Kitabı oku: «Stick Shift», sayfa 2

Then she saw the line of people standing in front of the counter. It was all that secretary’s fault at the Italian office. She had made the travel arrangements. Lucy had told the girl that she wanted to fly directly into Naples, but the girl, probably an airhead, couldn’t get her on a connecting flight. She could book it on the return, but not on the arrival. So this was the result.

Sigh.

San Francisco and Leonardo da Vinci airports might have different names and be on different continents, but the lines were all the same. Long.

So much for hot baths and sandwiches.

It was a beautiful morning, from what she could see out the huge windows surrounding her, but each person in line had to quibble with the staff behind the counter over silly things like the color of the car, or the quality of the radio or the size of the engine. Lucy thought it was insane. Rome waited a few steps outside these walls and all anybody seemed to care about was the color of paint.

She let out a series of yawns. Her ears crackled, then popped. She could hear again. The crowded airport was unexpectedly loud, and the people in front of her seemed to be setting the pitch.

She had to restrain herself from jumping into the fray, from yelling out her own innocuous frustrations, like a cranky kid unhappy about a purple sucker when she wanted a green one.

Was it something about Italy? About the culture? It seemed as though when a non-Italian arrived, and there were plenty of non-Italians standing in front of her, they suddenly developed the Italian instinct to argue. Your normal, average, calm Brit or Spaniard or Frenchman abruptly found themselves whining over every last detail. Every minute inconvenience. And the irony was, everyone seemed to enjoy the banter. She thought there was something wonderfully liberating about public bickering and no one noticing.

When it was finally her turn, Lucy wheeled her suitcase up to the counter, calmly reached into her purse, took out her driver’s license and smiled at the chubby, short woman standing behind the gray counter. “Hello,” said Lucy. “I have a reservation for a compact, automatic.”

“No automatic. Stick,” the woman said as she reached for Lucy’s driver’s licence and read her name out loud. “Signorina Lucia, only stick.”

“I can’t drive a stick shift. I’m sure the reservation was for an automatic,” Lucy replied in a calm, clear voice.

The woman’s voice went up an octave. “We no got no automatic. Just stick. You want or not?”

Lucy spoke in Italian. “I want the car I ordered.”

The woman responded in Italian, “I’m sorry, miss, but they’re all gone. If you want a car, you’ll have to take a stick. That’s all I have.”

“You’re not listening. I can’t drive a standard. I need an automatic. Surely you can understand—”

“You want a car? I give you a car. So you have to learn something new. So what!”

Lucy hesitated, counted to ten and thought of Sister Gregory; stern, unemotional Sister Gregory from ninth grade. It’s time you learned something new, young lady. Time you learned how to swim. Lucy remembered the shock as she hit the cold water and the silence as she sank to the bottom of the pool like a schoolhouse desk. The only good memory of that day was Sister Gregory, brown habit and all, jumping in after her.

“Look, I have to drive all the way to Naples and I don’t have the faintest idea—”

“I can drive you,” someone said in English. It came from behind her. Lucy turned to see none other than Mr. Garlic.

“Not you again,” she said, dismissing his offer.

“Perdona, but have we met?”

Lucy realized just how rude she must have sounded, and how unimportant she must have been to him because he didn’t even remember her. She softened her voice. “No, we haven’t actually met. Not officially, but I remember you from the flight. I was in your seat and you ate my shoe…your shoe. You ate your shoe, not mine…I mean.”

“Ah, I am famous!” he said, full of himself.

“For fifteen minutes.”

He smiled, and once again Lucy felt the heat of his attraction. Her toes itched. She wiggled them inside her shoes, trying to get the itch to stop, but it wouldn’t, not as long as he stood in front of her, smiling.

He was taller than she had first thought, at least six feet, but then she had never been this close to him, at least not facing him. And the scent of garlic was gone, replaced now with the scent of basil. How odd, she thought, for someone to smell of herbs.

“Thank you for the offer, but I can drive myself,” she said.

“Nobody with a brain wants a car in Napoli,” he answered.

She didn’t like the implication. “You have a car. What does that make you?”

“No brains. My mamma, she always say I got no brains, so I buy a car. Please, allow me to drive you to Napoli in my brainless car.”

Lucy had to smile at his innocent chivalry.

“You want the car or not, miss?” the woman roared.

