Read Online Apart at the Seams by Marie Bostwick - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Marie Bostwick
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saying good-bye. It was a horrible confrontation, but at least it was short. The polite but terrifically tense tea we shared with Brianâs parents and brother at a dreary seaside hotel in Bristol was interminable.
We were quiet when we went up to our room that night, a little morose, but another session of passionate lovemaking drove away all shadows and thoughts of our families. We were complete in each other. In the morning, we took a train back to London, and the day after that, we left for Italy.
Brian had called the tour owners and talked them into letting me come along as a chefâs assistant. The chef, a short, grizzled, grumpy Italian man named Mario, didnât like women in his kitchen. Since I didnât know the first thing about cookery, this was lucky for everyone. My duties were limited to table setting, clearing, and washing up. There were only sixteen passengers aboard, so this wasnât too taxing and left me plenty of time to spend with Brian during the day and to sit with the other passengers night after night, listening to him play his guitar and sing.
His voice was good, very good. If Brian had been the lead singer, I was convinced that the Warrior Poets would have made it big. I shared this observation with Brian one night as we lay squeezed together in our cabinâs single bed.
âYou think so, do you?â
âDonât laugh! Iâm serious. But Iâm glad things turned out the way they did.â
He rolled toward me and pushed the Princeton T-shirt that served as my nightgown off my shoulder.
âOh, yes?â he murmured, kissing a line from my neck to the swell of my breast. âWhy is that?â
âBecause this way I get you all to myself.â
Â
It was a lovely honeymoon. We drifted lazily through the canals of Venice, then to the islands of Torcello and Burano, then down the Brenta River to Murano and to Padua before turning around and retracing our route to Venice. Brian didnât get nearly as much composing done as heâd planned, but he didnât seem to care. At the end of August, the captain of the Lucia Dolce asked us to stay on. I lost count of how many times we made the circle from Venice to Padua and back, but we never tired of it. We made new discoveries about Italy and each other on every trip.
Given the frequency and vigor of our lovemaking, we should have anticipated what came next, but somehow we didnât. Perhaps circling the same route for so long, never considering where things began or ended, lulled us into believing that life could always be exactly like this. But it had to come to an end, and it did, just before our six-month anniversary, when we learned I was pregnant with twins.
When a young doctor at the clinic in Padua, delighted by the opportunity to use his brand-new ultrasound machine, explained in broken English that my nausea and bloating were not the result of a bad ciopinno, Brian was stunned, then thrilled. We went back to the barge and shared the news with the crew, who threw us a party, toasting our babies with shots of limoncello. Brian joined in. I drank lemonade.
The following day, everyone except me had thick heads. Brian and I had our first argument. But we worked through it and started talking about what to do next, ultimately deciding on going to the States.
Beyond that, we didnât have much of a plan. We knew we needed to find a place to live and a job for Brian that would support all of us, at least until the babies were old enough that I could go back to work. I suggested we go to New Jersey, maybe live with my folks for a while, but Brian was having nothing to do with that. We would go to New York. It was, he insisted, the only city for a musician. I was a little concerned about finding an affordable place to live but took comfort in the fact that we wouldnât need a big place. After all, weâd lived in a cabin the size of a closet for six months and been pretty happy,
We were quiet when we went up to our room that night, a little morose, but another session of passionate lovemaking drove away all shadows and thoughts of our families. We were complete in each other. In the morning, we took a train back to London, and the day after that, we left for Italy.
Brian had called the tour owners and talked them into letting me come along as a chefâs assistant. The chef, a short, grizzled, grumpy Italian man named Mario, didnât like women in his kitchen. Since I didnât know the first thing about cookery, this was lucky for everyone. My duties were limited to table setting, clearing, and washing up. There were only sixteen passengers aboard, so this wasnât too taxing and left me plenty of time to spend with Brian during the day and to sit with the other passengers night after night, listening to him play his guitar and sing.
His voice was good, very good. If Brian had been the lead singer, I was convinced that the Warrior Poets would have made it big. I shared this observation with Brian one night as we lay squeezed together in our cabinâs single bed.
âYou think so, do you?â
âDonât laugh! Iâm serious. But Iâm glad things turned out the way they did.â
He rolled toward me and pushed the Princeton T-shirt that served as my nightgown off my shoulder.
âOh, yes?â he murmured, kissing a line from my neck to the swell of my breast. âWhy is that?â
âBecause this way I get you all to myself.â
Â
It was a lovely honeymoon. We drifted lazily through the canals of Venice, then to the islands of Torcello and Burano, then down the Brenta River to Murano and to Padua before turning around and retracing our route to Venice. Brian didnât get nearly as much composing done as heâd planned, but he didnât seem to care. At the end of August, the captain of the Lucia Dolce asked us to stay on. I lost count of how many times we made the circle from Venice to Padua and back, but we never tired of it. We made new discoveries about Italy and each other on every trip.
Given the frequency and vigor of our lovemaking, we should have anticipated what came next, but somehow we didnât. Perhaps circling the same route for so long, never considering where things began or ended, lulled us into believing that life could always be exactly like this. But it had to come to an end, and it did, just before our six-month anniversary, when we learned I was pregnant with twins.
When a young doctor at the clinic in Padua, delighted by the opportunity to use his brand-new ultrasound machine, explained in broken English that my nausea and bloating were not the result of a bad ciopinno, Brian was stunned, then thrilled. We went back to the barge and shared the news with the crew, who threw us a party, toasting our babies with shots of limoncello. Brian joined in. I drank lemonade.
The following day, everyone except me had thick heads. Brian and I had our first argument. But we worked through it and started talking about what to do next, ultimately deciding on going to the States.
Beyond that, we didnât have much of a plan. We knew we needed to find a place to live and a job for Brian that would support all of us, at least until the babies were old enough that I could go back to work. I suggested we go to New Jersey, maybe live with my folks for a while, but Brian was having nothing to do with that. We would go to New York. It was, he insisted, the only city for a musician. I was a little concerned about finding an affordable place to live but took comfort in the fact that we wouldnât need a big place. After all, weâd lived in a cabin the size of a closet for six months and been pretty happy,
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