A Columbus Day Holiday Story

Seraphina Columbus Meets Her Match

by Katrina
copyright © 2006

Note: This is not a complete story. For the entire story, please join our website here.

Sera was annoyed at having to wait.  She sat in her lime green Volkswagen Bug and tapped her finger impatiently against the steering wheel.  Finally, she glared into the window of the drive-thru at the bank and snarled.

It was then that she noticed the sign that proclaimed; We Will be Closed on Monday, October 9^th in Observance of Columbus Day. 

Shit!

Why the hell hadn’t anyone told her it was Columbus Day?  Then she almost chuckled as she realized her own last name would have indicated a passing knowledge of this holiday at least.

“I am a moron,” she announced to the quaint vase of artificial flowers jutting out of her dashboard.  “I am a bona fide idiot.”

Tossing her deposit onto the passenger seat, she gunned the motor and shot out of the empty bank parking lot.   It was no wonder there wasn’t a line at the ordinarily crowded drive-thru window.

At least she wouldn’t bounce her mortgage payment if the banks were closed.  She probably should have waited and just paid the late penalty but that $70 surcharge always annoyed her.  So she stretched the length of time the check sat on her desk, sat on the dash of her car, sat in her purse.  She had finally mailed it last Thursday, planning to deposit a big check from one of her clients as soon as she picked it up.  It wasn’t her fault that she had to postpone her appointment with Gasparini from Thursday afternoon until Saturday afternoon.  A new gallery in town was interested in showing a selection of her paintings in a December showcase of local artists.  She had been tied up in meetings with the gallerist and the other artists.  It was exciting and she had totally forgotten about picking up the check from Gasparini.  You’d think the man would have just stuck it in the mail.  He could certainly afford to overnight it. 

Not that she would have wanted to miss seeing him.  Marco Gasparini was an enigma; she wasn’t sure if she liked him, yet she kept taking on more jobs from him.  She knew he had plenty of money from his chain of restaurants, and his enormous, gorgeously decorated house was situated right on the banks of the river in one of the most affluent communities in the state.  He was just so absent-minded when it came to logistical matters such as paying her for her work.  He always waited until she came in person to collect it.  It was as though he was holding out, forcing her to make an appearance.  It didn’t make sense.  He was an astute businessman; he had to be to have made such a success of himself at such an early age.

Marco had opened the first Ciao! Bistro & Ristorante when he was 22 years old, in his grandmother’s old storefront building in the West Village in New York. It was a huge success.  He followed the original Ciao! with Ciao Too on Manhattan’s Upper East Side, number 3 in Montclair, New Jersey, Number 4 in Philadelphia, PA and most recently, number 5 in Red Bank, New Jersey, the restaurant cornucopia near the Jersey shore. 

He was thirty-eight years old and a millionaire many times over.  Through her connection with Delphine Designs, Inc., Sera had done a lot of work for Marco in the last year, including a mural in the library, three landscapes, a still-life for the dining room, some faux painting in the Red Bank restaurant and most recently a portrait of Mona Gasparini, Marco’s grandmother.  Marco had proven to be a bit of a cash cow for Sera’s business, for which she was grateful.  In the beginning, she dealt mostly with Delphine Murray, the designer who was handling Marco’s tasteful renovation of the 1930’s Italianate mansion on the Navesink River, but lately Marco himself had been calling her studio, checking on the status of his commissions.  This last job – the portrait - was not even a Delphine job, but a direct commission from Marco himself.

The funky tones of the Black Eyed Peas suddenly shot through her car.  She grabbed her cell phone from her bag.

“Hello?”

“Seraphina?”  Think of the devil!  It was Gasparini.

“Hi, Marco,” she said.  “What can I do for you?”

“I wondered if you could come over,” he asked.  “I know it’s a holiday and all, but I have an idea for a big job.  For the Great Room.  And I want you to do it.”

The Great Room overlooked the river.  It had a huge expanse of wall between French doors leading out to the tiered terraces that descended to the river and the neat little dock where he kept his yacht The Mona II moored. 

