Grey Continued: Episode 61—On to Milano!

Some of you may have already seen this on Facebook, but Christian and Ana’s doggies need names before we bring them home. I’ve got a lot of suggestions on Facebook, but I wanted to give everyone an opportunity to contribute a name for our pups before I decide. So, comment on this post if you would like to suggest a name. The girl will be a red-nose pit and the boy will be a brindle pit.  

This is a work of creativity. As such, you may see words, concepts, scenes, actions, behaviors, pictures, implements, and people that may or may not be socially acceptable and/or offensive. If you are sensitive to adverse and alternative subject matter of any kind, please do not proceed, because I guarantee you’ll find it here. You have been warned. Read at your own risk.

I do not own Fifty Shades Trilogy, or the characters. They belong to E. L. James. I am only exercising my right to exploit, abuse, and mangle the characters to MY discretion in MY story in MY interpretation as a fan. If something that I say displeases you, please, just leave. If you don’t like this story or me, please don’t spoil this experience for everyone. Just go away. For the rest of you, the saga continues.

Episode 61—On to Milano!

ANASTASIA

The sun is shining, and the breeze is beautiful. I can’t believe how content I am just sitting here doing nothing. Well, not actually nothing. I’m looking down at this gorgeous man who has fallen asleep contentedly in my lap while I was stroking his hair. It’s the one thing I didn’t schedule for our spa day—shampoo and conditioning and a possible trim. Even though he’s fast asleep, I can’t stop playing with his hair.

He had been wearing it very short for a while—what I would call a metrosexual cut with designer stubble. Now, it’s grown out a bit, unruly curls like when we first met. His beard is a little thicker than designer stubble, not bushy, but thicker than I’m used to. I won’t say anything about it, though.

The curls, however, are my favorite. They always have been. Depending on the season, his hair takes on different colors. In the winter months, it can almost get as brown as mine—when those particularly overcast Seattle days go on and on and on. I know his mother had dark brown hair like mine. That must be where it comes from.

However, in the summertime or when we’re in particularly warm climates like now, it catches the sun, and the traits of his mystery biological father emerge. His hair takes on a kaleidoscope of colors ranging from chestnut with deep copper highlights to nearly auburn with the appearance of gold highlights if the sun hits it just so. Women would die for a natural hair color like this, and they pay good money to try to mimic it—that is, when they’re not trying to be platinum blondes.

That seems to be when he decides to let it grow. This time, it could be just that we’re on vacation. Either way, I love it like this. The fuller beard, not so much.

Not knowing your complete genealogy is something that frightens me a bit. I abandoned the search for my possible family when other seemingly more important matters came to the forefront, but once my daughter was born with a full head of candy-apple-red hair, it made me wonder exactly what dormant genes my husband may have. The red-hair gene must be quite prevalent in him for his hair to take on the rainbow colors that it does during the summer months and for Minnie to be born as a full-blown ginger.

His mother was obviously brunette as is my mother. My dad was blonde—bio-dad, that is. His mother—Alexandra, I think—I can’t even remember what color her hair was. What lineage has red hair and gray eyes? I know that the Irish are known for their red hair. I’ve often seen Irish men with blue eyes or green, or some combination… but what nationality has gray eyes?

And the face—God, the face. He often talks about it with some level of disdain, but his face is marvelous. His natural rugged bone structure is flawless and even though I’ve often compared him to Adonis, he truly looks as if he’s one of Michelangelo’s freed marble prisoners. I don’t begin to understand how he could look at himself—God’s marvelous creation—and see anything but a thing of beauty to behold and love. Women fall at his feet not necessarily because of the money, but because he oozes masculinity and sexuality. The money thing comes later if it comes at all.

And those eyes… Jesus, those eyes! They’re fucking weapons. They can gaze effortlessly right down into your soul and rip out all your secrets. They display an incredible spectrum from almost slate to steely to cloudy to nearly white when he’s really angry. They can seduce or convict without a word. Right now, they’re this hazy, foggy, silvery pewter-like color that I can’t place… probably the color of relaxation.

“I’d pay good money to know what you’re thinking right now,” he says, his soft, lazy voice surprising me even though I was just gazing into his sleepy gray eyes.

“That, Mr. Grey, is for me to know and you to find out,” I say, coyly.

“You know I can,” he says, his voice smooth and slightly suggestive.

“Yes, I know,” I reply. He closes his eyes again.

“What’s with all this sleeping?” he asks aloud.

“You’re relaxed,” I reply. “When is the last time you’ve just been totally relaxed, not concerned about anything at all but… being?” He sighs deeply.

“I don’t know,” he replies. “I also don’t think anyone has seen to my needs being tended to the way you did today.” He opens his eyes and I twist my lips at him.

“Not that I’m trying to disrupt a tender moment, but not even your submissives?” I ask carefully. He shakes his head.

“Definitely not my submissives,” he replies. “They did what I required of them. None of them ever tended to my needs… tended to me. If anything, I tended more to them, after…” He trails off. I nod.

“I get it,” I reply, stroking his hair again.

“And that,” he says, dreamily closing his eyes again, “no one has ever done that before. I don’t know how a man is supposed to get any work done with something like this at his disposal. I never knew that I could enjoy something so simple so much.”

You never let anyone get this close to you, dear. This is a gesture of tenderness. I don’t think you ever really had any idea what that was before me.

I continue to stroke his hair and, sure enough, he falls back into slumber but only for a few moments this time.

“We need to get going,” I hear Jason say as he breaks my thoughts. “The jet is ready. We’re just waiting for you.”

I sigh. I really don’t want to wake him. I want him to relax as much as possible, but we have to go.

“Christian?” I say softly, putting my hand on his chest to rouse him. “Christian, we have to go.”

“Hmm?” he says, slowly coming out of sleep.

“We have to go, baby,” I repeat. “We have a plane to catch.” He yawns and stretches a bit, and I’m certain that he could use a little more sleep.