Lucy stood unnerved in the midst of airport chaos and tried to decide what to do with his offer. If this were the U.S. and some eccentric guy volunteered a ride, she would absolutely refuse. He could be some crazed killer. But this was Italy.

Her Italy.

Her heritage.

And for the most part, Italian men were romantics, lovers…she noticed the head of garlic sticking out of his shirt pocket.

“Thanks, but I’ll be fine,” she said thinking this man was some kind of food-kook.

“Buona fortuna!” he said and turned abruptly away. She watched as he joined the mix of travelers roaming through the airport. He stopped to wave goodbye as if they were old friends and he was leaving on some trip. She wiggled her toes and caught herself waving back, feeling sad. There was something intoxicating about him, but she couldn’t think about that now. There wasn’t any time to question her emotions. She’d think about it later, while she was soaking in a hot tub, scrubbing her toes.

For an instant, she regretted never having taken the time to visit Italy, but she was always so busy with work, and before that there was college, then grad school. Not that she didn’t love Italy. She did. She loved hearing stories about it, reading about it, learning the language, but she could never justify an actual visit, and yet here she was. Alone. On a business trip. A week before her wedding. At least she could enjoy the scenery from the car, even if she would have to learn how to drive along the way.

“I’ll take the car,” Lucy told the woman behind the counter.

The woman looked at her and spat, “Sorry, I gave your car away. No more cars.”

“What? You must have misunderstood. I’ll take the car now.”

“All rented. No more cars, miss. Come back tomorrow. I can get you an automatic tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow! What do you mean tomorrow?” Lucy’s voice went up an octave, but she caught herself. She refused to get into a shouting match. “Thank you,” she said in a tight, subdued tone. “I’m sure you did your best.”

The woman behind the counter didn’t reply as Lucy ran off after Mr. Garlic, hoping his offer was still good, when suddenly she realized she didn’t know his name.

3

THE GIRL in the red scarf had so intrigued Vittorio that once the plane had landed in Rome he followed her to the car-rental counter. Fortunately, they were going to the same city, but the beguiling Madonna had turned out to be an elitist.

Her misfortune, Vittorio thought as he waved his goodbye. He was not the type of man to pursue a woman with her nose stuck up in the air when there were so many unspoiled women to choose from, like the girl serving him the cappuccino from behind the coffee bar. The girl with the beautiful, full breasts and round hips who leaned toward him just enough so he could peek down her open blouse.

“Just right,” Vittorio told her as she moved in even closer, smiling over at him when she put the cup, with the billows of steamed milk, down in front of him. “Like a pillow,” he teased and picked up the cup to take a sip. She giggled and her breasts bounced ever so slightly under the thin cotton of her floral blouse.

Vittorio appreciated the moment and was just about to start some heavy flirting when somebody tapped him on the shoulder.

“Excuse me,” a voice said, tap-tap-tapping while he tried desperately to get his peek at what had to be the most perfect breasts in all of Italy.

“Go away. I am busy,” he said as he turned around, annoyed by the incessant pecking on his shoulder.

It was she, the elitist in the red scarf. Her hair had come undone from its clip and surrounded her face with its rich luster. Streaks of sunlight sparkled through the warm brown of thick silk.

Vittorio could only smile at his fortune. To be enveloped by two such beauties was indeed a great moment to be savored.

“Ah, it is you, signorina. Let me buy you a cappuccino,” he said, smiling.

“Thanks,” Lucy said, “but I thought you were driving to Napoli.”

“Yes, but first I drink coffee. Please, you will feel better after.” He turned to the beauty leaning on the counter. “Prego, un cappuccino.”

Lucy hesitated, but then agreed, rolled her suitcase in close, and secured her purse on her shoulder. The girl behind the counter continued to flirt with Vittorio as she made the cappuccino for Lucy.

The girl and Vittorio spoke to each other in Italian.

“Is this your lover?” she asked Vittorio.

“What kind of question—”

“Just making sure,” she said.

When she had finished making the cappuccino, she slammed it down in front of Lucy, spilling the coffee on the counter and on Lucy’s white jacket.

“Thanks a lot,” Lucy said and reached for a napkin.

Undaunted, the girl walked back to Vittorio and leaned in as far as she could. This time Vittorio got the full view.

“Oh, brother,” Lucy murmured and turned away.

“I get off work in an hour,” the girl purred.

“Don’t let me stop you,” Lucy said, as she picked up her things and walked away.