Mona II was named after his daughter, whom he had named after his grandmother. Delphine had told her that Elizabeth Gasparini had passed away several years earlier.  Evidently he had never remarried and his daughter Mona was about eleven or twelve now, Sera figured.  She had met the girl a few times in the past year; she was a cute kid, with big green eyes and long, honey brown hair.

“Sera?”

“Oh, sorry,” she told him.  She realized she had already taken the turn down toward the river, toward his house.  “I’ll be there in five minutes.  I’m in Fair Haven.”

“Excellent,” he said.  “I’ll buy you lunch.”

“Well, as you know, I eat a lot,” she told him.  On more than a few occasions he had been home when she was working on the library mural and had been astonished at the packed igloo she used to bring to work with her. 

“So do I,” he laughed.

“What’s the code du jour?” she asked.  He changed the gate code every Sunday, a common practice in his haute couture neighborhood.

“1492,” he told her.  “In honor of our mutual ancestor Signor Chris.”

A few minutes later, she pulled up next to the metal box in front of his huge iron gates.  She punched in the code on the keypad and waited for the gates to slide open. 

The stone lined drive leading down to his home meandered through a perfectly manicured expanse of velvet green lawn, with tasteful grottos of autumn flowers and cherubim, wrought iron benches and small tables here and there.  She had never seen anyone in this yard.  Most of the living was done behind the house on the terraces leading down to the river.  And why not, with a view like that to enjoy.  Who would choose to take their cocktail or coffee out into the grass and watch the hedges or an occasional glimpse of car darting past on the road up above?

She pulled into the circular stone parking area in front of the house and the garages and parked next to Marco’s black Porsche.

She checked herself in the mirror on her visor.  Freckles on her nose.  Black scruffy bangs and dark, sooty lashes accented deep chocolate brown eyes.  No make-up.  Oh well, she wasn’t a glamour queen, and he knew it.

Marco answered the door himself.

“Hi Seraphina,” he said.  “Happy Columbus Day!”

“Yeah, right,” she grumbled.  “Damn banks are closed.  I work every day, holidays don’t register with me.”

“Even today?” he asked with a smile.  “With a name like yours?”

“I know, I know.”  She shrugged.  “I am a bad Italian girl.  What can you do.”

“I have a few suggestions,” Marco said with a seductive glint in his eyes.  “For bad girls, that is.”

Sera nearly tripped over her own feet.  Marco Gasparini was a drop dead gorgeous specimen of a man and when his deep hazel eyes sparkled with mischief, he was downright irresistible.  His body was toned without being overly muscled; his olive complexion was exotic, and that curly brown hair made her want to run her fingers through it.  That comment he made was a definite teaser; she loved the idea of a dominant male.  So far, it was only an idea. 

For the last year, she had carefully kept her libido on the back burner.  She didn’t need to get her heart broken by a rich playboy.  Since her summer break-up with Paul, the framer she had dated for the last few years, Sera had been feeling lonely and unloved, depressed when she allowed it.   Marco was the kind of man she would always want but never think she could have; there was an aura of power about him that didn’t mesh well with her bohemian lifestyle.  Yet, lately he had been dropping not so subtle hints that he was interested, unless she was completely crazy.

“What’s this big idea of yours,” she said abruptly.

“Come,” he told her.

She followed him down the stucco hall past the newly tiled kitchen, past the vaulted dining room and the powder room and his study, and finally through the large archway into the Great Room. 

She sighed. 

She loved walking into this room.  The glass doors opened onto the gorgeous brick patio and the river was a wide, glimmering band of golden green beyond that.  

The furniture was plain yet vibrant, simple creams and pale greens and crisp turquoise blended well with deep wood floors and iron and oak tables and bookshelves that held hundreds of beautiful coffee table books.   The huge wall between the two French doors was the perfect place for a mural.  Sera had been trying to figure out what would work on that space for the last year.

“I want this on that wall,” Marco said, leading her over to the narrow table behind a sofa.  A big book was open with a depiction of the Nina, Pinta and the Santa Maria with Christopher Columbus on the deck of the Santa Maria, leaving the port of Palos de la Frontera on their first voyage to the new world.  A woman stood in foreground, facing Chris.  Her long black hair lifted in the breeze, and she seemed to be calling something to the great explorer.  He was turned in her direction. 

