Susan Phillips - Breathing Room

“I’m so glad,” Isabel said.

“I’m really sorry about all your problems.” The visitor bit her bottom lip. “Would you mind- My name is Jessica. Would you pray for me?”

Isabel rose and hugged her. “Of course I will.”

His throat constricted. Isabel Favor was the genuine article. And he’d set out to corrupt her.

The woman returned to her table, and Isabel settled into her chair. She dipped her head and gazed into her wineglass. With a sense of shock, he realized she was praying. Right there in front of everybody, for chrissake.

He reached for a cigarette, then remembered he’d already smoked his daily ration. He drained his wineglass instead.

She looked up and gave him a soft, confident smile. “She’s going to be fine.”

She might as well have slammed a tire iron into his head, because right then he knew he couldn’t do it. He couldn’t seduce a woman who prayed for strangers, and picked up highway litter, and only wanted good things for everybody. What was he thinking? It would be like seducing a nun.

A really hot nun.

He’d had enough. He’d drive her back, drop her off at the farmhouse, and forget her. For the rest of his vacation he’d act as though she didn’t exist.

The idea depressed the hell out of him. He liked being with her, and not just because she turned him on and made him laugh, but also because her decency was oddly seductive, like a freshly painted wall just waiting for a little graffiti.

She gave him a smile that didn’t quite work. “It’s women like her who’ve helped me get through these past six months, knowing that my books and lectures have meant something to them. Unfortunately, there aren’t enough left to fill an auditorium.”

He pulled himself out of his mental confusion. “You’ve probably become a guilty pleasure. They still like what you have to say, but you’re not the flavor of the month, and they don’t want to be unfashionable.”

“I appreciate the vote of confidence, but I think most people prefer taking advice from someone whose life isn’t a shambles.”

“Okay, that, too.”

She was quiet on the way back, which made him suspect she was praying again, and wasn’t that just a fucking inspiration? Maybe he should pack up and fly back to L.A. But he didn’t want to leave Italy.

When they reached the farmhouse, he roused himself from his gloomy thoughts and went through the motions of checking the power. The lights came on as they were supposed to. He went outside, ostensibly to make sure the exterior lights were working. “This is nice,” he said, gazing out at the garden.

“You’ve never been here?”

“A long time ago. I stayed at the villa a couple of times when I was a kid. My aunt brought me down here once to meet old Paolo. Grouchy son of a bitch, as I remember.”

A series of high-pitched squeals split the air. He looked up and saw three children running down the hill from the villa. Two noisy little girls and a boy-all of them barreling straight toward him and screaming at the top of their lungs.

“Daddy!”

Ren took a step backward as the girls hurled themselves at his legs, their giggles shrill enough to cut glass. Only the boy held back.

Isabel felt light-headed. Daddy? Ren had never said a thing about having children. He’d admitted to a short-term marriage when he was young, but three children didn’t look short-term to her.

She glanced up and saw a woman appear at the top of the hill. She stood silhouetted against the sky, a toddler in her arms, the breeze plastering the skirt of her cotton dress to her very pregnant belly.

“Daddy! Daddy! Did you miss us?” the older girl shrieked in American English, while the younger collapsed in giggles.

Ren jerked away as if the children were radioactive and gazed at Isabel with something that looked like panic. “I swear to God, I’ve never seen them before in my life.”

Isabel tilted her head toward the top of the hill. “Maybe you’d better tell her that.”

Ren looked up.

The woman waved, her long dark hair fluttering in the breeze. “Hey, lover!”

He shielded his eyes. “Tracy? Damn it, Tracy, is that you?”

“You said ‘damn.’ “ The youngest girl, who looked to be around four or five, butted his legs.

“He’s allowed to, you dope,” the boy said.

“You can back off now, kids,” the woman called down. “We’ve terrified him enough.”

“He looks mad, Mom,” the younger girl said. “Are you mad, mister?”

“You’d better watch out,” the boy declared. “He kills people. Even girls. He cuts out people’s eyeballs, don’t you?”

“Jeremy Briggs!” the woman exclaimed without moving from her perch at the top of the hill. “You know you’re not allowed to see R movies.”

“It was PG-thirteen.”

“You’re eleven!”

Isabel turned on Ren. “You cut out someone’s eyeballs in a PG-thirteen movie? Nice going.”

He gave her a glare that suggested the next eyeballs he cut out might belong to her.

“Whadja do with them?” the littlest girl asked. “Didja eat ’em? I hurted my pee-pee on the airplane.”

The two older children snickered, while Ren turned pale.

“I hurted it on the seat arm,” she continued, unfazed. “Wanna see my dolphin panties?”

“No!”

But she’d already raised the skirt of her checked sundress. “I got whales, too,” she pointed out.

“Very pretty.” Isabel was beginning to enjoy herself. Watching Mr. 2-Kool twitch was the most fun she’d had all day. “Surely you’ve seen whales on a lady’s undergarments before, Ren.”

His dark eyebrows slammed together in one of his trademark scowls.

The children’s mother shifted the toddler to her other hip. “The only way I can make it down that hill is on my backside, so you’d better come up here. Brittany, put those panties back on. Your body’s private, remember?”

Sure enough, the dark-haired cherub had stripped down with all the cool of a table dancer. Ren took one look, then shot up the hill as if both Denzel and Mel were after him. The boy began to follow, then changed his mind and headed for the Maserati parked near the farmhouse.

“You got any dolphins?” the cherub asked Isabel.

“Brit’ny, that’s not polite,” her sister said.

Isabel smiled at both girls and helped the little one back on with her panties. “No dolphins. Just some tan lace.”

“Can I see?”

