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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.
