That's Amore

By Carolyn Chambers Clark and Anthony Auriemma

Recipe for THAT'S AMORE...

Take Angela and Ben, two married psychologists available to their clients 24/7, but haven't had sex with each other in...well, too long

Mix in an epidemic of divorce in the neighborhood

Stir in a chance romantic meeting with a hunky guy...at least Angela thinks he's hunky until she finds out he's Ben's best friend

Add a darling six-year-old daughter and eight-year-old son who try to help keep their parents together...to disastrous results

Separate and add in-laws and parents who try to help...also to disastrous results

Mix in Angela's old boyfriend who tries to horn in

Don't forget to blend in one divorce judge who orders Angela and Ben to "walk in the other's shoes" literally and see what cross dressing does to a relationship

And there you have it...THAT'S AMORE

Oh, and there are also some recipes included...guaranteed to make any dinner romantic. Unless, of course, disaster occurs...

To spice it up, add some of Angela's half-baked romance tips!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Carolyn Chambers Clark
• Release date: Nov 11, 2012
• ISBN: 9781301855360

Carolyn Chambers Clark

Carolyn Chambers Clark is a board-certified advanced holistic nurse practitioner with a master's degree in mental health nursing and a doctorate in education. She is a faculty member in the Health Services Doctoral Program at Walden University, and she hosts http://home.earthlink.net/~cccwellness and http://HolisticHealth.bellaonline.com.

Book preview

Copyright, 2014, Carolyn Chambers Clark & Tony Auriemma

SMASHWORDS Edition

For your personal reading pleasure

THAT'S AMORE

Chapter 1 - Non Dimenticar

Once upon a time, Ben would have met me at the door, wrapped in only a towel. Those days are gone forever.

With the Florida sun burning into my back, my cell phone plays the song, It's Magic, as I step out of my car and start toward the house.

It's Lulu callling me. As usual, my best friend talks fast and in a Brooklyn accent. It's the Big D, Angela.It's epidemic.

What are you talking about? Sometimes I want to hang up on Lulu, but then, my brain is still foggy from listening to my last client complain about his wife's snoring. Of course, I wouldn't hang up on her, because she'd just call back.

"It's the Andersons, your neighbors. They're getting divorced. Just like the Putins on the other side of the street. Divorced. I told you it's an epidemic. Fifty percent of marriages end in divorce. You're the one who told me that. Didn't you do your dissertation on the causes of divorce.

I do not want to be reminded about divorce. Not now. Not when things between Ben and I are… I did study divorce, but this has to be more important than the effect of wearing black shoes on the decision to talk about divorce in graduate students at Columbia University.

Of course it is, but don't sound so surprised. You deal with it every day, don't you?

I head up my bougainvillea-shaded walk and take a couple more deep breaths to calm down. Of course, I deal with it, but not personally, not next door and across the street. She's right, it's an epidemic. Jessica and Toby Anderson are such great kids. Now they'll be schlepping back and forth between their parents, having no home really, vagabonds with broken hearts.

While Lulu moves on to tell me about the latest shoe sale at Macy's, anxiety settles around me, which was something Ben used to be so good at removing. I remind myself that's just because my husband and I work 24/7 counseling our clients whenever they need us and have no time for each other—for sex, let alone romance—it'll never happen to us. We'll never do that to our kids, let alone to each other.

We're both psychologists. We know about all the pitfalls and we'll never tumble into any of them. Will we?

I step inside the front door, telling myself it doesn't matter how far apart Ben and I’ve drifted in the past six years. I say goodbye to Lulu, wish her well at the sale, and reassure myself there'll be no Big D for us. Tonight there will be romance, there will be intrigue, there will be...

You're late, Mom, my eight-year-old son says, inviting me in with a wiggle of his index finger. Mrs. Johnson quit again. I don't see why she got so upset just because me and Beck tried to give her cat a haircut.

Don't worry, I'll talk to her. I push aside my fears I’ll never get a better babysitter and sweep inside like the mistress of a grand southern plantation to inspect my firstborn's fatigues, wondering if he's ever going to give them up. He even wears pajama fatigues.