Sera was intrigued by the old painting.   It was called The Voyage and it was a Bodiccio from the Baroque period.  She remembered studying it in graduate school. 

“I could do it,” Sera told Marco.  “It would be perfect.”  And she knew it would be. 

“She looks like you,” Marco said.  “Don’t you think?”

“I am supposed to be a distant descendant of Columbus, so it’s possible,” she told him.  “If I was from the illicit side of the bed sheets.”

“Illicit?”

“Bodiccio is supposedly depicting Beatriz Enriquez de Harana here, the mother of Columbus’ illegitimate son Fernando, and his mistress for many years,” she said.  “Of course, she really wasn’t there to see him off. That’s just a device of the painter; she was at home with the kid while the Admiral of the Ocean Sea set off on his great adventure.”

“You do know your history, don’t you?” Marco said appreciatively. 

“I did a paper on Lorenzo Bodiccio once,” she told him.  “I love his style.  He’s sort of like Caravaggio whom I also love but a little more light, more playful.  And I am partial to the Sienese.”

“Where did you go to school?” asked Marco.

“The University of Colorado in Siena,” she told him. 

“I love Siena,” he said.  “I didn’t know you lived there.  Which contrada?”

“Istrice,” she said, naming the Porcupine as her home team of the Palio. 

“No way,” he exclaimed.  “My Tio Alessandro was Priore of the Bruco for years.  I used to go stay with him in the summer, and I remember it was such a blast.”

“Bruco is our ally.  We would have seen each other; I wonder if we were there at the same time,” she mused.  “I lived in Siena from 1989 until 1992.  But I don’t remember you.  I do remember Alessandro though.”  She smiled, picturing the huge, curly headed man who resembled a modern day Bacchus.

“I was there on and off until 1995 when my Uncle moved to New Jersey, and I don’t remember you either.”

Tit for tat.

“Oh well, two ships that pass in the night,” she laughed.  “But I think this will look awesome on the wall, Marco.  When do you want me to start?”

“Today?” he said hopefully.

“It’s a holiday,” she pointed out. 

“Which you don’t observe, seeing as how you work every day,” he reminded her.

She shook her head, exasperated.  But she had nothing going on.

“Why don’t you go home and get what you need, and I’ll make us some lunch,” he told her.  “What kind of pizza do you like?  Goat cheese, tomato and olive?”

“Oh yeah,” she nodded.  “Definitely.”

She lived only ten minutes from his mansion.  But it was a world away.  She parked in front of her neat Edwardian cottage and went around back to her garage studio to get her paints and other supplies.  Loading everything on the back seat, she went to change into her work clothes. 

It was a perfect Indian summer day; she pulled off her sweater and changed into a tight black tee shirt and a pair of overalls.  Her long black hair hung in waves down to the top of her butt; she braided it into a thick plait that would keep it out of her face and hopefully away from the paint and charcoal. 

She tied her sweater around her waist, in the event autumn came back by the time she left his house. 

Marco had left the door open, so she just walked right in.  She heard voices in the kitchen and when one of them started yelling, she instinctively stopped, not wanting to walk into something private. 

“You’re so old-fashioned, Dad, get a friggin clue,” cried a high pitched voice.

“Keep it up, Mona, and you’ll spend the rest of the day in your room,” Marco’s deep voice replied calmly.

“Hello?” Sera called loudly.

“Come in the kitchen,” Marco called back.

He was standing at the tiled island, tossing a salad in a brightly colored bowl.   His daughter was sitting on a high stool, her elbows on the tiled surface of the work station, her face in a pout.

“Hi,” she said glumly in Sera’s general direction.

Marco looked at her helplessly.  She had to admire the way his classic olive colored Lacoste shirt fit over his broad chest and how his jeans hugged his hips.  He was looking good.

“I need your opinion, Seraphina,” he said.  “At what age do you think girls should start dating?”