Vittorio called after her. “No. Wait.” He pulled some money out of his pocket, put it down on the counter, smiled and whispered, “Some other time, perhaps.”

“Some other time,” the coffee girl repeated, with fire in her eyes.

LUCY COULDN’T BELIEVE she had decided to hitch a ride from such a…a lush, a sleaze, a guy with absolutely no scruples. To flirt with one girl, while another waits for you, was just…well, it was disgusting. Downright disgusting!

But then it was the nature of the Italian man to flirt. Her very own father was a flirt. Somehow, her mother never cared. She would say, “Better that he looks at the menu than eat the food.”

Disgusting!

If the earth opened up at that very moment and swallowed the whole group of them, she would be happy. Jubilant! Filled with jubil.

As she walked through the airport, pondering her new descriptive phrase, envisioning a huge crack down the middle of Italy where thousands of smirking Italian men, dressed in trendy suits and black sandals lined up to jump into the abyss, she felt a tap, tap, tap on her shoulder and turned.

“Scusi, signorina. Please, my car, she waits,” he said, bowing.

Lucy stood there, staring at him while she did a mental rewind of the smile they’d exchanged on the plane.

“Then, let’s go,” she said.

He slung his bag over his shoulder and reached for her suitcase, but her stubborn streak wouldn’t let her give it up.

“Please,” he said. “Allow me.”

“Thanks, but I’m perfectly able to pull my own bag.”

He looked at her, puzzled. “But why, when I am willing to pull it for you?”

She couldn’t think of a quick response, so she gave him the suitcase, but it somehow didn’t seem right. She walked alongside him with her arms folded across her chest. Lucy believed in equality, women’s rights, NOW, and didn’t particularly like it when a man showed any degree of old-world chivalry. She wanted to give him a lecture on how things were in her world, but decided this was his world so she would let it go…for now.

They walked for what seemed like forever. After hopping on at least three trams, they finally found his car in the multi-story carpark. It was a bright-red, classic, convertible Alfa Romeo Spider about the size of a tight shoe.

Lucy wondered where inside this tiny flash on wheels was the luggage going to fit. He opened her door, of course, making sure she was comfortable before he crammed the luggage into the itty-bitty trunk.

When he got in and shut his door, Lucy realized just how close they were. She could actually hear him breathing.

Help!

Suddenly, she thought of Seth. Longed for Seth. Longed for his arms around her. His face next to hers. His body so close they were one. To be cuddling with him as they watched an old movie, or lingered over a spectacular sunset—even though they’d never watched an old movie or lingered over a sunset, she was sure they would once they were married.

“I’ve got to make a phone call,” she blurted and jumped out of the car. She didn’t care that Seth was on his workday-sleeping schedule and was probably tucked in for the night. She only cared about one thing…hearing his reassuring voice.

At first she couldn’t get through, then Seth’s phone began to ring.

“Hello,” he said into her ear. It felt great to hear his voice. Made her think everything was going to be fine. That this trip was worth the effort.

“Hi, Seth. Just wanted to tell you that I’m here,” she told him.

Just at that moment, the red sportscar roared to life. “I can’t hear you. You’ll have to shout,” Seth said. “Where are you?”

“In Rome.”

“I thought you were going to Naples.”

“I’m driving. Well, I’m not driving but…I met someone who—”

“You’re breaking up. All I got was something about you…meeting someone.”

“What? I can barely hear you.” She tried to shout louder over the revving engine, but the noise only grew worse.

She thought she could hear Seth as he yawned into the phone. “Everything’s under control here, so don’t worry. Just concentrate on work. Your mother phoned. She’s taking over the wedding. Ordering more flowers. Carnations. Red ones.” He yawned again. “Call me when you get to your room.”

“But you were supposed to handle all the last-minute stuff for me, not my mother. She’ll turn it into an Italian festival. I hate red carnations!”

“Don’t worry so much. It’ll be fine. I have to go to sleep now, or I won’t get my eight hours. You know I’m lousy without my eight.”

“Seth, I—”

“Bye,” he said before she could get another word out. Before she had a chance to tell him she loved him. Before he could tell her he loved her. Not that they had said it very often, twice to be exact, twice in the year and a half they had been dating, but it was an overused word anyway.

Wasn’t it?

The phone went dead.