I push back a clump of red hair from Jimmy's damp forehead, and gently brush away a cookie crumb from his freckled cheek. I warn myself to be careful not to dislodge his Roger Rocket Space Gun from his shoulder holster, or there'll be hell to pay.

We missed you Mommy, my six-year-old chimes in, a little blonde angel without a curl out of place or a wrinkle mussing her white cotton dress.

I bend down to hug my first-grader-going-on-grad school daughter. Thank God for you kids, I whisper, wondering how they stayed so perfect when my marriage is so screwed up. Becky lets go of the suitcase of doll clothes she drags around with her so she can hug me back

Do you have enough of grandma's cast-off jewelry on? I say, pretending to be blinded by the faux diamonds in Becky's bracelet.

My daughter looks down at the three necklaces hanging around her neck and the five bracelets on each arm. Maybe I need one more.

I was kidding, honey. You have enough on right now.

Becky gives me one of her precious smiles capable of melting even the most stressed-out psychologist. Mommy, you look tired,she says diagnosing my malady.

I am a little. I'm going to take a bubble bath, then I'll be fine. Maybe Dad can help you with your homework, Jimmy, I say, gazing into his blue eyes.

He steps forward in a brave pose, hand above his eyes as if he's on a scouting expedition. I got it figured out, Mom. Want us to order a pizza?

No, honey. Your Dad and I are cooking tonight.

Jimmy gives me one of his scrutinizing glances. Does he know that, Mom?

* * *

I escape to the bathroom. I am Mata Hari, Cleopatra, Marilyn Monroe. I unzip my suit skirt and hang my work clothes away. Then, while my children are otherwise engaged with a DVD on the Grand Canyon, I soak in lavender bubble bath until every bit of tension vanishes from my back.

You're not going to lose Ben to some harebrained younger woman like half your clients have lost their men, I lecture myself, reaching out for a towel, and climbing out of the tub.

I’ve told myself the same thing so many times before, but tonight I’m going to listen. For two psychologists, Ben and I sure have a lot to learn about how to apply all the things we tell our clients. Why is it so easy to figure out what's wrong with other people and not to have a clue what's wrong with yourself?

Never mind that now, I tell myself. Tonight will be an evening of romance if I die trying. I slip into my best underwear, feeling the lush satiny softness against my skin. Ben likes one of my skirts. He said it was sexy. I rifle through my closet determined to find it.

I unclip a long gold skirt from the padded hanger and step into it, crossing my fingers it will still fit. It's been years since I've worn it. The skirt buckles a bit at the waist, but I can fix that. Taking out my handy-dandy sewing kit, I cut the button off and resew it on, making the skirt a good inch and a half wider in the waist.

Except for my waist, I've kept my figure, I tell myself, hoping it's true and not just a figment of my imagination. Most men would think I'm still attractive, I say aloud, and peek out from behind my bangs, not sure even I believe it. Now your mission, should you choose to accept it, is to awaken Ben to the fact he wants you.

I fasten the one button at the waist that holds the skirt on and stare at the amount of bare leg showing. Not bad. I shrug my shoulders into a low cut black top that stretches tightly across my breasts, and smooth the sleeves into place. Worn outside the waistband, no one would be the wiser my waist has spread a bit.

Becky peeks around the corner. You look nice Mommy. Wanna wear my gold necklace?

No honey, I have my own jewelry. Come on in. I open the teak jewelry case and let Becky chose a pair of gold hoop earrings for her.

Those are pretty, Mommy. Can I wear them?

I slip my earrings into place. In a few years, honey. You have enough jewelry on for a coronation, don't you think?

What's a coronation? She clings to my skirt while I study myself in the mirror.

That's when they give the queen the power to rule, I say, picturing myself in a crown. We women have to make sure we're ready at all times in case such an event takes place.

My brown hair curls down to my shoulders and arranges itself in tiny tendrils around my tan face. While I outline my eyelids with a makeup pencil, I remind myself how glad I am to be married to Ben. Sure, he's not as romantic as he used to be.