“Okay,” he says, reluctantly sitting up from my lap. “I’d like to make a reservation to do that again,” he says, looking over his shoulder at me. I smile.

“For you, I have an open-door policy, Mr. Grey. No reservations required.”

*-*

As it turns out, it was my turn for a catnap once we boarded the jet to Milan. It wasn’t our jet, but it was a private jet arranged by the concierge. Our jet will be here tomorrow with my stylist on board. Two days of shopping—Jesus!

“I don’t have to ask what you’ll be doing while I’m shopping,” I say in the private car on the way to the hotel.

“In the interest of full disclosure, yes, I’ll be working. I’ve been away from the office for two weeks, only occasionally peeking my head in the door. It’s time, baby.”

“Yes, it’s time,” I cede. “You didn’t become a multibillionaire by letting somebody else do all the work. Just… don’t let it take up our vacation.”

“Have I done that yet?” he questions. I twist my lips, convicted, and shake my head.

We head to the Bvlgari suite at Bvlgari Milano Hotel—once again, the best suite in the house, of course. Penthouse suite of 120 square meters with a 90-square-meter wrap-around terrace with extensive dining and lounging areas—floor-to-ceiling windows, sitting room with a library and office space, master bedroom with terrace access, a walk-in closet, and a master bath with a Brera stone bathtub carved from a single piece of stone and an impressive view of Milan from the comfort of the bath. I can imagine that a man like Christian knows of a luxury hotel in every major city in the world. It doesn’t hurt to have your very own personal international concierge either.

Though the suite is luxurious, we have no intention of spending the evening in the hotel.

We’ve landed in Milan just in time for la passeggiata. I really have missed la passeggiata, which in Milan is an event to remember. We leave the hotels and begin our walk in the famous Piazza del Duomo, the square of the Duomo of Milan. That is definitely something to see at night.

“Wow,” I say aloud. “That’s amazing.” I take pictures of the building with the lights reflecting from it, looking almost like sparkling gems at one side and golden marble from another angle.

“It looks completely different during the day,” Christian tells me. “We’ll see the inside later in the week, but you’ll see the difference tomorrow.”

“I thought you said I would see it later in the week,” I protest.

“You will, but you’re going shopping tomorrow and you’ll most likely go there,” he says, pointing to the large complex just across from the Duomo.

“What’s that?” I ask.

“That’s the Victor Emanuele II Gallery Mall, the one that looks like the one in Naples.”

“Oh,” I say looking over at the mall.

“You’ll like it,” he says, taking my hand. “It’s Milan.”

I smile as he squeezes my hand. I make no promises.

We cross the Piazza del Duomo and I snap a quick picture of yet another equestrian statue of Victor Emanuele II. I guess I can’t be mad. We’ve got all kinds of monuments and holidays for our Presidents in the States, right?

“In the interest of full disclosure, I won’t bombard you with history,” he admits as we stroll the piazza. “We were about 50/50 on our knowledge of Rome. I had a pretty good grasp of the southern regions with a little help from our impromptu guide. Florence—I’m an encyclopedia. However, once we start heading north, these are the business and pleasure meccas. I can give you the business rundown, the money of it, the pleasure and nightlife, but not a whole lot of history. I know a few things about some of the churches and such, but overall, it’s going to be tourist photo opportunities. You’ll get a little bit here and a little bit there, but for the most part, you got most of it in Rome and Florence.”

I’m almost ashamed to say that I’m relieved. I liked learning things on the trip, I really did, and I won’t mind learning a thing or two more, but some days I felt like History Overload. It was like I took a crash course abroad on the birth of western civilization. I don’t know how much more history I could take.

“It’s said that for every church in Rome, there’s a bank in Milan,” he tells me. “That may or may not be true. However, this is to say that in addition to being international fashion central, Milan is also Italy’s financial capital, not to mention the home of Leonardo Di Vinci.”

Okay… so I’m slightly impressed.

Just outside the piazza, we get into these little covered-tricycle-looking things that I come to find out are called Cycle Rickshaws or Pedicabs. They’re all over the place. You just get in and they cycle you all over the city.

“Milan isn’t necessarily the largest city,” he says as we’re cruising down Via Torino as passengers in our little trike, “but there’s a lot to see and we won’t see it all in four days. For one thing, you’ll be shopping for most of the first two days. Second, there’s a lot of museums and churches and we’re probably only going to see one or two because, again, I don’t want to bombard you with history. You’ll get just enough to know what you’re seeing, so it’ll be on an as needed basis. I will tell you that Christianity was legalized here by Constantine in 313.”

“In Milan?” I question. “I thought it was Rome.” He shakes his head.

“Nope, it was Milan,” he says. “I don’t know much of the details of relation or timeline between Constantine, Milan, and Rome, but I do know that much.”

I nod and sit back in his arms, comfortable and not concerned about Constantine one way or the other.

There are a lot of fashionable shops down Via Torino and the lights from inside shine down the road making our ride feel like a cozy little stroll. I wonder if all these shops are in that mall as well… or will there be something else? Just like in Capri, I see all the usual suspects—Pandora, Sephora, Guess—there are a couple of quaint little boutiques squeezed in here and there but for the most part, it’s the same thing… Rodeo Drive in Milan. I’m hoping beyond hope that Vickie has something up her sleeve, because if she doesn’t, these are going to be the two most boring days of the whole trip.

We turn down Coro di Porta Ticinese and the scenery becomes more restaurants than shops, and more trade areas like tattoo parlors and the post office. There are still some shops scattered here and there—even a Birkenstock.

“Pull over here,” Christian says, and the “driver” stops. We get out in front of a church… at least I think it’s a church.

“We’ll only be a moment. Will you wait?” Christian asks. The driver looks behind us to see that the other two Pedicabs with our security in tow have stopped behind us as well.

“Sì, Signore,” he says.

“Grazie,” Christian says. Taking my hand and walking me across the street to the… structure. They look like Roman columns. If I didn’t know better, I’d swear it was…

“That’s the Basilica of San Lorenzo back there,” he says. “It’s the oldest church in Milan, from back when Milan was the capital of the Western Roman empire. You might have recognized those columns as Corinthian marble.”