For an instant Lucy thought she should call him back. Tell him it was some guy she met on the plane, some weird guy who eats his shoes and smells of garlic. She was getting a ride from a complete stranger who had an unhealthy fascination with garlic and leather. Someone who carries her luggage, opens her car door and flirts with every woman he sees.

Someone who makes her toes itch.

She wanted to tell Seth everything, wanted him to get angry, jealous, enraged, but instead she opened the car door and slid into the seat next to…oh my God, she still didn’t know his name.

4

“THE FASTEST WAY to Naples is the Autostrada del Sole,” Lucy ordered even before she closed her door, as if he were a taxi driver and she were the passenger. She was staring at her glossy map that she had purchased at Barnes and Noble the minute she found out she would be going to Italy. “You can drop me off at the Santa Maria. Do you know where that is?”

“Yes,” he calmly said. “A beautiful hotel.”

“And don’t get any ideas. I’m getting married on Saturday.”

“This Saturday?” he asked.

“Yes, this Saturday. Is there something wrong with Saturday?”

“No. What could be wrong? If you say you’re getting married on Saturday, then you’re getting married.”

“On Saturday,” she repeated.

“This Saturday,” he said, but there was something in his voice that drove her nuts. Some bit of sarcasm or skepticism that made her want to scream. She folded her arms across her chest.

They were silent as he backed the car out of the parking spot. The quiet made her tense. Agitated. She felt as if he were judging her.

“It’s not like it’s a big wedding. Just a hundred or so people. My fiancé is handling everything. And my mother is ordering more flowers, a girl can never have too many flowers…red carnations. I love red carnations.”

Okay, so she lied, but she was going for some kind of response here. She didn’t exactly know why, but she wanted a response.

Still nothing.

He drove the car around the parking lot, squealing through the turns, then slowing on the next guy’s bumper. He drove like a maniac.

Nutso.

He finally said, “I got to make a couple stops. We take Appia, you will like it better. I am Vittorio, Vittorio Bandini.”

“Lucy Mastronardo,” she told him, tensing as he hit the brakes, almost hitting the yellow Mini in front of them.

He turned to look at her. “Then, you are Italian!”

“Only by blood. I was born in America,” she said.

“You don’t like your blood?”

“No…yes. It’s fine blood. What I mean is, I’m marrying an American.”

“That’s nice, but you will still be Italian.”

“You don’t understand.”

“Perhaps, but you cannot change who you are by marrying someone you are not.”

She stared at him for a moment, then at her map and said, “The Appia will take too long. I can’t afford the time.”

“Lucia, this is Italia and you are Italian. All you got is time.” He shifted gears and drove the car out into the morning sun.

Lucy could never understand the fascination men had with a stick shift, all that movement, up and down, back and forth. It seemed like such a waste of energy and time. Such a dated way to drive a car. Maybe you had to have a penis to understand the connection.

“I have to attend a meeting at a company,” she told him while fastening her seatbelt. She had to admit that the interior of the car was lush and comfortable compared to her Camry. This whole thing was beginning to get to her. She folded her map and shoved it into her brown Coach purse.

“Ah, Lucia, you think they care if you are late? If you stop to enjoy the ambiance of Italia? No. I do not think so. Maybe in America you must not be late, but Americans are silly people. They work too much. Can’t enjoy life.”

“Isn’t there a train I can take? Maybe you should drop me off at a train station.”

“Sure. There are trains, but why take a train when you can take me?” he said, smiling. “I am better than a train. No?”

Okay, so he’s better than a train, she thought. Better than almost anything, with that candy-talk and enticing smile, but she came to Italy for work, not play. And, she was getting married on Saturday.

This Saturday.

She took out her phone and called Subito. No one answered. She hung up and dialed again, thinking she had pressed the wrong number. Still no answer. She didn’t understand. The project had to go out in a week. There were customers and demos, and money to be made. They should be practically living at work, sleeping under their desks on futons, showering only when absolutely necessary and ordering in.

As Vittorio drove away from the airport, he said, “See, I was right. You should listen to me, Lucia.”

Lucy left a message for Giovanni, excusing herself for missing the morning meeting. Then she ordered a mandatory meeting for the entire team at one o’clock sharp, thinking that would give her plenty of time to arrive. She wanted everyone to be ready for a “show-and-tell,” complete with pen plots, schematics, and simulation results for every block on the communications chip. “Plan on an all-nighter,” she said into the phone. “Have your secretary order a couple pizzas.”