I stare into the the mirror.

When was the last time he brought you flowers or candy? Hell, I don't care about that. When was the last time we made love? I stopped keeping track. Yes, but you can't have everything. He's smart and witty and keeps me on my toes, and doesn't stay in the garage making inventions like one of my clients. No matter what our problems, I wouldn't want a wimp or a dictator. Okay, so he likes to argue, bicker really, but I refuse to give him any reason to do that tonight.

I set down my eyeliner pencil with a definitive snap on my makeup table. Tonight is for romance!

* * *

Come, my dear. Crooking a finger at Ben, I coax him along through the living room. I sway my body, I wink, and let my shoulder strap slide down my arm.

I hold out my hand to him, taking full advantage of the wide open space, inviting him to slow dance with little insinuations of my body. Ben hesitates, then approaches with a smile and an outstretched arm. He's wearing a blue fitted shirt that brings out the color in his eyes, along with a glint deep inside that speaks of things to come. A flicker of interest moves across his handsome features as he comes closer. He moves his well-muscled shoulders in perfect rhythm with the advance of his arms, somehow just managing to miss my fingers.

No harm done. I swivel my hips and reach out for him. I've read about what happened next in a lot of romance novels and always thought it bunk. But tonight, his eyes really do feel hot on my body. This could be fun, I tell myself, smiling.

Bowing slightly from the waist, he gestures toward the door with a flourishing wave of his arm and just misses knocking over the antique vase my great aunt gave us for a wedding present. I refuse to worry about that near-miss and slip my hand through the crook of his arm. We float down the hall and arrive in the last bastion of romance, the kitchen. He stops dancing and twirls me around.

Think how good this will taste, he says, dipping me so my head nearly touches the floor.

This is getting good. Time for a few double entendres. Hungry? I say, shaking my shoulders in time to the music.

Famished, he replies.

He picks up a breadstick, breaks off a piece and tantalizes me with it before letting me take a bite.

While I dream of how good the finished meal will taste, and what will follow, I twist and spin my body to the music. He pauses at the counter to grab two peppers and a cutting board.I watch his arm muscles glisten in the light while he sets the vegetables down on the island, and can’t help but flash on the vivid image I had coming up the walk.

Cooking together, what a great idea! We've done this many times, but tonight I've added romantic music, courtesy of the Dean Martin CD Ben bought me in a burst of passion years ago. Now I understand why he was playing it the other morning. Dino sounds much better than I remember. If his sexy crooning of Italian love songs can't bring forth a little romance, nothing can.

Out of the corner of my eye I catch my son winking at Becky and flipping the volume up on the CD. That's the way, kids. Help us out. Dear old Mom needs any help she can get.The kids giggle and Jimmy turns up the volume another click.

I salute my son. Time to set the table, Captain.

While Ben and I gather together the evening's dinner ingredients, strains of Non Dimenticar fill the house. We drift around the room, punctuating each twist or turn with a pretend castanets click. Don't forget, Dino sings, his voice dripping with sensuality. I mouth along with the music when the CD arrives at my darling, and give Ben what I hope is my most alluring glance.

Having returned from his table-setting expedition, Jimmy grabs his sister by the arm. Come on, Beck.

They take their stations at the counter, watching, wide-eyed. They lean over the marble ledge, entranced, tilting their head left and right in time to the music, big smiles of pleasure on their faces.

I swing my hips to the beat, heading for the refrigerator, and crooning along with Dino. It's my heart you own.

Ben does own my heart, I realize. Now the trick is to stir his passion. I'm crossing my fingers I can do this.

Garlic? I say, picking two cloves from the strand of bulbs hanging inside the cabinet.

He grabs them just before the door slams shut. A few more dance steps to the left and he holds the cabinet open while I snatch the olive oil as Dino's love-shaped words, all you mean to me, ring through the kitchen. Moving our bodies together in time to the beat, we give each other just-miss kisses.