Great, put her on the spot.  Sera thought back to her own adolescence.  Her first boyfriend was Ralphie Moore, and they were in sixth grade.  Somehow, she didn’t think that was the answer he wanted.  So she skipped a grade. 

“Twelve,” she said.  “Provided it’s just a movie, or a football game or something like that.”

Mona’s face brightened considerably.  She beamed at Sera.

“Thank you,” she said. 

Marco scowled into the salad bowl. 

“The pizza will be ready in a few minutes.  We set the table on the terrace.”  He poured a glass of white wine from the bottle cradled in the ice bucket on the counter.  “Wine?”  He offered her the glass.

She took it. 

“All right,” he told his daughter.  “But he has to come here and meet me first.  Then you can go with him to the matinee.”

Mona shrieked and jumped off the stool, rushing over to hug her father.  He rolled his eyes at Seraphina.

“Mona is going to see a movie with her friend Nathaniel,” he explained.  “Thanks to you,” he mouthed over his daughter’s head. 

“Thanks, Dad,” Mona cried.  “Thanks, Sera.”

Boy, that was pretty chummy.  Sera didn’t even think the kid knew who she was. 

Mona disappeared upstairs, and Marco and Sera went out the sliding doors from the dining room onto the terrace; she carried a basket with breadsticks and hot bread while he brought the salad.  A white tablecloth billowed from the circular wrought iron table.  The place settings were a brightly colored Italian pottery that Sera loved.  The napkins on each plate were folded into ship shapes.

“Very nice,” she complimented.  “I can see you’ve got skills.”

“I’m in the biz,” he laughed.  “But the napkins were Mona’s idea.”

“Very nautical, and nice, not naughty,” she offered.

“Naughty can be nice,” he said cryptically, smiling at her.

They sat down across from each other. 

“Obviously, Mona is excused from the salad course, so that she can get ready for her date,” he said, grimacing.

“So who is Nathaniel?”

“Just the coolest boy in school, God, don’t you know anything,” he replied in the sing-song up-talk of a teenaged girl. 

“How old is she?”

“Twelve and three quarters going on 29, to be exact.”

“Bit of a tough age,” Sera commiserated.  “I was hell on my parents.”

“What about now?”

“I beg your pardon.”  She lifted one finely arched black brow.  “Do I seem like I would be hell on anyone?”

“You may look like an angel, but I suspect you’ve got a nice Italian virago temper.”  He smiled at her, and again she felt her stomach flip. 

An angel?

He was too damn good looking.  She sipped her wine and nibbled on a breadstick. 

“Maybe I do,” she admitted.  “But I bet you’re a buster.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“You seem like someone who just wants things the way they want them, like my way or the highway,” she told him.  “Like me.”

“Well if we’re both like that, it’s lucky we haven’t come to any battlefields because I can assure you, Seraphina Columbus, I would win.”  He surprised her by reaching over and wiping a breadcrumb from the corner of her mouth. 

His touch was far too intimate.  She gulped her wine.

“Don’t bet on it, Marco Gasparini, I know I would kick your butt.”

He laughed. 

“What happened to the boyfriend?  You never speak of him anymore, and he hasn’t made any special trips lately to bring you coffee or lunch.”

Sera frowned.  After three years, she should surely be more devastated at the loss of Paul from her life.  Frankly, she missed the companionship but not the man. 

“We broke up,” she told him.  “It wasn’t working.  He wanted marriage, and I didn’t.”

“Don’t you want to get married?”  Now it was his turn to frown.

“Of course, just not to him.”

“But you were together for what was it, three years?  Isn’t that a long time to get to know someone?”

“Oh, I knew I didn’t want to marry Paul from day one,” she said airily.  “Not my type.  He's just too laid back.”

“So you led him on?”  He lifted one hand as if expecting a present of an answer to fall into it.  “Why not let him know early on that he wasn’t going to be the one?”

Sera didn’t like the direction the conversation was heading.  She felt like she was under scrutiny and coming up lacking. 

“Listen, Marco, you don’t know the situation,” she snapped.  “Don’t get all judgmental about something you know nothing about.  I’m thirty-five years old, and don’t need someone’s approval to live my life.”