She snapped shut her phone and sank into the comfortable seat and tried to enjoy the view—the countryside, not Vittorio.

Once they were on the road to Naples, Lucy relaxed and let her mind wander to what she had learned about Italy, her Italy. As they drove, windows down, wind caressing her body, she knew she was finally home.

The view was spectacular, more breathtaking than she had ever thought it could be—the expanse of sea to her right and the terraced hills to her left. The air, clean and sweet.

Lucy’s mother had wanted to return to Italy several times, but her dad always came up with an excuse why they shouldn’t. Besides, high-school summers needed to be spent taking extra classes, preparing for college.

Her dad, who was a third-generation Italian and had no bond to Europe, had taught her about getting ahead in the world, about working hard for what you wanted, and about keeping one’s voice at a calm, low pitch.

“Lucia,” Vittorio said. “You like Italia?”

She nodded. “I’ve heard a lot about it. My mother’s from Positano.”

“Que bella! A beautiful town by the sea. And your mamma, her family, they still live in Positano?”

“No. When my grandparents died everyone moved away. I guess I’d like to see it someday.”

“You want, we can go. Positano is no far from Napoli. I know where to buy homemade Limoncello. The best!”

Lucy didn’t like his intrusion into her personal life, as if he had some kind of right because they were both Italian.

“No, thanks,” she said, trying to dismiss the conversation, but his words kept nagging at her, making her feel guilty, the way her mother always did. She didn’t have time to visit ancient villages. She had a chip to get out. Maybe some other visit, like for her first wedding anniversary. Maybe then, she and Seth would come back for a real honeymoon since there was no time for one now. They had planned a weekend in San Francisco, but Monday morning was work as usual. They were both on hot projects.

Perfect, she thought. She would return to Italy for their first anniversary and visit her mom’s hometown.

Definitely maybe, if there wasn’t a project in the way.

“Then, why are you here?”

“For business,” she said, and sat upright in the seat, hoping he would get the body language and turn off the fountain of questions.

“You make lots of money in this business?”

She shot him a look, then realized it was just an innocent question.

“I’m comfortable,” she looked over at him as he drove, shifting gears to slow down behind a bus, then shifting again to speed up to get around. It looked easy enough. She thought she probably should have taken the rental car right off. She just had a momentary panic, that’s all. She wouldn’t let it happen again.

“You no look so comfortable. You look, how you say? Tense,” he said, looking over at her.

“It was a long flight,” she mumbled.

Vittorio drove the car off an exit. Lucy asked, “Why are we getting off? We still have a long way to go.”

“We are in Frascati. The white wine is like nowhere else in Italia. Delizioso!” he drew his fingers together and kissed them. Lucy hadn’t seen that gesture for so long she had forgotten all about it. And there it was again. Vittorio had a way of making it look sultry, sexy, as if he were kissing a woman’s lips. “Sweet and exciting,” he said.

“I bet,” Lucy answered, smiling in spite of herself.

He parked his car behind a row of colorful stucco buildings: green, yellow, pink and blue. He walked over to her side of the car and opened the door before she had time to unfasten her seatbelt.

“Thank you, but I can get my own door,” she told him. He dismissed her comment.

Lucy stepped out of the car onto the cobblestone street and felt as if she had been swept away in a fairy-tale. At once she could hear the village as it came to life around her. She didn’t know how anyone might have ignored the sounds of Italy.

As she stood up and looked out over the hills behind the car, she could see the steeples and rooftops of Rome and the dome of Saint Peter’s Cathedral. The ancient city had a pink glow all its own. The vast expanse of architectural and artistic masterpieces took her breath away and brought a momentary rush of excitement.

“Magnifico, no?” Vittorio said, as he gazed at the unbelievable view.

“Yes,” was all Lucy could manage to say as she turned away from the spectacle of Rome and walked toward the colorful buildings of Frascati, a village she had never heard of.

“You will feel better after a little wine, some bread, a little prosciutto.”

“I can’t drink this early in the day.”

“There is no right time for wine. Wine keeps your blood flowing.”

“My blood flows just fine, thank you.”

“A small glass of wine and a little food, perhaps,” he said, tilting his head, smiling at her.

She caved. “Okay. Maybe a tiny glass, but only because my internal clock is messed up anyway. But I’m not the least bit hungry,” she said, lying, wishing again she had rented the stick shift when it was first offered, thinking that by now she would have mastered the damn thing and been halfway to Naples, alone, thinking about work rather than a Roman holiday.