Jimmy claps and Becky hoots with glee.Why can't they get along this good all the time? Becky says to her brother loud enough for me to hear.

Jimmy laughs and points to the big cloves of garlic sitting on the counter. Maybe we should give them more of that.

Could garlic really be the answer to romance? Maybe it is in a kid's world. It's not easy, kids, I mouth to them. Especially when it takes a Herculean effort to get your father to dance. Still, it is worth it. I feel aroused, young, beautiful!

While I pour water into a spaghetti pot, Ben drops in a dollop of oil and a teaspoon of salt before I place the container on the stove. I take out a pan for the spaghetti sauce and watch as he covers the bottom of the skillet with olive oil.

Following the pulsating beat, I motion to Ben, but he hangs back, a self-conscious look on his face. I'd almost had to threaten him to get him to dance with me at our wedding. Since then, he's declined every opportunity until tonight. Maybe there is hope after all, I tell myself. Maybe he finally figured out dancing’s one of the most romantic and sexiest things two people can do, and great foreplay, too.

Swaying to the music, I two-step to the pantry and take out two cans of tomato paste. I hold them up to ear lobes like earrings, then bow while Becky claps her hands in approval and Jimmy whistles through his teeth. I promise myself in that instant that both of my children will learn how to dance before they enter high school, preferably by next week.

The kids slide off their chairs and try to imitate me, each picking up a can of tomato puree while their father cuts up garlic, fresh basil and oregano and throws them with wild abandon into the hot oil.

Divine. I feel drunk and I haven't even had a sip of wine. This is how life should be---wonderful aromas and dancing and romance.

Ben whisks the cans open and dumps them into the sizzling onions and garlic. I add a sprig of fresh parsley from my window herb garden and a handful of basil and oregano to the sauce.

I dump the box of pasta into the boiling water, then hang on Ben's shoulder while he stirs the tomato mixture.

Try this, he says.

My mouth explodes in a burst of tomato, garlic, and herbs around the taste of smoldering sauce he spoons me. The smells, tastes and music send a tingle of excitement through me.

A few minutes later, after he's given me a strand of pasta to taste and I pronounce it perfect, Ben and I dance over to the sink and he dumps cooked spaghetti into a colander. I rumba up behind him, hoping to put my arms around his waist and feel the warmth of his back.

While I reach out to grab him, I whisper, Is it ready?

Startled, Ben rears back and nearly drops the spaghetti. Everything happens in slow motion after that. The pasta swirls around the edge of the colander and flies through the air in huge S-shaped projectiles. Each one hovers above the sink for a second, taunting us. Then the spaghetti plops down into the sink. It swirls around, as if the air had released it for a journey.

Unable to speak, I stand watching, a feeling of horror taking over my stomach. The pasta toboggans across the sink and starts to slide down the garbage disposal out of sight with only a blub blub to announce its exit.

The music ends and the romantic spell with it. I elbow my way past Ben and stare at the disappearing strands of spaghetti.

I reach out and fumble, desperate to catch hold of the last vestiges of our passion pasta. Ben joins in, reaching out for the final strings of the spaghetti, but I get to them first. The remaining strands scald my hand. I jump back and nearly topple into Ben. Helpless, I watch any hope of romance seep away with the last vestiges of steam rising up from the disposal like a pitiful farewell.

Don't worry, I can fix it. Ben's voice takes on a much too eager tone, considering what happened. Without waiting for consultation, he rushes to the pantry. Don't get upset, the sauce is ready. I'll just open another box.

Sure, you will. I cringe, knowing the fate of his plan. That was the last box, I say, as if it was a horrid secret. At that moment I scold myself for not buying two more boxes of pasta---a dozen more, maybe even a pasta-making machine, for just such disasters.

***

Spaghetti and Peas (for when the spaghetti doesn't go down the disposal)

Ingredients:

1 box of the kind of spaghetti you like

1 can or box of fresh peas

chopped onion to taste

olive oil

fresh or powdered garlic, parsley, oregano, salt and pepper to taste

boil spaghetti and drain off water

mix in rest of ingredients and serve

***

Ben's face registers a dramatic set of emotions from disappointment to anger ending with resignation. Realizing his great idea isn't so great, he turns off the tomato sauce and slinks toward the refrigerator.