I did, that’s why I thought they were… no… they couldn’t be!

“Are these…?”

“I couldn’t bring my ruins girl to Milan and not let her see the only real Roman ruins in the city.”

I look up at the columns and chuckle deeply.

“Oh, this is so cool,” I exclaim, taking pictures of the remarkable Roman columns in front of the church. I take several pictures from several angles before I’m satisfied and head back to the Pedicab.

“I won’t ask for the background,” I say, content. “I’m just glad to be able to see the ruins.”

Even though I don’t delve, I’m very curious about the picture of the crucifixion on the other side of the ruins. I can hardly imagine someone deciding to improve the ruins by adding that after the fact. So, that goes to question… Were they part of the original structure, or was this someone’s great idea to enhance the ruins?

Nonetheless, we get back into our rickshaw cycle.

“That was pretty awesome,” I tell him as the Pedicab continues down the road. “I see the tracks for the Tram in the road. Is it operational?” He nods.

“It is,” he says.

“Will we get to ride it?” I ask. He chuckles.

“If you want to,” he says, “but it’s not that glamorous. It’s just like riding a bus.”

“Humor me,” I say. “I think it’ll be a little different.”

As we continue our ride, I can see the bits of graffiti on the wall—more than Amalfi but much less than Naples… somewhere in between. You can see the evidence of someone trying to clean some of it off the wall. I can also see some pictures that remind me of the art I saw when we were coming from the airport.

“What’s got your attention?” Christian asks me.

“The tags,” I say honestly. I hear him sigh infinitesimally.

“It’s not Naples, baby,” he excuses quickly. I can hear that he’s panicking a bit, especially since he has informed me that we’re going to be here until Thursday.

“No,” I say, calmly, “it’s definitely not Naples.” He releases a sigh.

“You scared me for a minute,” he admits.

“It wasn’t just the graffiti in Naples,” I admit to him. “The graffiti just exacerbated the situation. Naples was scary to me, Christian. I wasn’t comfortable at all.”

“I gathered as much,” he admits, “which is why I was afraid you were comparing it to Milan.”

“I was,” I confess, “but only to the degree that Milan is not like Naples.” He smiles.

“Good,” he replies. “I’m glad you see that.”

I now notice that we’ve spent la passeggiata comfortably in a Pedicab. It’s the same effect of being able to people watch and take in the sites and fashions without physically having to put one foot in front of the other. However, I’m starving now. It’s not quite dinner time and a little pass aperitivo, and I just saw a sushi joint.

“I need food,” I tell my husband, not really in the mood for sushi, but very ready to kill something and eat it soon.

“I’m way ahead of you,” he says. “We should be at the restaurant soon. It’s one of my favorite places to come when I’m here—amazingly affordable, even though that doesn’t really matter to me, good food, good drinks, and a really great atmosphere. I think you’ll like it.”

“Sounds like my kind of place,” I say. “It’s kind of late. Are we doing aperitivo or dinner?”

“Both,” he says. “We’re deep into time for aperitivo and dinner’s so close, yet so far away, so we’ll kill two birds with one stone.” I nod.

“How much further?” I ask. “If I sound impatient, I’m sorry, but lunch was pretty light, and my stomach is about to eat itself.” Christian laughs.

“Not much further now,” he says. “Just over the canal, which is only a few more minutes, I’d say.” I nod and settle back into my seat, trying to ignore my violently grumbling stomach. I don’t even have any water to try to settle it and I didn’t drink nearly enough today.

I see more restaurants, a shop here and there, and the area is starting to look more neighborhood-ish… apartment buildings, casual dining, services. Once we cross the street, you can’t miss this huge portico on giant Roman columns in the middle of the square.

“That’s the gate to Porto Ticinese,” he says. “Milan used to have a series of walls around it like Rome and most other major cities did. This is part of what’s left of that wall—the Porto Ticinese gate.”

“That’s impressive,” I say, taking pictures of the gate and the square. “That’s a year,” I say counting the Roman numerals on the structure. “Year 1815. I don’t know what that first word is. Is that the year that it was built?”

“Most likely,” he says, “I think that first word is Latin for ‘dedicated…’”

“Sì, signore,” the driver says. “Dedicated year 1815.” Christian raises a brow.

“Thank you,” he says.

“Prego,” the driver replies.

“So… is this a special area of Milan?” I ask.

“Not particularly special,” Christian says. “We’re coming into Lombardy, but it’s just another district of the city.”

We turn off from the gate and head down another street until we get to what appears to be a canal.

“This is where we get off,” Christian says, telling the driver to stop. “Just a few more meters down this road and we’ll be at the restaurant.” He turns and hands the driver a bill, most likely a €100 note.

“Grazie, grazie, signore!” the driver says, and I figure Christian must have just made his night. “Enjoy your trip, signore, signora!”

Christian nods and puts his hand in the small of my back, leading me down one side of the canal into a thickly populated area—not uncomfortably populated, but there’s a lot of people. Lots and lots and lots of sidewalk cafés—restaurants that have spilled out onto the road to take advantage of the lights glistening off the canal water. People are chatting, strolling, eating, and drinking, enjoying themselves and having a generally good time.

A few meters down the road, we turn into a little place called StraRipa Bar Art & Friends. It’s a small little corner joint packed full of people, but somehow, we managed to get in and find somewhere to sit—all six of us.

I don’t know how to explain this place. It’s like that little unknown spot where all the cool kids go. There’s no one in the room that’s not talking—briskly and happily, in fact. Everybody is talking to someone else, and some of them in groups. It’s a mishmash of eclectic décor with lots of conversation in a mixture of Italian and English… and probably a few other languages that I can’t place, but this is certainly a raucous bunch with what looks like good food and drinks flowing all around.

“I’m dying to know how you found this place,” I say, having to raise my voice a bit over the merry making. Christian looks at me.