“Whatever you want,” he said, smiling.

Sigh.

Vittorio came up behind her and guided her through the back door of Cantina Fienza, a dark, musky-smelling winery with three walls covered in wine barrels stacked on wooden shelves. There were a few small tables clustered in the center of the room, and wine-making tools littered the floor. The ceiling, a fresco, depicted naked men and round naked women clutching bunches of purple grapes in evocative positions. She wondered if the artist had used live models.

For some reason, Lucy blushed.

A short, roly-poly man came toward them, smiling. He yelled out Vittorio’s name with his arms outstretched and a look of delight on his deeply tanned face.

They hugged and kissed each other’s cheeks and spoke in Italian. “Vittorio, my nephew, it’s been a long time,” the man said as he stepped back from him.

“Ah, Antonio, it’s good to see you,” Vittorio answered.

“And who is this beautiful woman?” Antonio asked.

Vittorio spoke in English. “This is Lucia. My friend.”

Antonio leaned in and hugged Lucy. Her tiny body pressed up against his soft chest. For an instant, she felt safe, warm, welcomed, but the moment passed and she pulled away. She was getting far too sentimental.

“Come, sit down and taste my wine,” he said.

She followed his directions and sat at a small, round table with Vittorio. There were a few other people in the cantina, drinking espresso mostly, laughing and talking with such enthusiasm that it seemed as if the place were crowded, but it wasn’t. Most of the tables were empty.

Soon there were several glasses in front of them filled with different shades of white wine, an assortment of cold meats, cheese and olives.

“First, you try the golden wine.” Vittorio slid a glass toward her. “It cleans the tongue.”

Lucy was a little hesitant thinking about the tranquilizer she had taken. Vittorio insisted. She took a sip—a musky-tasting wine, dry, with an almond aftertaste.

She liked it and took another drink, a big one.

“Perfecto, no?” Vittorio beamed. He handed her a slice of prosciutto wrapped around a piece of melon. She took a bite. Totally terrific.

“Perfecto! Yes,” she declared, beaming.

Somewhere, music played, mixed with laughter. Lucy liked the way the place made her feel. Festive, she thought as she wrapped her red Chanel scarf around her shoulders.

Next, she tried the more yellow wine, crisp, clean, the kind of wine that warmed the palate. She tore off a chunk of bread and ate a few green olives.

“Have some cheese. It’s good for you. Makes your bones strong,” Vittorio said, cutting off a chunk big enough for a family of four. But it was wickedly creamy and melted in her mouth.

More wine. She needed more wine.

“I really shouldn’t,” she said after she downed another glass. When they’d finished off the two white wines, she decided to try the blush. It was sweet, a little floral tasting and went down easily along with the cappocolo, one of her favorite Italian sliced meats. She carefully folded each tender slice inside a crust of bread, spread open a couple olives and removed the pits, then placed the olives on top of the meat, then a drizzle of olive oil, a thick slice of cheese, another gulp of wine and Lucy had reached cuisine bliss.

“It’s good to watch you eat. I like it,” Vittorio said sitting back in his chair, swirling his wine in his glass. “As if you cannot get enough.”

Lucy felt red heat spread across her face. She tried to calm herself as she wiped her mouth with a cloth napkin.

She had forgotten how incredible Italian food could taste. Most of the time she ate out of the vending machines at work. Chef Boyardee was one of her closest friends.

She had also forgotten how fantastic a torn piece of bread could be when its crust was sweet and warm from the oven, and the meat, sharp with spices, the melon, perfectly ripe and luscious, the olives, pungent with garlic.

Lucy had eaten everything and drunk all the wine until she felt so full she had to unbutton the top button of her pants.

She sat back. “I must have been hungry.”

“You are starving,” he said, and stared at her.

Lucy suddenly felt uncomfortable, as though he could hear her inner thoughts. She didn’t like it. Didn’t like it at all.

Antonio walked over. “The wine is ready, Vittorio.”

“Scusi,” Vittorio said to Lucy and got up from the table, picked up a box of wine and walked it out the back door. When he returned, it was time for farewell kisses and hugs.

“That was fantastic,” Lucy told Vittorio when they were back in his car driving down the narrow motor-way, her feet resting on the box of wine. “Thanks.”