Knowing my husband, I make a bet with myself for what his choice for dinner will be before I see him open the door. It still surprises me when he grabs the peanut butter and jelly and a loaf of bread before returning to the counter.

He slathers our paltry dinner on chunks of bread.

I sigh and take out the milk container, stopping on the way for four glasses. I feel so bad, but I can't get out of the anger and disappointment pit I've dug myself into. Not to mention guilt. After all, I'd had a hand in the demise of our dinner. I'd plan it, executed it, and fouled it up. Every time I sneak a peek at Ben, blame sweeps through me, making me feel nothing can be done to fix it.

The four of us pull stools up to the counter and take sad munches on our sandwiches. The kids try to make everything better, at least Becky does by entertaining us with school tales.

The teacher let me tell the class all about the manatees. They could be dextinct soon you know.

That's extinct, Jewelry Girl, Jimmy says with a smirk.

That's great, Becky. I give her a hug. You're a girl after my own heart. Let someone else's daughter write about puppies or kittens. Mine knows a nearly extinct species when she sees one.

Jimmy gives his sister a vengeful glance. Oh, yeah, well I got sent to the principal. How's them apples?

Ben and Becky stop chewing their sandwiches mid-bite. Ben raises an eyebrow and his mouth falls open. He stares at Jimmy, speechless.

You what? What for? Filling up with anger and totally forgetting how crushed he must feel, I dump my frustration about my spoiled romance onto him without even knowing it.

Ben glares at me, taking up the challenge of punishing each other without bothering to ask our son the details of what happened to him. This is all because you think his toy gun escapades are cute, Ben says.

What? Heaving with anger, that's the only word I can get out.

Ben sneers at me. He probably brought his Roger Space Gun to school with him and got caught with it. You never get firm with him. He needs to concentrate on learning something. Ben's face turns into a marble effigy of contempt.

I stare at him. At that moment I could say why don't you just drop dead and mean every word. You'd have him going to military school and saluting. Let the kid be a little creative. I shout my words, refusing to be outdone.

Getting expelled is not creative, Angela, it could ruin his chances for Harvard, Ben says, wiping a glob of jelly off his chin.

Name me one genius who was ruined at age eight, I retort, indignant. My hands are shaking but I can’t shut up despite the fact I know I'm going in the absolute wrong direction.

Your theories of parenting are all wrong. Ben glares at me and slathers more peanut butter onto his bread.

Nothing wrong with my theories. I devised them, tested them out, and have evidence to back them up, I shout. The problem is that you don't back me up on the execution.

Sad looks on their little faces, the kids slide out of their seats and make a beeline away from the table.

My stomach doubles over. If only I had a magic wand that would let me replay this day. Why hadn't I just gone along with the sandwiches, pretended we were on a romantic picnic at river’s edge instead of quoting psychology? Even if I had, going along wouldn't have canceled out Jimmy's admission of guilt or my quarrel with Ben over parenting.

Not only no sex tonight, but our son might not be quite the cherub I'd thought. For sure, Ben and I aren't the parents I'd hoped.

* * *

Later, I pick up a stack of clean laundry and head toward Becky's room, dejected. No good ideas for bringing romance back into my life come floating by no matter how I rack my

brain. Ready to listen to anyone's advice, even my kids', I pause outside in the hall and catch Becky and Jimmy having a powwow.

My daughter pokes Jimmy's arm trying to get his attention. Why did you say you were sent to the principal? You weren't, were you?

Jimmy smiles with his big brother smile. No, but did you see what they did?It got them all upset about me and they forgot how mad they were at each other about the spaghetti. Not bad, huh?

Becky digs at her fingernail. They were just angry. It's your fault. I won't lie just to get them to talk.

Jimmy has a big-shot look in his eyes. Okay, but this is serious. We have to figure out a way to get them to stop fighting. All my friends have divorced parents.

