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“How can you know? You’re asleep.”
Lucy could feel the agitation building. Could feel the back of her neck tense until she could barely move it. “All right!” she said. “I’ll get a bell.”
“Why you want to yell at your mother like that? I’m just trying to keep you from getting hurt.”
Lucy sighed again. “I know. I’m sorry.”
“Your father wants to say something.”
Lucy waited with her eyes closed while they argued over what he was going to say. Her mother kept telling him not to talk too long because this was costing Lucia money. In the meantime, Lucy stood there waiting, calling, “Mom! Just let him talk. Mom!”
Finally, her father got on. “Lucy, honey, have a productive trip. Don’t be afraid to show those people who’s boss.”
She pictured her dad holding on to the phone, her mother standing next to him counting the seconds. Her dad would be wearing his Sunday outfit. He believed in uniforms and wore the same thing every day. The color of the shirt varied, but the pants were always black Dockers, except on casual Friday, then the Dockers would be changed for his one pair of Levi’s. “I’ll try, Dad.”
“That’s all anyone needs to succeed, the right attitude and you’ve got it made. Go get ’em.”
Her mother told him, “that’s enough,” so he said his goodbyes and her mom got back on the phone.
“I want you to look up the Donicos while you’re there. I hear the boy is a big shot.”
“Mom, I really don’t think I’ll have any free time.”
“Is this how I raised you? To be so selfish to your own mother?”
Lucy gave up. She couldn’t argue anymore. “Okay, I’ll look up the Donicos. I’ll find a bell. I’ll keep my purse close, and I’ll get the pound of prosciutto. Can I please go now?”
“You should have gone a long time ago. What do you think? I got all night to be on the phone with you? I got things I gotta do for the wedding. I gotta order some nice red carnations for the altar. Love you,” she said, kissed the air two times and hung up. Lucy collapsed in a nearby chair.
When she finally regained her composure about fifteen minutes later, she was gliding down the crowded escalator in Leonardo da Vinci airport, spotting Eurocars International and a feeling of accomplishment swept over her. Even with her phone call to her mother, she was ahead of her own schedule.
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.