“Just one of those places I stumbled on while walking,” he says. I nod.

“Okay, everybody. Unless you snuck a sandwich in while I wasn’t looking, everybody’s hungry and could use a little libation. So, I’m declaring you off duty, but available as needed. We’ll take a car back to the hotel, so relax a bit.”

“Like have a beer ‘a bit?’” Ben asks shamelessly.

“Like have a beer ‘a bit,’” Christian responds. Ben gives a thumbs up and looks around for a server. Actually, a beer sounds really good. When the server comes by, we each order a craft beer except for Chuck, who surprises us by ordering two drinks—a Coke and a drink called the Perfect Storm. He doesn’t sit around to gauge our questioning glances. He rises to partake of the full and exquisitely decked-out aperitivo buffet. Not only does it have the regular finger foods, but it also has some full courses over there. Now, I know what Christian was talking about when I asked if we were going to aperitivo or dinner and he said, “Both.”

Speaking of buffets, the main portion of the buffet is served around a tiny car parked in the middle of the bar! The rest of it is presented on tables and counters lining the walls of the bar.

We take turns filling our plates with meatballs and fish, pasta and fruit and vegetables, prosciutto and cheese and… just a cornucopia of food, not to mention small cups of desserts and squares of rich cakes and pies, cookies and pastries. It’s insane!

The drinks have arrived when we all return, and everyone is waiting to see what Chuck is going to do with this Perfect Storm. We all know that it’s alcoholic—we just don’t know what’s in it. He tears into his food like we don’t all see this tall glass of whatever it is sitting in front of him. After a few bites of his food, he takes a sip of his Coke and proceeds to ignore our curious glares. I decide to stop paying attention to him and concentrate on digging in to my food. He must really be missing Keri if he feels inclined to take a drink.

The food is divine and when I finally sip my beer, I’m very pleasantly surprised at how good it is. That’s when Chuck finally reaches for his drink and hands it to me.

“Here,” he says. “I think you might like this.”

I and everyone at the table raise our brow at him, but I take the drink and take a sip.

It’s delicious!

“What’s in this?” I ask.

“If I remember correctly, it’s Kraken spiced rum, ginger beer, and lime,” he says taking another bite of his food. I nod and hand the drink back to him. He nearly glares at me.

“You’re kidding, right?” he says. My eyes widen and I shrug—defensively.

“You ordered it!” I squeak. He looks around the table and nobody’s really coming to his defense. We’re all wondering why he ordered an alcoholic beverage.

“We’ve been here for more than two weeks. You guys haven’t figured it out yet?” he asks. We all just sit waiting for him to explain.

“If I don’t order a drink, I don’t get the food,” he says.

“I have,” Ben says.

“Well, maybe they just don’t want to fuck with you,” Chuck says, “because the last time I ordered a soft drink and headed to the buffet, the server acted like he was going to hit me with his tray!”

“You must’ve just had a bad server that day,” Jason says. “If you order a drink—soft drink or not—they’ll usually charge you out the ass for that drink, but they won’t bother you.”

“Well,” he says with a shrug and moves to eat his food… then he stops.

“Wait a minute,” he says looking around the table. “You all thought… you thought I was going to drink that?” he asks in disbelief. Nobody responds because we all thought that was his intention. He puts his fork down.

“By a show of hands, who all was present for New Year’s Eve?” he says, raising his hand. Oh, I wish he hadn’t brought that up. My stomach is retching at the thought of him dry heaving in the toilet.

“Look man,” Jason says, “maybe we shouldn’t have thought you would drink it, but what else would we think you would do after ordering a drink in a bar? And you didn’t say anything to anybody. So, cut us some slack here. Under normal circumstances, we know you wouldn’t drink that, but we’re in a bar in a social setting and you just ordered a tall cold one. What should we have expected with no explanation?”

“Not that I was gonna drink it,” he replies bruised. I sigh inwardly. Okay, time for Dr. Grey to smooth things over.

“Okay, Chuck, we’re sorry. We’re human. We’re not perfect. I personally couldn’t wrap my head around it, but yeah, it did look like you were going to drink it. You ordered it and you didn’t say anything. Honestly, no, I couldn’t make it make sense, especially since I know you so well. I thought maybe you were missing Keri too much.”

“I would hope you wouldn’t think I would resort to alcohol just because I’m missing my girl,” he scolds. I scoff.

“Have you forgotten a certain incident last year where I took a drive, got completely shitfaced, and nearly dove off a cliff?” I ask in all seriousness. “She who has a Ph.D. and went to medical school. Yeah, I’d say I completely had my wits about me!” Chuck scoffs a tragic laugh and shakes his head.

“I’m just saying that we’re human,” I say. “We fuck up. It happens.” I look at him and wait for him to accept my round-about apology on behalf of the group.

“Alright, alright, I’m missing my girl, but not that badly. You all know I’m not going to drink anything but Coke, so let’s change the subject,” he says, his round-about way of accepting my apology.

We’re back to having fun, eating and drinking and talking about whatever comes to mind, even reminiscing about some of the things that have happened since the guys have been in our employ and I hear the very last thing that I expect to hear on the other side of the country.

“Ana? Ana Steele?”

The fuck… who the hell is calling my name—my maiden name—in a bar in Milan?

I turn around and see a bottle-job strawberry blonde sitting behind me waving at me from the table behind us.

“I’m sorry, but from where should I know you?” I ask. She laughs.

“I would imagine you wouldn’t remember me,” she says. “You were Valerie Marshall’s roommate in college, right?” I eye her suspiciously, but not.

“Yes?” I say, like get to the point.

“I was part of the marketing study group,” she says. “Tuesday and Thursday nights?” Um, okay.

“Uh… well, I was never a part of the marketing study group… so, I’m not really sure how you remember me after all these years.” She chuckles.

“Anthony in our group had it bad for you,” she replies. “He talked about you all the time. We think he only became part of the group to get close to you.” A lot of good it did him.

“I have no idea who Anthony is, and I really have no idea who you are either,” I say trying not to be rude.