What's divorced? Becky says, an earnest expression of curiosity on her face.

I swallow hard, thinking about my friend's divorce. If it could happen to Donna, it could happen to anyone.

That's when your parents split up and you never see them together again and they send you back and forth between their houses like a football. I've heard this stuff from my friends and they hate it, Jimmy says.

Becky looks confused. Is it like that show on TV when the kingdom is divided and the queen gets the castle and the kids, and the king gets the other castle, and they divide the cartons of melons?

Jimmy nods, a sad look on his face. You got it. We could be the melons.

She sighs and looks up at her brother. This is bad. We can't let that happen.

A look of determination on his face, he shakes his head. No way. We have to think of something.

Even though I don't know what to say, I want to run into the room and console them. Maybe they can come up with the answer to our romantic problems.Ben and I sure can't.

ROMANCE TIP: Never make spaghetti with your husband.

Chapter 2 - Houston

That night it rains. In silence, I sit opposite Ben in the living room, waiting for his surprise dessert to bake. I can't imagine what it is, but I sip my coffee and try to decide what to do after messing up spaghetti dinner. I want to make it up to Ben, but I have no idea how to start.

He sets down his coffee cup. I know pasta and wine’s a lot more romantic than peanut butter and jelly, but couldn’t you just have gone along with it?

I don’t know. Something inside stops me, an old family pattern that won't die. Maybe I should have left the house and bought more pasta, I say.

That’s when he folds his arms like I usually do when I'm about to give him the third degree.

He squints at me. You let the spaghetti go down the drain, didn’t you?

Of course not! But while we’re on the subject, let’s not let a pot of steaming hot spaghetti take on a life of its own.

He gives me a sour smile. "It committed hara-kiri.Let’s just call it the Pasta Incident in all future family dealings."

His comment sets off little darts of anger inside me. Don’t make a joke of this. It’s symbolic of what’s wrong between us.

Is everything symbolism with you? He spreads his hands give me a shrug of regret. Let’s just forget about the Pasta Incident. It was your fault anyway. You came up behind, startled me and I let go of the pot.

That makes my blood pressure jump up. Enough blame exists in this to cover both of us ten times over. Come on, Ben. Let’s just call it an accident.

Umm hmm. Accidentally-on-purpose-unconsciously, he says, giving me a supercilious glance. You don’t say anything by accident.

Don’t give me that Freudian stuff. I hate when you do that. When it comes to accidents, you meant everything you said in court about men.

He gives me a hostile stare. And everything you said about women you meant.

I knew we never should have agreed to testify on opposite sides of a divorce case. No matter how great being interviewed by the Sun-Herald was for our careers, I can’t let it be the death knell to our already not-so-perfect marriage

Sniffing a major fight coming on, I get up and leave before either of us do anything stupid.

Going out to get some papers in my car, I shout in Ben's direction. Still steaming, Igrab a windbreaker, shove an umbrella open, and head toward the door, not really caring if he hears me or not. Hurt and attack cloud my thinking.

You don’t have to tell me that, I’m not your father, he shouts after me.

I turn and advance on him. What does my father have to do with this?

You told me your mother thought it was cute when he announced his comings or goings. She thought it was considerate.

Yes, and she complained like hell when he didn't make it home on time for dinner or forgot to wash the car.Maybe it all evens out in relationships and what goes around really does come around.

Too bad things can’t work out that easily with us. He says it in a poignant way.

But I can't let go of it. That’s because you keep a mental list of the things I do that please you and another list of the things I do that irritate you. When the balance tips, I’m in the dog house.

What are you talking about? He gives me a confused look, but he knows exactly what I mean. He invented irritating behavior.

Like now, I say in an exasperated tone. "That spaghetti faux pas is an example. You don't even see your part in how the meal went into the garbage disposal. You blame me for the whole thing." Before he can answer me back, I slam out of the house.

The porch under my feet feels like someone sprayed it with soda pop, and the wind picks up, making it impossible to hold