I do as he says, keeping my eyes on his through the mirror as he unzips the dress. He stops right above my tailbone, but I do not miss how warm his hands are. How they cause goose pimples to pucker my skin. My heart flutters like a butterfly in my chest, and my breaths feel shallow, hard to catch.
“Grazie,” I whisper, holding the dress up so it does not slip down my body. “I do want to lose my job. I need it.”
He nods and shuts the door, giving me privacy. I rush to hang the dress back up, put my old one on, and fix my hair. I slip my shoes back on and notice a few of the diamonds and pearls had come loose from the gown and are lying on the floor. I use my pointer finger to gather them, slipping them into my pocket to save. I might need to try to trade them for room and board later. They look real enough.
Mr. Bigatti is sitting on the bed when I exit. He stands when I step out, heading toward the closet to hang the dress back up. I do not expect him to say anything, he has done enough, so the entire time I am trying to think of something to tell Mr. Davies, or Signora Faraldi, since she deals with the cleaning staff, but I cannot come up with a reason why Mr. Bigatti would have wanted me to try on his wife’s dress.
I go to leave when he calls my name. I turn to him.
“Keep the dress.”
I narrow my eyes at him.
He grins and lifts his hands. “No strings attached. It’s yours. And don’t worry about Davies. I’ll take care of him.”
“Why?” I whisper. “It’s such a gorgeous dress. Your wife—”
“I have no wife.”
“Is it yours then?”
He does not miss a beat. “Wrong size. Wrong color.” He stands and goes for the dress. He plucks it off the hanger and holds it out for me.
I’m not sure why, but I stand there, biting my lip. It feels like if I accept this dress from him, I will be accepting more. I set my hand over his, over the hanger, and my heart speeds up again when our skin touches. I wonder if he feels my breath as it flows out of my mouth in a rush and breezes over our touching hands.
As I go to pull away with the dress, he doesn’t let go.
“Have dinner with me in the dress tonight.”
“You said no strings attached, Mr. Bigatti,” I say.
“Call me Tullio. And there are no strings. The dress is still yours if you say no.”
I smile a little. “I’d love to, but I have no shoes to match.”
He turns and goes to his bags. He digs around and comes back with a box. The top is stamped with the name House of Sicilia.
He gives me a number, a shoe size, and my eyes meet his. He taps the top of the box. I nod. They’ll fit. I’m out in the hallway when he stops me again.
“Eight o’clock, after the candles are lit.” He steps back in his room and the door closes. I turn, feeling giddy, and crash into a hard chest coming down the hall. The box falls to the floor, and the dress is flattened between us. I almost drop that, too, but the man saves it from falling. He hands it to me and then bends down to pick up the box, handing me that, as well.
I’m quiet as this all takes place because again, I cannot find my breath. I even look behind me, at Mr. Bigatti’s room, to make sure he is not holding it hostage. But when this man smiles at me, the butterfly starts to flutter again in my chest.
“Do you speak English?” he asks me in Italian.
“I do.”
He’s similar to Tullio, but different. They both seem…refined in a worldly way, but this man has hair the color of toasted chestnuts, and his eyes are a light brown. Almost the color of whiskey. There is something so delicious about him as well. Maybe it’s his crooked smile.
“You work here, Ms.…?”
I try to hold my hand out, but I almost drop my things again. “Canta Ducci, and sì, I do.”
“Canta,” he repeats. “I’m Giordano Capitani.” We stare at each other until he grins. “Has anyone ever told you that you resemble Rosanna—”
“Sì,” I say louder than intended.
He laughs and holds up his hands. “Listen,” he says as he drops them. “I’ll be in town for a few days. Have dinner with me.”