“Oh! I’m sorry. I’m Drea. Don’t worry, I’m no stalker. I just never forget a face. My parents think I have eidetic memory, but I don’t. I forget plenty, just not faces.” She scoots her chair closer to me.

“It’s just great—and strange—to see somebody from back home. I haven’t been there in so long and I’m really out of touch with what’s going on in the States.” I raise a brow at her.

“You live here?” I ask. “In Milan?” She nods.

“After college, I followed my boyfriend—well, husband now, and I’ve been here ever since.”

“That’s exciting,” I say. “Did you finish your degree, do something in marketing, or follow love?”

“All of the above,” she gestures to the table with about eight people of differing nationalities all laughing, eating, and drinking. “When he followed a job for Karmacom Electronics, I took a chance and came with him. I put my feelers out for a job. It took a year, but Dragonetworks called me and here we are.” Now, I’m interested.

“How is it living abroad?” I ask. “I mean… Milan! It seems so glamorous.” Drea chuckles.

“Not really,” she says. “I mean, it has it’s splendor when you first get here—the churches and the museums. There are parks everywhere—that never loses its splendor… and it’s so beautiful in the winter. But eventually, just like anywhere else, it becomes home. The splendor wears off, but it’s still a wonderful place to live.”

“Did you have it hard when you got here?” I ask. “Trying to get settled in?”

“Well, Norman walked right into a job and an apartment, so we were already set when we got here. Learning Italian was a bit of a trial for me, but I hired a tutor and got the hang of it after about four months. That really helped with the job search. My mom and sisters still haven’t fully forgiven me for crossing the Atlantic, but I had to follow my heart.”

“What’s the cost of living like here?” I ask, not that it would be a problem for me, but I’m curious.

“Thinking of moving to Italy, dear?” my husband says, interrupting our conversation.

“No, that was you, dear,” I reply, “and I just want to know.”

“Well, to answer your question, it’s cheaper to live here than it is to live in New York City,” Drea says.

“You lived in New York?” I ask.

“No, but I compared the cost of living with popular areas in the States before I moved here,” she says. “I was leaving my home and everything that I knew, and I had to have a plan B… you know, in case things didn’t work out.”

“Did you have a reason to think things wouldn’t work out?” I probe, the psychiatrist in me coming out. She twists her lips and takes a sip of her cocktail. I hit a nerve.

“Nothing in life is ever really 100% certain,” she says, evading the question. “A girl just has to be prepared; you know?”

Why do I get the feeling that Drea is still prepared? I won’t pry anymore, though.

“Who’s your friend?” Christian asks. I lean back to allow him into the conversation.

“This is Drea, dear,” I reply. “Apparently, we went to school together.”

“Really?” Christian says, eyeing Drea cautiously. “Imagine finding someone that you went to school with all the way over here in Milan.” I understand his skepticism, but I really wish he would dial it down just a bit.

“This is my husband, Christian,” I say, introducing him and ignoring his suspiciousness. Drea smiles and waves.

“Nice to meet you,” she says. I can tell my husband is even more suspicious now, probably because she’s not showing any recognition of who he is.

“You’re from Seattle?” he probes. She nods.

“Born and raised,” she replies, “though I probably haven’t been there in nearly a decade.”

“I thought you said you have family there,” I protest, “your mother and sisters?”

“Are you kidding?” she responds. “I live in Italy! Summer vacation in Pike’s Market or summer vacation in Florence? Ice skating in Safeco Field or skiing in the Alps? They find any reason they can to come here now that I live here.”

“Looks like they did forgive you for jumping the Atlantic,” I say with mirth.

“Of course, they did. They just pretend like they didn’t to keep getting free services of the travel agent,” she replies. “So, what do you see of Valerie lately? Is she still in Seattle? We lost touch after college.”

Yeah, you’re really out of touch with what’s happening in the States, aren’t you?

“We’re sisters-in-law now,” I say.

“Really? Now why doesn’t that surprise me? You two were inseparable in school. You and that guy—the gay one. His name will come to me in a minute. He was really cute. It was a shame that we played for the same team.” She laughs. “Did you marry her brother, or did she marry yours?”

Yeah, way out of touch.

“We married brothers,” I say. She scoffs in surprise.

“No kidding?” she exclaims, and I nod. “Like I said, inseparable. It doesn’t surprise me. So, did she finish school and everything? I left the year before she did…”

We talk a few more minutes about this and that and nothing. Once I let my suspicious guard down, it was nice talking to someone from college. We go a little down Memory Lane about life at U-Dub and as we’re sipping our drinks and chewing the fat, I notice this guy at their table just glaring at us. I don’t bring immediate attention to the guy, and no one else at the table sees him looking. Christian is talking to the guys, then he gives me a kiss and excuses himself.

Once he has left the table, I inconspicuously look at the guy again. His jet-black hair and jet-black eyes make him look somewhat menacing, but he looks downright dangerous sitting there glaring at us while sitting in the middle of a table full of laughing people. Once I’m truly uncomfortable with his glaring, I lean towards Drea and ask who he is. She looks back at him and then turns back to her drink.

“That’s my husband,” she says, taking another long sip of her drink.

“Is he displeased about something?” I ask. She’s not three feet away from their table and she’s talking to an old college friend… a female! What’s his problem?

“Who knows?” she replies, not looking back at the table. “maybe he had a disagreement with someone at the table. Maybe he’s not happy because I’m not sitting at the table. Who knows…?”

Hmm… sounds like she may need her Plan B soon. If this guy is irritated that she’s sitting three feet away and talking to a female at the next table, what kind of life must this be?

As I’m pondering the thought, I hear the lilting notes of a piano floating back to my ears. I don’t know how I knew, but I knew. I look around the room and I find Christian sitting at a small, red, upright piano. As he plays, the room begins to quiet, and I concentrate to see if I can recognize the tune. When the song gets to the chorus, I hear the words in my head…

So, honey now, take me into your loving arms
Kiss me under the light of a thousand stars
Place your head on my beating heart
I’m thinking out loud
Maybe we found love right where we are.

