? He obviously wasn’t going to find out, as she moved swiftly past him, crockery in hand, to place it and some euros on the counter.

  “Grazie,” she said pleasantly to Dante, who beamed at her.

  “Prego,” he returned, smiling. “Domani?”

  “Sì. Ciao,” she replied.

  Turning, she obviously saw him still standing where she had left him and with a haughty glare, walked right past, pretty nose in the air.

  Nick sighed.

  He was an idiot.

  The first woman to catch his attention in what seemed like forever and he had to act like a gauche fool. Her scent lingered. Something light and floral. He shook his head ruefully, a bit at sea. Get to work, mate, he chided himself, at least that’s something you can control. Nick saluted Dante once more and, pulling his phone from his jacket pocket, headed to the hotel.

  Jesus! what a jerk. Caro strode towards her apartment, her irritation simmering beneath an outward calm. Granted, he was a spectacularly handsome jerk, but really, did he have to be so rude? She’d apologised – he had, too – and then he needs to wonder if she should have been looking where she was going? Huh!

  But, dammit, he was pretty darn gorgeous.

  The rudeness, the arrogance?Nah, it didn’t detract from the overall image of a sexy man in a smart suit. Double damn! Go away, she warned the image. I have no space in my head for you right now.

  She glanced at her slim wristwatch and groaned. Some emails had to be sent this morning and some prep on her speech for this evening’s reception, but the afternoon was hers, so for now she would focus on work and do some more “Rome rambling” in a few hours.

  Satisfied with her plan, she crossed the street to her building. It was typical for this part of Rome – four stories high, quite narrow, nothing much to look at from the outside but pure delight within. Her apartment on the top floor was small – two bedrooms had been a must as Toby would be coming for visits and meanwhile it served as an office space. Her open-plan living-area-cum-kitchen was admittedly also small, but she didn’t mind. The double doors leading to the tiny balcony and the view it gave?

  Priceless.

  Yes, she knew she sounded like a TV advert but, honestly, the time she’d sat out there last night had been the most restful she’d had in months. A book in one hand that, truthfully, had barely been looked at and a glass of red wine in the other that had been thoroughly enjoyed.

  Almost two hours she had sat, as the sun had left the sky and the night had turned in, and she’d listened and watched from her little spot. Sounds of talking, laughing, some shouting – it was Italy, after all – and at one stage she’d heard a beautiful baritone break into song. Not for long, as he’d been laughingly hushed by whoever was with him, but it had been perfect. Smells – aromas, really – of various meals being cooked. It had made her ravenous and it was what had eventually forced her back inside to eat.

  Where was her son when she needed him? Her family were foodies and her son had certainly inherited some pretty decent food genes. He’d been cooking for her the last couple of years and he loved it. At thirteen, he was showing real aptitude for herbs, spices and sauces. She was a lazy mother when it came to sustenance and she knew it. Hours could pass if she was working on class prep or a paper for the university, food simply not on her radar.

  Eventually, she’d hear her stomach growl and depending on her whereabouts, grab a sandwich, a burger, a bar of chocolate and crisps, or if all else failed, cold cereal. Decidedly unhealthy it certainly was and Toby, her darling young man, finally took it upon himself to learn to cook. He was saving them from starvation, he’d said, and as he produced his first dinner of a simple but delicious spaghetti in olive oil with roasted tomatoes, basil and garlic, she was very glad of his need for food.

  Family relationships differ from household to household and theirs was as odd or as normal as the next. Toby wrote their weekly food list and they did the grocery shopping together on a Saturday morning on their way home from Italian class. He did his best to educate his mother on the finer points of one cheese over another but it went over her head. She was, that said, a very appreciative audience and had put on a few much-needed pounds since he’d begun feeding her. Her skin and hair looked better, too, and she had more energy. It’s not that she’d been unwell before, just a bit run down from trying to juggle her position as junior art history lecturer in one of Dublin’s fine universities and being a s
ingle mum.

  Her parents, Jo and Patrick Fitzgerald, were an amazing help and support and often, if she was running late or had uni events to attend, Toby just went over to them to be fed so as not to eat alone. They adored their grandchild, as did her siblings, and no boy could be more loved and nurtured than he.

  God! she missed him. And not just for his culinary skills. She was only gone three days and already her heart ached to see his gorgeous face and cheeky smile. How could she manage six months? Well, fortunately she wouldn’t have to. Not really.

  Thank the Lord for Skype, cheap flights and grandparents – and for Toby himself, who was excited for her to have this chance. She didn’t know many young men in their early teens who were so completely in tune with their mother’s needs and that scared her a bit – so much responsibility on such young shoulders.

  It couldn’t be good, right? She had to do better at shielding him from adult stuff, but when it was just the two of them and he was such a sharp lad, well, that became hard. She’d originally planned that Toby would come and spend the time here with her, maybe attend a local school, but they’d talked about it at length and even brought the extended family into the discussion. So for now, at least, the plan was that Toby would stay in Dublin with his grandparents, aunts and uncles, and pop over and back every few weeks, or she’d fly home. Though it wasn’t ideal – not by a long shot – and, truthfully, Caro genuinely didn’t know if she’d be able to cope with the absences.

  Oh, get a grip, she admonished herself as she rummaged among her papers for the file she needed for tonight. People have been sending their children to boarding school for months at a time for centuries and seemingly survived, hadn’t they?