I swallowed hard. Better go back to Chiara. “Do you want a wife who would be on eggshells around you?”
Frowning, Marco gave a serious shake of his head. “That sounds very uncomfortable. Is that something they do in America? Maybe for fertility?”
I giggled. The idea of Marco crunching eggshells with his very substantial feet created quite a picture in my mind.
“You're laughing at me?” He pushed back from the desk. But not before I saw the impish tilt to his lips.
“Please forgive me.” I could hardly get the words out around my giggles. “I don't want to offend Your Majesty. Walking on eggshells is a figure of speech.”
His frown grew deeper. “Oh, one of those again.”
“It's a phrase that Americans choose to describe how uncomfortable a person could be. You don't want your wife to feel uncomfortable around you? Afraid to say what’s really on her mind?”
“No, of course not. You make me think so hard, Profesora.” Resting his elbows on the arms of the chair, Marco steepled his hands in front of his lips.
“Don't you want someone who is equal to you?” The words were no sooner out of my mouth then I realized how ridiculous they were for a man who was king of all he surveyed, including his wife.
“But she would not be equal to me. Were you equal to your husband?”
“In many ways, yes.”
“So it is like this in America?”
Would he reconsider sending his son over there for school?“In some ways. A husband and a wife can be unequal. I mean, perhaps one of them earns more money than the other.” And didn't that sway the balance? Wallace had always controlled the checkbook.
Maybe this was a better way to put this. “Do you want a wife who would tell you only what you want to hear? For example, if your hair was all messy, should she tell you that you looked wonderful––handsome like that?”
Dear heavens, I couldn’t help it. My eyes went to his dark curls. They looked fabulous to me. He raked a hand into them, improving that roguish look even more. He must have shampooed his hair this morning to wash out all that glistening gel from last night.
Keep on track.
“Don’t you want a woman who can tell you when it is time to tidy up?” Had I lost my mind? I was feeling a little swoony. Maybe it was this blasted heat.
“Tidy up?” He patted his hair. The curls would not be flattened. Gregorio had those curls. They did make Marco look quite boyish. But enough of staring at his hair.
I plowed on. “When you are with your wife, do you want to have interesting conversations about world events, for example? Or do you want to only talk about the food you are eating, or, I don't know, what color to paint the hallways?”
Seeming to take this quite seriously, he ran a hand over his chin. “Now I think I see. No, I do not want to talk about paint.”
“Probably not, although sometimes a couple has to deal with the everyday running of a household.” My eyes flitted around the room and I nearly giggled again. This man’s home was so different from anything profiled in the popular home decorating magazines.
When I glanced back, Marco was studying me. “So, what would a husband and wife talk about?”
Glancing at the newspaper on his desk, I said. “World events, for example. Things going on in the village. Or plans for your children. Every parent has great plans.”
“World events?” Springing to his feet, Marco began to pace. “This does not sound very romantic. This is what a marriage is in America? And yet, people have children?”
I was making a mess of things. “At first, you might be attracted to someone by how beautiful they are or their perfume. Those things don’t last. But if you don’t have more enduring qualities that please you, well, then you can become lost.” Something happened toward the end. The words had taken me back into the past. Tears were close and I sniffed.Where was a tissue when you needed it?
Coming back to his desk, Marco stared down at me, his dark brown eyes supporting my pain. “Is that what happened to you, Profesora? Did these things that you liked about your husband go away. Poof.” Here he snapped his fingers.
How did we ever end up here? I did not want to talk about my ex. “What about Elena? Maybe she might be the one for you? She certainly is attractive.” But skinny. Almost anorexic.
“Her mother makes me nervous,” he admitted with a shrug, settling himself on the edge of the desk. “Her father died last year. Elena’s mother would probably want to live with us.”
“Now that would be unusual. But some couples do it.”
“That would be impossible.” He raised his eyes back to the ceiling. “Who else?”