I completely forget where I am and fall into his music. When he plays, it’s usually nothing and no one else but the keys. He brings such life out of them and you can’t help but be mesmerized. It’s absolutely beautiful and I’m captivated… by his concentration, the movement of his fingers effortlessly caressing the ivories, the flawless tune he’s playing. The entire room has fallen silent, listening to his music and a few couples even hold hands, look into each other’s eyes, or kiss. Ladies lean on the shoulders of their companions and listen to this beautiful serenade, and I’m completely smitten by the gorgeous brunette-ginger wringing such beautiful music from this little machine.

When he plays the last lilting notes of Thinking Out Loud, the room erupts into respectable applause with shouted requests for him to “Play another one.” He looks over at me and gestures his head for me to join him. I rise from my seat without a moment’s hesitation and walk over to the piano. He’s sitting in a chair as there’s no bench, so I just lean on the top of it. He begins to play around with the keys like he’s searching for a song and someone appears with a stool for me to sit. I thank the gentleman and sit next to the piano facing my husband. A few moments later, he plays an intro that I recognize.

Once again, he wrings angelic sounds from the piano, and you can almost hear the words themselves wrenching from the keys…

Oh, my love, my darling, I hunger for your touch…

Only this time, he never looks at the keys. He only looks at me. The music is incredible, and I have no idea how he’s following this impromptu musical without looking at the keys. I’m hearing each word as if he’s singing them and I’m falling in love with him more and more every second. I’m actually leaning forward and gripping the side of the piano as he’s playing. I just wanna launch myself at him, but I know I can’t because if I do, he won’t finish the song.

After what feels like an eternity, he’s finally playing the final notes of the song and I’m still gripping the side of the piano. The club breaks into applause again and he has to pry my fingers from the wood to gently kiss my knuckles before he reaches up to wipe a tear from my cheek that I didn’t know had fallen. I’m so in love with this man that I don’t know what to do with myself.

He’s about to leave the piano when the clubgoers beckon him to play yet another song. He’s trying to decline, but they won’t hear of it. They all but beg him for one more song and he finally agrees to one last tune, only if his wife agrees to accompany him.

Oh, you stinker!

I’m all broken up and crying here and he wants me to sing. I go from being in love with him to wanting to clock him upside the head. But then he plays the beginning of another song with which I’m familiar, just not the version that I know.

“I only know the hip hop version of this song,” I whisper to him. So, he picks up the beat of the song on the piano. Apparently, he knows the hip hop version, too.

Okay, you asked for it …

And I begin singing Lauryn Hill’s version of Can’t Take My Eyes Off of You…

You’re just too good to be true, can’t take my eyes off of you.
You’d be like heaven to touch, I wanna hold you so much.
At long last love has arrived and I thank God I’m alive.
You’re just too good to be true, can’t take my eyes off of you.   

The next thing I know, two guys join the jam session—one with a guitar and the other with what I think is a base cello. He’s hitting the strings in a way that sound like beatboxing… don’t ask me how. Apparently, he knows the song, too. A few seconds later, somebody hands me a mic, and my husband tells me to start over. Nobody could hear me over the band, right?

The same couples that were snuggling and kissing on the first two songs have now turned the open space in the bar into a dancefloor, and they’re swaying and smiling to my attempt to do Lauryn’s song justice.

I need you baby If it’s quite alright
I need you baby to warm the lonely nights
I love you baby, trust in me when I say okay
Oh pretty baby don’t let me down I pray
Oh pretty baby, now that I’ve found you, stay
And let me love you, oh baby, let me love you, oh baby…

I belt out the words looking at my husband and his smile is blinding as he leads the other musicians in our jam session. I’m having so much more fun than I thought I would singing this song in front of a bunch of strangers. Granted, it’s just impromptu karaoke, but nobody else was singing so… yeah.

When we finish our song, Christian rises from the seat, taking me in his arms and kissing me firmly and with abandon as the bargoers whoop and cheer and the two other band mates continue to play.

We make our way back to the table, smiling at each other and enjoying our moment in the spotlight. It takes a few minutes to come down from my mini-high, but when I do, I realize that Drea and who I assume was Norman are no longer at the table with the group of partygoers.

“What happened to Drea?” I ask whoever chose to answer.

“They left shortly after you started singing,” Jason says.

“Really? Was I that bad?”

“Not at all,” he replies. “I honestly think they were just ready to call it a night.” I twist my lips.

“What is it?” Christian asks.

“You know how you can look at someone and tell that something’s not quite right?” I say.

“Yes?” he replies, his answer sounding like a question.

“Something’s not quite right with them,” I reply. “I don’t really know that girl and I don’t know how she remembered who I was. I still have no idea who she is. But the way that he was looking at her and the things that she said… something’s just not right.”

“Do I even want to know what you mean?” he asks.

“Well, he was glaring at her while we were talking, and right at the beginning of the conversation, she was talking about having a Plan B when she first moved here. I asked her if she thought it wouldn’t work out, and she kind of evaded the answer saying something generic like a girl always has to be prepared. I’m gonna let it go, because I don’t know her and there’s really nothing that I can do about her situation, not that I won’t want to. I’m just pointing out that something is not right.”

“Well, I can’t stop you from being your usual observative self, but…” He takes a seat and snatches me quickly into his lap, causing me to gasp. “This line of conversation is blowing my musical high, and I’m not quite ready to come down just yet.”

He nuzzles my neck and tickles me behind my ear, causing me to giggle profusely. Can’t blow the high, now, can we?

A few minutes later, the band starts to play live dance music, and the piano player that should have been playing is now madly tickling the ivories. It could just be my opinion, but I feel like his playing is a bit of overkill—like he’s trying to prove that he’s better than Christian. Luckily, it’s dance music, and fingers dancing wildly along the keys blends in with the other instruments.