“I’m afraid not. Your mother’s right about bodies being private.” Which was another good reason not to share hers with Ren Gage, although he hadn’t mentioned sex all afternoon. Maybe he’d decided she was too much work. Or maybe, like Michael, he’d simply decided she was too much of everything.

With Brittany’s clothes back in place, Isabel took the girls’ hands and steered them up the hill before she missed any more of the conversation that had just started to take place there. She noticed that Ren’s doomsday scowl hadn’t detracted one bit from those hearts-afire good looks.

“I must have missed your phone call telling me you were coming, Tracy.”

The woman rose on her toes and planted a kiss on his cheek. “Well, hello to you, too.”

Her silky dark hair fell to her shoulders in a tumble. Her skin was Snow White pale, her bright blue eyes slightly tilted and shadowed, as if she hadn’t slept well for a while. She wore a rumpled but fashionable scarlet maternity dress and pricey low-heeled sandals. Her toenails were unpolished and her sandals run over ever so slightly at the heels. Something about the way she held herself combined with the careless manner in which she wore her clothes screamed old money.

“Daddy!” The toddler in her arms squealed and held out his arms to Ren, who backed up so fast he bumped into Isabel.

“Relax,” Tracy said. “He calls every man that.”

“Well, make him stop. And what kind of mother tells her kids to do something perverted like running up to a stranger and calling him… that word they called me?”

“I take my amusements where I can find them. It cost me five bucks a kid.”

“It wasn’t funny.”

“I enjoyed it.” She regarded Isabel with interest. Her pregnant belly and exotic eyes made her look like a goddess of sexuality and fertility. Isabel began to feel a little withered. At the same time she sensed an air of sadness lurking behind the woman’s lighthearted tone.

“I’m Tracy Briggs.” She held out her hand. “You look familiar.”

“Isabel Favor.”

“Of course you are. Now I recognize you.” She gazed at them both with open curiosity. “What are you doing with him?”

“I’m renting the farmhouse. Ren is my landlord.”

“No kidding.” Her expression indicated she didn’t believe a word of it. “I only read one of your books-Healthy Relationships in Unhealthy Times-but I liked it a lot. I’ve…” She bit her bottom lip. “I’ve been trying to get my head together about leaving Harry.”

“Tell me you’re not running away from another husband,” Ren said.

“I’ve only had two.” She turned to Isabel. “Ren’s still mad because I left him. Just between us, he was a terrible husband.”

So this was Ren’s ex-wife. One thing seemed clear. Whatever sparks had once burned between them had gone out. Isabel felt as if she were watching a brother and sister bicker, instead of former lovers.

“We got married when we were twenty and stupid,” Ren said. “What does anybody that young know about being married?”

“I knew more than you.” Tracy nodded down the hill toward her son, who’d climbed into the front seat of Ren’s Maserati. “That’s Jeremy, my oldest. Steffie’s next. She’s eight.” Steffie had a pixie cut and a vaguely anxious air. She and her sister had begun drawing circles in the gravel with the heels of their sandals. “Brittany’s five. And this is Connor. He just turned three, but he still won’t use the potty, will you, big guy?” She smacked the toddler’s fat diaper, then patted her own swollen belly. “Connor was supposed to be our caboose. Surprise, surprise.”

“Five kids, Trace?” Ren said.

“Stuff happens.” Once again she bit her lip.

“Didn’t you only have three when we talked a month ago?”

“It was two months ago, and I had four. You never pay attention when I talk about them.”

Steffie, the eight-year-old, let out a piercing shriek. “Spider! There’s a spider!”

“ ‘Snot a spider.” Brittany crouched down in the gravel.

“Jeremy! Get out of that-”

But Tracy’s command came too late. The Maserati, with her son inside, had already begun to roll.

Ren started to run. He made it to the bottom of the hill just in time to watch his expensive sports car crunch into the side of the farmhouse, where the front end folded like an origami bird.

Isabel had to give him credit. He dragged Jeremy out of the car and checked to make sure the eleven-year-old wasn’t hurt before he inspected the damage. Tracy, in the meantime, was waddling down the hill-pregnant belly, toddler, and all. Isabel hurried to grab her arm before she fell, and they managed to reach Ren and Jeremy without mishap.

“Jeremy Briggs! How many times have I told you to leave other people’s cars alone! You just wait till your father hears about this.” Tracy took a couple of gulps of air, then seemed to run out of steam. Her shoulders slumped, and her eyes filled with tears.

“Spider!” Steffie howled from the hill behind them.

The toddler noticed his mother’s distress and started to cry.

“Spider! Spider!” Steffie yowled.

Ren looked over at Isabel, his expression comically helpless.

“Hey, Mr. Ren!” Brittany called down from the top of the hill. “Look at me!” She waved her panties like a flag. “I got seahorses, too.”

Tracy let out a noisy sob, then reached out and whacked Ren in the chest. “Now do you see why we’re moving in?”

“She can’t do this!” Ren stopped pacing long enough to spin on Isabel as if this were all her fault. They were in the rear salon at the villa with the doors open to the garden and children running everywhere. Only Anna seemed happy. She laughed over the girls, rubbed Jeremy’s head, picked up the toddler, and set off to the kitchen with him to prepare dinner for everyone.

“Go upstairs and tell Tracy to leave!”

“Somehow I don’t think she’ll listen.” Isabel wondered when he’d figure out that he was fighting a losing battle. The characters he played on-screen might be able to evict a pregnant woman and her four children, but in real life Ren seemed like a softer touch. That didn’t mean, however, that he intended to be gracious about it.

“We haven’t been married for fourteen years. She can’t just move in here with all these kids.”

“She seems to have done it.”