He leaned back in his chair and looked at her steadily and silently.

“What?” she was whining but couldn’t help it.

“You are a beautiful, professional and extremely talented woman, Sera,” he finally said.  “But you sound like a brat.  Look, is that a battlefield?”   He smiled when he said it, but she felt the undercurrent of something electric between them.  “Eat your salad, the pizza will be ready soon.”

She ate her salad because she was hungry, she told herself, not because he told her to. 

The pizza was as delicious as she'd hoped it would be.  They finished the bottle of wine, although Sera felt like she drank most of it, and listened to Mona’s non-stop monologue about the movie she was going to see, the color of Nathaniel’s hair, his dimple and how jealous the other girls in seventh grade were going to be.  Sera’s head was spinning.

“Take a breath, Mona,” Marco finally interrupted the flow.  “Finish your lunch.”

While she was chewing, he winked at Sera.

“Quick, talk now.”

“Dad,” Mona tried to protest, but her mouth was full of crust.

“Don’t talk with your mouth full,” her father chided her.

“I’m just going to sketch the design today, I think, possibly do a base coat,” Sera told him.  “I might do a little research on Bodiccio.  That painting is actually a departure from his usual work; he did a lot of portraiture and worked almost exclusively with tempera on wood.  So, The Voyage is a really important work, totally different, and recognized by many as his masterpiece.”

“Interesting,” Marco said.

“Boring,” Mona drawled.

“Mona, you’re excused,” Marco frowned at his daughter.  “You can wait in your room for your date to arrive since you find our conversation boring.”

Mona opened her mouth to object, but after a quick look at her father’s expression, she snapped it shut again.  She picked up her plate and glass and left the table. 

“You’re tough,” Sera told him.

“She was rude,” he said.  “There’s no reason for rudeness.  She knows better.  She was just excited by your presence.”

“Why excited?”

“Because, Signorina Columbus, my daughter thinks we should date.”

“Date?” Sera squeaked.

“Yes, she has been singing your praises for months.”

“She doesn’t even know me,” she said.

“Not quite true,” he told her with a wry smile.  “She basically hero worships you.  You're gorgeous, wear the best jeans, drive a cute car, your cell phone has all the cool ring tones, and you’re an artist, which is what Mona wants to be.”

“She’s into art?”

He nodded.

“She’s pretty good too,” he said.  “Ask her to show you some of her drawings.”

“I will.”  She took a deep breath.  “How old was she when her mom died?”

“Beth died when Mona was five.  Breast cancer,” he told her.   “It was hard, but Mona only remembers the joy of her mother, not the pain of her death.  I’m grateful for that.”

“I’m so sorry,” Sera said softly. 

“Thank you,” he said, smiling at her.  “But I think I'm ready to date again.”

“Uh, that’s nice,” she said lamely.

Either the wine was making her loopy, or she was feeling that warm glow from the way Marco Gasparini was looking at her.

“Why don’t you go get started while I clean up,” he told her.  He pulled back her chair and offered her his hand.

He was a true gentleman, she thought, grinning stupidly at him. 

Sera went through the French doors into the great room and began unpacking her supplies.  She laid a canvas drop cloth out beside the wall, careful to tuck the edge close to the wood baseboard. 

She propped the huge book with the painting on a table beside the wall and studied it intently.  It was Sera’s habit to get the painting into her own soul before she started a rendition of it.  When she felt that the Bodiccio was in her mind, fluid in her fingers, she began to sketch on the wall with a sanguine conte crayon. 

She listened to reggae music on her Ipod as she worked.  The scene unfolded beneath her fingers, remarkably defined for such a quick study.  She quickly mixed up some turpentine with a burnt sienna pigment and went over her drawing with the wash, fleshing out her sketch with shading and nuance that would be the foundation of her mural.  It was a technique she had learned during a fresco course in Florence that she found created an antique, rich texture to her murals.  

“That’s amazing,” Marco said as he walked up behind her. 

She turned off her music and lifted her shoulder nonchalantly. 

“You open million dollar restaurants,” she said.  “I do art.  We’re both making a living at what we love to do.  Lucky us.”