We eat more delicious food and have more beer and Chuck Facetimes with Keri, allowing us all to wave and say, “Hello.” Ben takes it like a champ, waving noncommittally when the phone is turned to him. I wish he would find himself a girlfriend. While it’s not cool for him to visibly covet someone else’s woman, it’s also not cool for him to be lonely.

I drank more beer in one night than I have in a year—have I drank any beer in the last year? Nonetheless, I’m only slightly tipsy when we leave the restaurant, but very well tuckered and ready to go to sleep. We take a taxi back to the hotel, and I strip and fall into bed moments after we enter the suite.

---

CHRISTIAN

Midnight in Milan means early afternoon in Seattle. While I haven’t had the opportunity to catch up on my emails just yet, I need to reach out to my executive team to see what kind of condition my company is in.

“How’s Milan?” Lorenz asks. “It’s got to be the middle of the night, there, right?”

“Yep, midnight,” I say. “I’m so sorry for calling you on a Sunday afternoon.”

“I understand. You have to reach out when you can. Did you sleep all day?” he asks.

“No, but I had a wonderful nap in my wife’s lap after a full day of pampering for Father’s Day. I didn’t know what I had been missing all this time,” I say, my voice full of mirth.

“Don’t tell me you got a manicure,” he teases.

“A manicure, a pedicure, a facial, and a massage… and if you tell anybody, you’re fired.” He bursts into laughter.

“Maybe I need to partake in some of those things,” he says.

“I own a chain of luxury salons and spas. Just say the word,” I inform him.

“You do?” he asks. “The word! Whether I partake or not, my wife would love that!”

“The chain is called Miana’s. Get with Andrea to set you… I mean, your wife… up for an appointment anytime.”

“Thanks,” he says, “she’s going to love that… and maybe I will, too.” I chuckle.

“Tell me what’s going on back there. Have the inmates destroyed the asylum in my absence?” I ask.

“Things have been going surprisingly well in your absence,” he says. “I think you all have put the fear of God into these people because they’re truly afraid of you coming back and finding this place in a mountain of hell. Nobody has forgotten the overhaul that happened last year or Ana coming in here kicking ass and taking names, believe me. More than one person dreads the wrath of Dr. Grey in these parts.”

“Now, how is it that she’s striking up more fear than I do?” I ask, proud and affronted at the same time.

“Not more fear, just different,” he clarifies. “She comes in looking harmless—attractive, smart no doubt, but by no means dangerous—but when she strikes, it’s like a stubbed toe. You know something happened, you know the discomfort is coming, it’s a terribly delayed reaction, but when it hits, it hurts like fuck! She leaves carnage in her wake without barely swinging a sword, and nobody wants to be in that path of destruction.”

“That still sounds like they fear her more than me,” I say.

“Nope,” he replies. “You bring down the iron fist—hard, and they don’t want that either. It’s a matter of perception. How do you like your punishment—do you want to be sliced by a two-edged sword or hit by a boulder? Both equally as painful but administered in different ways.”

“You have such a way with words,” I gest.

“That’s one of the reasons you hired me,” he replies.

“Speaking of which,” I begin, “I’m giving some serious thought to cutting down the amount of time that I spend in the office. I hired you as a third on the executive team due to the fact that I may pop out of town at any given moment, but I have to admit that getting away like this has truly made me see what I’ve been missing. Before I was married, it was no big deal for me to spend 12 to 16 hours in the office and then come home and work most of the night. In fact, it’s a hard habit to break as you can see…”

“I was going to ask you how Ana feels about you working this time of night while you’re supposed to be on vacation,” he interjects.

“I’m getting a bit of a reprieve,” I admit. “We had quite an exciting night with food and drink and making merry with the locals. So, she’s justifiably out cold. I’m sending her on a two-day Milan shopping spree with her stylist and I truthfully told her that I would be working those two days.”

“But did you tell her that you would be working in the middle of the night…”

“She has to expect it we’re nine hours ahead of you guys,” I say all in one breath. He’s silent for a moment. “Nonetheless, I’ve got a family now. We’ll even have dogs when I get back. Not that I’m looking to expand the clan—or that I’m looking to expand the clan any time soon—but we’ve even talked about more children on this trip. I just don’t see how I can keep up the pace that I am now and still be there for my family… and myself.”

“Hey, you don’t have to explain that to me,” Lorenz says. “You know this call is out of character for me. As you already know, my weekends are for me and my family.”

“Yes, I know, and again, I’m sorry,” I say.

“No worries… this time,” he says. “Your apologies let me know that this won’t be a regular occurrence, but that begs to question… if you’re going to be taking more time off, who’s going to pick up the slack?”

“That’s where I’ll need input from you and Ros,” I say. “Will you guys be able to handle that shift in responsibility, or should I start looking for a fourth on the executive team?”

Lorenz is quiet again.

“Lorenz?”

“Let me give it some thought,” he says, “but I’m thinking you might need a fourth… and if we consider the fact that we also have Ana, I think you mean a fifth.”

He’s right, of course. I always look at Butterfly and I as one because we’re married, but she has already demonstrated that she’s a force to be reckoned with. So, she’s definitely a fourth by herself.

“Duly noted,” I say. “So, you think another head in the mix is a good idea?”

“I think so,” he says. “In fact, you should really think about looking to promote someone from inside. We may want to look at our candidates and see if someone is astute enough to take a step up, maybe not directly onto the executive team but reporting directly to the executive team to take some of the work off of us. Maybe even a team of two or three underneath us instead of having another executive member.”

I ponder the thought. The truth is that I’m going to work myself to an early grave if I keep my hands on the reins so tightly. I have no intention of taking my company public, but a private board of sort could be just the ticket to delegating some of the responsibilities and freeing up some time for the four of us on the executive team to enjoy life a bit.

“That may actually be a good idea,” I say. “It gives the management staff something to shoot for—potential for some serious advancement in the company. Maybe we’ll even see some more innovative ideas and progress from the staff that we have.”

“I tend to agree with that analysis,” he says.

