Read Online Italy to Die For by Loretta Giacoletto - Free Book Online
Authors: Loretta Giacoletto
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already spoken to her. She knows not to expect u s. Now if you’ll excuse me, I will say buona notte .”
“Good night, Lorenzo. And thanks for everything.”
I lingered a while longer on the balcony, taking in the lively music and an avenue of bright lights that would eventually lead to what Lorenzo called the boardwalk and beyond there, white sand glistening in defiance of the approaching night. After yawning again, this time with an open-wide my dentist would’ve appreciated, I went inside to where I’d napped earlier. There on the bed lay an embroidered nightgown, exquisite in its simplicity and a perfect fit. As to its origin, that was a question which would have to wait for another discussion with Lorenzo. My last thoughts were of his dead wife and of the mysterious woman in his garden, neither of which should have concerned me in the least.
***
After sleeping in a peaceful vacuum of nothingness, I awoke the next morning to the smell of freshly-ground coffee beans. I rolled out of bed with joints aching and stiff, but loosened up after undertaking some stretches I’d learned in a yoga class, one that had eventually led to a case of heartburn that never really left me.
Good thing Mom had trained me to never leave home without an extra pair of panties tucked in my handbag. I stepped into mine ever so gently while checking out my rear view in the mirror. Yesterday’s bruises were tender to the touch and had pooled even further under my skin. Covering them with yesterday’s clothes did nothing to make me forget they still existed. Having spent more time than usual on my make-up and hair, I declared myself suitable for breakfast and whatever else would come my way.
T he scent of hazelnuts lured me into the dining area where Lorenzo had laid out breakfast, a carbon copy of the spread in La Spezia—crusty rolls and butter, assorted jams and cheeses, hot milk and coffee. He pulled out a chair and I sat down at the small round table covered with two cloths, peach over green draped to the floor.
“You slept well?” he asked, having again assumed the formal role of host.
“My best night since coming to Italy.”
“And if I may be so bold: what about the painful injury?”
“Healing nicely, thanks to the hot water and lemons.”
One corner of his mouth curled into a slight smile as he poured my coffee. I added the hot milk, more than I ever drink at home but a necessity here, considering the ultra-strong brew the Italians favor.
“ Please have breakfast with me,” I said. “I shouldn’t hate eating alone but ….”
Lorenzo sat down, crossed his long legs to the side of the table, and poured another cof fee, adding twice the milk I had taken.
“I have some unexpected free time,” he said. Again, a tinge of red circled the rim of his ears. “We could spend the next two days seeing Cinque Terre together, at a much slower pace to accommodate your injury.”
Before I could answer, Lorenzo’s phone rang. He excused himself and went out on the balcony to take the call.
What bet ter way to see the villages, I thought, my very own guide, who knew everything there was to know about Cinque Terre—from a full-blown authentic Italian but not a mama’s boy. Several minutes passed before he returned, with ears redder than before which I didn’t think possible.
“That was Zia Octavia. She does not speak to stranger s who telephone the villa after her bedtime.” He handed me his phone. “It seems your sister called last night around midnight. She wants you to contact her as soon as possible.”
What now. Margo probably needed one of Mom’s Italian/Am erican recipes, as if any of our short-cut versions could compete with the most basic of those in Italy. I went into the bedroom and tapped in the cell number we shared.
Margo answer ed on the first ring, her voice bordering on panic. “Where the hell have you been?”
“Cinque Terre, just as we ’d planned in case you’ve forgotten. Is there a
“Good night, Lorenzo. And thanks for everything.”
I lingered a while longer on the balcony, taking in the lively music and an avenue of bright lights that would eventually lead to what Lorenzo called the boardwalk and beyond there, white sand glistening in defiance of the approaching night. After yawning again, this time with an open-wide my dentist would’ve appreciated, I went inside to where I’d napped earlier. There on the bed lay an embroidered nightgown, exquisite in its simplicity and a perfect fit. As to its origin, that was a question which would have to wait for another discussion with Lorenzo. My last thoughts were of his dead wife and of the mysterious woman in his garden, neither of which should have concerned me in the least.
***
After sleeping in a peaceful vacuum of nothingness, I awoke the next morning to the smell of freshly-ground coffee beans. I rolled out of bed with joints aching and stiff, but loosened up after undertaking some stretches I’d learned in a yoga class, one that had eventually led to a case of heartburn that never really left me.
Good thing Mom had trained me to never leave home without an extra pair of panties tucked in my handbag. I stepped into mine ever so gently while checking out my rear view in the mirror. Yesterday’s bruises were tender to the touch and had pooled even further under my skin. Covering them with yesterday’s clothes did nothing to make me forget they still existed. Having spent more time than usual on my make-up and hair, I declared myself suitable for breakfast and whatever else would come my way.
T he scent of hazelnuts lured me into the dining area where Lorenzo had laid out breakfast, a carbon copy of the spread in La Spezia—crusty rolls and butter, assorted jams and cheeses, hot milk and coffee. He pulled out a chair and I sat down at the small round table covered with two cloths, peach over green draped to the floor.
“You slept well?” he asked, having again assumed the formal role of host.
“My best night since coming to Italy.”
“And if I may be so bold: what about the painful injury?”
“Healing nicely, thanks to the hot water and lemons.”
One corner of his mouth curled into a slight smile as he poured my coffee. I added the hot milk, more than I ever drink at home but a necessity here, considering the ultra-strong brew the Italians favor.
“ Please have breakfast with me,” I said. “I shouldn’t hate eating alone but ….”
Lorenzo sat down, crossed his long legs to the side of the table, and poured another cof fee, adding twice the milk I had taken.
“I have some unexpected free time,” he said. Again, a tinge of red circled the rim of his ears. “We could spend the next two days seeing Cinque Terre together, at a much slower pace to accommodate your injury.”
Before I could answer, Lorenzo’s phone rang. He excused himself and went out on the balcony to take the call.
What bet ter way to see the villages, I thought, my very own guide, who knew everything there was to know about Cinque Terre—from a full-blown authentic Italian but not a mama’s boy. Several minutes passed before he returned, with ears redder than before which I didn’t think possible.
“That was Zia Octavia. She does not speak to stranger s who telephone the villa after her bedtime.” He handed me his phone. “It seems your sister called last night around midnight. She wants you to contact her as soon as possible.”
What now. Margo probably needed one of Mom’s Italian/Am erican recipes, as if any of our short-cut versions could compete with the most basic of those in Italy. I went into the bedroom and tapped in the cell number we shared.
Margo answer ed on the first ring, her voice bordering on panic. “Where the hell have you been?”
“Cinque Terre, just as we ’d planned in case you’ve forgotten. Is there a
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