“Yes,” he agreed.  “Listen, Mona and Nathaniel are waiting in my car. I’m going to drop them off at the movies and then head over to check in at the restaurant.”

“Oh, darn, I wanted to see what he looked like,” she said.

“He’s the cutest boy in school, what more do you need?  The dimple is quite incredible,” he told her.  “You could probably peek out the hall window if you want.”

“Oh, God forbid, Mona would freak out if she saw that.  I guess he passed muster since you’re actually letting her go.”

“Right.  So, I’ll see you in a couple hours?  You’ll still be here?”

“Oh, yeah,” she assured him.  “I’m milking this for all it’s worth – holiday rates and all.”

“Brat,” he laughed.  “Think about this while I’m gone; I really liked having lunch with you, and I’d love to make it dinner too.”

Then he surprised the hell out of her by leaning over and kissing her lightly on the lips. 

She was too stunned to say anything, she just watched him leave.  He had a great butt, she decided.  He looked sexy in jeans.  She loved it when guys looked sexy in jeans. 

She loved the way his eyes smiled along with his mouth.  She used to think hazel was such an ordinary color, but not on him.  His eyes were gorgeous.

Sera made a face at her gushing thoughts and carried the heavy book over to the comfortable sofa that faced the wall.  It was going to be a fabulous painting; the French doors on either side framed a beautiful view of the water and the trees across its wide expanse.  Marco’s house was situated on one of the widest sections of the river; there was even a small wooded island directly in front of his dock.   She stared at the Bodiccio work and was astonished to see that she did indeed look like Bodiccio’s depiction of Beatriz.  She had never done a genealogy of her ancestors; perhaps she was descended from Fernando, the scholarly illegitimate Columbus rather than Diego the governor. 

She shrugged.  Her eyelids felt heavy from the wine she had consumed at lunch.  It was a light Italian Prosecco, but she still wasn’t used to drinking at midday.  She started reading the text on the opposite page, but one word blurred into another, and she finally gave in and curled up against the plump pillows, the book open on her lap as she dozed off.

The sky was blue today.  Blue like the rich velvet of Marco’s best tunic.  A smile crossed her lips as she thought of her handsome husband.  But then she remembered her circumstances; she was hiding from the dratted man.  He had just found out that she was posing for Signor Bodiccio, the famous painter.  Marco was being an oaf about this, Sera thought.  Why, Signor Lorenzo was old enough to be her grandfather, and it wasn’t as if she were taking off her clothes.  She just stood in the courtyard while he painted on the huge canvas inside his studio.  She felt somewhat silly just standing there, but the Signor was paying her in gold coins.   She had planned to surprise Marco.

Oh, he was surprised. 

Today, she and the artist had lost complete track of time.  They had finally stopped, and Signor Lorenzo insisted that she eat some of his housekeeper’s biscotti and drink some tea before leaving.  It had been late when she hurried out of the courtyard, bumping into a lanky, rock hard obstacle.  Marco caught her by the arms and glared down at her.   

“What are you doing here, Seraphina?” he demanded.

She never could tell a lie properly.  So, why bother.

“I am posing for the great artist Bodiccio,” she said honestly.      

His brow darkened as it was wont to do when he was less than pleased with her. 

“My wife does not pose for a painter,” he bellowed.

“You are acting like a peasant,” she shouted back.  “Signor Bodiccio is a nobleman and highly respected by everyone in Siena.”

“I don’t care if he’s the Pope himself,” Marco hissed blasphemously.  “You have been lying to me and deceiving me for, for how long?”

“Three months,” she yelled, not caring that they were attracting a good deal of attention. 

“Three months!”  Marco’s mouth actually dropped open.  “Why does he need you for three months?”

“Because I resemble my great grandmother, and he is painting a huge work, called The Voyage about the Admiral of the Ocean Sea, Christopher Columbus, my own great grandfather,” she told him proudly.

“You go home and prepare yourself for my coming,” he told her ominously.  “I think I will stop and buy a bundle of switches, and I plan to break every one of them on your lying, lily white bottom.”

To Be Continued...