“How do you suggest we go about doing this?” I ask. “Should we wait until I’m stateside or would you like to put something together while I’m away then we can discuss it further when I return?”

“Let me see what I can do, and I’ll get back to you,” he says. “If it turns out to be more than I can chew alone, I’ll let you know.”

“Well, I expect for you to get Ros’ input on it as well,” I point out.

“Of course,” he says, flatly… and I wonder what’s behind his lack of response, but I won’t dig into it now because Ros isn’t sitting there with him. In fact, knowing that he doesn’t usually work on Sunday, I’m wondering as an afterthought why I didn’t call Ros in the first place.

“Good,” I reply. “While we’re at it, get the department heads ready for a meeting tomorrow. We’ll have it at say 10:00 AM tomorrow morning.”

“You sure about that?” Lorenz asks. “That’ll be about 7:00 PM your time.”

“Yeah,” I say. “I figure my wife and her stylist should be coming in from their first day of shopping around that time and we can go to dinner and have the evening to ourselves. As a matter of fact, make it 9:00 AM. Set up a Zoom conference.”

“Will do. Anything else?”

“Nothing for now, and thanks again for taking my call on a Sunday.”

“I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”

I end the call and begin to go through some emails, but then decide to let that wait. Since it’s still early afternoon on Sunday, I make a call to Elliot to get an update on the bidet situation.

“Hey, bro… what time is it where you are?” Elliot asks.

“About one in the morning,” I reply. He whistles.

“What has you calling me at one in the morning?”

“I’m trying to get an update on the bidets,” I tell him. “I haven’t said anything to Butterfly, but I want to be ready to tell her something should she ask.”

“Whoa! Whoa! Bidets?” he exclaims. “I thought we agreed on the one for now.”

“Okay, well, bidet,” I correct myself, “but it’s been two weeks. What’s going on?”

“What’s going…? Look, His Highness,” Elliot says, “I’m trying to match that marble blend tile she has in her bathroom. Then I have to find a bidet that’s going to match the porcelain and marble mix in there—or have one made. After that, I need to make arrangements with your staff to shut the water off so that we can divert the necessary lines to the bidet without flooding your bedroom or the formal living room. That’s carpentry, demo, plumbing, design, and a little bit of masonry—so you may not want to rush me on this.”

“I’m not rushing you,” I defend, “I just wanted to know if I needed to tell her that she couldn’t have it.”

“I told you I’d do it,” he snaps a bit impatiently, and I understand. This sounds like no small feat. “Some of that marble is one piece! You can’t cut it and you can’t bust it. You just have to lift it and have a whole new piece recut!”

“Maybe you should just… forget about it then,” I say, thinking the job may just be too big and we’ll just have to tell Butterfly that she can’t have the bidet.”

“Are you fucking kidding me?” he nearly screams. “I’ve already started this shit! She’s getting her goddamn bidet, but I’m only doing her bathroom, and I’m not doing any others right now. Probably not this year! Maybe never!” Good grief.

“Okay, okay,” I cede. “I never would’ve brought it up if I thought you were going to have a coronary over it.” He sighs.

“The bidet itself isn’t the hard part, Christian,” he admits. “It’s the materials and the demo—trying to do this without destroying the whole damn bathroom. It’s a lotta work… and it’s gotta be done carefully.”

“And it’s Montana,” I add knowingly. I don’t hear his sigh, but I know that he did.

“And it’s Montana,” he adds. “And I’ve only got two more weeks to get it finished because my wife is looking forward to a vow renewal in Lake Como… and we’ve arranged for a second honeymoon in Venice.”

“Look, I really appreciate this… I really do, and I’m certain that Montana’s going to appreciate it even more.”

“I know,” he laments. “I’m sorry—I shouldn’t have snapped at you, and I should’ve kept you posted.”

“Don’t mention it,” I excuse. “Like I said, I really appreciate it. Don’t rush, don’t bust your ass. Just let me know if I need to tell her that her bathroom will be under construction when we get home. She’ll just have to use mine.”

“No, it’ll be done before we join you in Italy, barring accidents,” he says.

“From your mouth to God’s ear,” I say.

“Hear, hear,” he concurs.

---

A/N: DISCLAIMER—At sunset, at la passeggiata, at aperitivo, and at night when the clubs are open, the Navigli Canals is enchanting. Cute little ferries running down the canals, the lights from the building bouncing of the water, a little bit of moonlight, maybe some lights strung from bank to bank on the canal… However, in the broad harsh light of day, that thing looks like a swamp complete with floating moss and seaweed running down the middle of a tenement. I don’t want anybody going to the canals saying, “But BG said…” No! At night, it’s a transformation. During the day, I wouldn’t even go down there. I have, however, included some of the street art in the city as well as what they would have seen had they toured the canals during the day in the Milan folder on Pinterest.

NEW PINTEREST ALBUMS WILL BE ADDED EACH CHAPTER FOR THE ITALY VACATION. I SUGGEST YOU DON’T MISS THEM AS THEY WILL GREATLY ENHANCE THE EXPERIENCE!

Pinterest pulled a fast one on me, so if you don’t see a description on some of the pictures, look at the first comment on the picture.

This chapter’s albums include Milan and Milan—StraRipa Bar Art & Friends. There are lots of pictures in these albums to give you the full effect of the sites and the history. 

Pictures of places, cars, fashion, etc., can be found at https://www.pinterest.com/ladeeceo/grey-continued-misadventuresseason-v/ 

Pictures related to the progress of the Italian Villa can be found at https://www.pinterest.com/ladeeceo/italy/italian-villa/

The question and answer thread is always open for questions about the story. Be sure to read it and please adhere to the rules when asking questions. You can find it on the left, second from last on the menu or you can click HERE.

If you feel the need to talk to fellow readers about personal issues, you need a sounding board, or you want to vent about something in your life, please feel free to visit the link on the left in the menu titled “Do You Need To Talk.” No subject is taboo. I just ask that you approach the link with respect for those who have concerns as well as those who respond. You can also get to the link by clicking HERE.

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