Read Online Lucky Break by J. Minter - Free Book Online Page B

marble looked like it was still uncut, just the natural shape of the stone.
    â€œWhy does it look like that?” I asked my dad. “Is it unfinished?”
    He shook his head. “A lot of Michelanglo’s work looks like this. People say he thought his job was to release the essence of the figure inside.”
    I walked in a full circle around the sculpture. It was fascinating and beautiful, but there was also something disappointing about only halfway releasing the sculpture from the stone. It was like you could see all this amazing potential cut short. Kind of like a certain relationship I knew. Ugh.
    â€œI think I’m ready for the next stop on the ‘Flan gets cultured’ tour,” I said quickly.
    We climbed back on the scooters and my dad zigzagged his way down to the water, where the
Duchess
was waiting for us. Alfonso stepped forward to kiss us again, and we reclaimed our seats on the deck. The ride out to Capri was even more relaxing than yesterday’s ride from Naples had been. The sea was calm and clear, and there were only a few other boats in view. In the distance, Capri rose up like a volcano in the middle of a vast flat line of blue water.
    â€œThis is a magical island,” Alfonso said, steering the boat toward Capri. “With caves as blue as your eyes and limoncello as sweet as your smile.”
    My mom looked at me and rolled her eyes at the cheesiness, but surprisingly, I was sort of into it. Italian people just told you when they liked you—they never lied to you or cheated on you with girls named Cookie, or—uh-oh. Zip it, Flan.
    When we docked at the small marina in Capri, I followed my parents to a funicular that took us all the way up the mountain in under two minutes. It was impossible to let your eyes fall somewhere that didn’t look like a postcard.
    â€œMarco’s cheese shop is just over this way,” my dad said when we climbed out of the funicular. “Brace yourself, Flan, okay?”
    Out of everyone in my family, my dad and I are thebiggest foodies. I can’t count the number of times we’ve bored my mom and siblings making them do a taste test to pick their favorite goat cheese from Murray’s down the block. Mom always indulged us, at least for a little while, and I could tell today that she’d struck a compromise with my dad: cheese tasting first for him, followed by shopping for her. Lucky for me, I loved both.
    â€œWhat are you sampling today, Marco?” my dad asked a heavy mustached man when the three of us entered the tiny side-street shop. “I brought my daughter all the way from NewYork City and told her you’re the best.”
    Marco’s face lit up at the sight of me. “Oh,” he said, “for such a
bella ragazza
, I must go back to my storeroom for something super special!”
    I blushed at the compliment and Marco shuffled off to the back, returning moments later with a tray full of unfamiliar cheeses. Following my dad’s lead, I sampled this really sharp Gorgonzola, aged pecorino with peppercorns, and hands down the best burrata on the planet.
    â€œOoh.” Marco grinned when I reached for a second piece of the melt-in-your-mouth buffalo mozzarella. “She likes that one, I can tell. I have one more very special one, very rare. Only for you to taste today.”
    He reached under the counter and pulled out a small parcel wrapped in brown paper. When he unwrapped it, all three of us caught a pungent whiff and jumped back.
    â€œStrong, eh?” Marco laughed, holding out a few crumbled pieces in his palm. “Aged pecorino. You’ll love it! Don’t be scared.”
    It wasn’t that I was scared of the cheese—it was just that the odor reminded me of something … sort of like smelly gym socks … but no, that wasn’t exactly it. At the prompting of my parents, I reached for the smallest piece of the cheese and hesitantly popped it in my