Читать книгу Stick Shift - Mary Leo - Страница 11

“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.”

“You are welcome,” he said with a little bow.

Lucy sat back in her seat and immediately fell asleep.

It didn’t take long before Vittorio made another stop.

This time he made his way through a tiny village to a farm where two ostriches stared at them from behind a tall wire fence and water buffalos poked their heads through wooden rails painted pure white, and a proud rooster spread its colorful head feathers in welcome.

“What now?” Lucy asked, all dreamy-eyed as Vittorio pulled the car up in front of a stone farmhouse. She was at once angry over another stop and fascinated by the farm surroundings.

“Garlic and mozzarella. The best! Wait ’til you taste the mozzarella. Fresh from early this morning. Sweet like mother’s milk,” he said and kissed his fingers again. This time Lucy smiled over at him as he made his way around the car to get her door. She waited, feeling a little woozy. She wanted to get mad because of the second delay, but all she could think of was the fresh mozzarella. The very thought of the creamy soft cheese made her mouth water in anticipation.

Inside the farmhouse, which turned out to be a busy restaurant, Lucy and Vittorio were greeted by a crusty middle-aged man with rough hands and a mustache that curled up at the ends. “Vittorio! Ciao! Come va?” the man asked as they hugged and kissed.

“Lucia, this is my cousin, Philippi.” Philippi turned and hugged and kissed Lucy as if they were old friends. His mustache tickled and she saw a sly sparkle in his bright blue eyes. She thought this was getting too weird, like some episode of The Sopranos. All she needed now was for James Gandolfini to walk out of the back room pointing a gun at Vittorio and she’d know this was one of her sleepwalking episodes.

But he didn’t.

Instead, she and Vittorio were escorted to a table next to a window with a view of the surrounding lush green hills. Black goats and white sheep grazed on the slopes, along with a few speckled cows.

Lucy wondered what it would be like to wake up every morning to see goats and cows out your back window instead of miles of beige stucco.

“Scusi, Lucia. I will return in a moment.”

“More wine?”

“Fresh garlic. Mozzarella.”

“You have a big family or something?”

“The biggest!”

Vittorio left her alone at the table. She refused to eat. Absolutely refused, except for maybe a small piece of fresh mozzarella, and a mushroom or two.

And maybe a vegetable and a chunk of bread.

But that was it.

“Just a taste,” she told the waitress.

Lucy tried to refuse the large plate of food the waitress brought over, until she saw what was on it—sliced tomatoes and fresh milky-white mozzarella drizzled with olive oil and herbs, grilled zucchini, mushrooms and eggplant. She couldn’t resist. A loaf of bread appeared, and a carafe of red wine.

She thought she would simply taste the mozzarella and leave the rest, but once the sweet, rich cheese hit her tastebuds the battle was over. She took another bite and another until once again, she couldn’t stop. She ate everything.

Meanwhile, she watched as Vittorio carried cartons of cheese out to the car.

When he joined her, Philippi appeared with two bowls of ravioli filled with goat’s milk ricotta and artichoke hearts, smothered in a thick red sauce.

Lucy cringed.

“I can’t eat anymore. I’m going to burst,” she told Vittorio.

“You have to taste the ricotta. It is like nowhere else in the world,” Vittorio said as he sliced open one of the round pillows of pasta revealing the soft cheese tucked inside. He poked one half of the pillow with his fork and held it up, cupping his other hand under the fork while the sauce dripped to his fingers.

“Come on,” he urged, with a tilt of his head. Lucy leaned in and wrapped her lips around the ravioli, slowly pulling back to let the warm pasta with the luscious sauce fall into her mouth. Sauce dripped from her lips and onto Vittorio’s fingers. He pulled his hand back and licked off the drops of sauce.

Lucy flushed and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand.

“What you think? Buono?” Vittorio sat back and watched as she ate, obviously enjoying the look of satisfaction on her face.

“Too good,” she whispered under her breath.