She wags her finger at me. “We’ll have none of that ‘ma’am’ nonsense. That makes me feel positively ancient. The name’s Celeste.” After we introduce ourselves, she sits with a flourish, removes her high heels, and rubs her feet. “I’ll tell you, the ‘Boogie Woogie’ will really take it out of you. But it was worth it. He’s dreamy, don’t you think?”
“Who?” Isabelle asks.
Celeste nods at a man with salt-and-pepper hair twirling another woman around the dance floor.
“Is that your husband?” I ask.
The older woman’s smile fades. “No, my Ernie passed away.”
I lean forward and squeeze her hand. “I’m sorry. Did you lose him recently?”
“Yes,” she says. “He’s only been gone for five hundred and thirty-six days now.” She glances at her watch. “Or is that five hundred and thirty-seven days? I get all mixed up with the time changes when I’m traveling.”
“Do you travel a lot?” Mia asks.
“Oh, yes,” she says, her eyes brightening. “This is day four hundred and ninety-eight of my world travels. Or is that four hundred and ninety-nine days?” She shakes her head. “Anyway, I’m headed to Greece next. What about you girls? Where are you going?”
“I’m disembarking in Rome and taking a train from there to Ravenna,” I say.
“Where’s that?” Celeste asks.
“It’s in northern Italy near the Adriatic sea,” I say. “About an hour away from Bologna. It used to be the capitol city of the Western Roman Empire from…” I frown as my voice trails off. “Sorry, you don’t want to hear about all that.”
“You sound like a history buff,” Celeste says.
I chew on my lower lip. “I used to be. Now I’m a, um, a…”
“A what?” Celeste prompts.
“I’m not sure,” I say, wrinkling my brow. “But I do know that I’m not a historian anymore.” I take a deep breath. “But enough about me. Where are you two headed?” I ask Mia and Isabelle, realizing we haven’t discussed this.
Celeste points at the three of us. “You mean you girls aren’t traveling together?”
“No,” I say. “I’m on my own. I just met Isabelle and Mia tonight.”
She pats my hand. “Good for you. I wish I had had half the confidence you do when I was your age. But I’m making up for lost time now. Look at me, traveling solo and dancing with handsome strangers.” She looks wistfully at the dance floor, then turns back to us. “So where are you two going?” she asks my new friends.
“We’re getting off in Rome too,” Isabelle says. “After that, it’s all up in the air. The only thing I know is that I have to be in Cologne by the beginning of July. I’ve got a job working on one of those German river cruise boats lined up.”
Mia looks forlornly at her empty shake glass, then adds, “Once we get to Cologne, I’m going to head to Paris and try to get a job at an art gallery.”
“Mia is a really talented artist,” Isabelle says.
“Oh, I’d love to see your paintings,” Celeste says. “What do you work in? Oils? Acrylics? Watercolors?”
“Ink,” Mia says.
“That sounds fascinating. I have a friend who does these wonderful pen and ink drawings of her cats. What kind of paper do you use?”
“Uh, the kind made of human cells.”
Celeste looks alarmed. “Human cells?”
“She’s a tattoo artist,” Isabelle explains. “Emphasis on artist. She does replicas of the great masters’ work. You should see the tattoo she recently did of one of Van Gogh’s sunflower paintings on this guy’s back.”
Mia shrugs. “It would have worked better if he hadn’t kept squirming. One of the sunflowers turned out looking more like a turnip.”
“So what kind of tattoos do you have yourself?” I ask.
Mia laughs. “Me? Are you kidding? I would never get a tattoo. I’m scared of needles.”
“Ah, aichmophobia,” I say. “That’s more common than you’d think.”
“Ach-a-what?” Mia asks.
Before I can explain, the dapper man with salt-and-pepper hair walks to our table. “Would any of you ladies care to dance?”
Isabelle, Mia, and I all exchange glances, then point at Celeste and say in unison, “She would.”
“Are you sure, girls?” the older woman asks as she slips her shoes back on.
“Definitely,” I say.
As Celeste walks toward the dance floor, she says over her shoulder, “Don’t go anywhere. After this dance, I want to talk with Mia about getting a tattoo.”
2
Bacon Perfume
I try to ignore the sunlight pouring through the window of my cabin. Normally, I’m an early riser, but this morning all I want to do is stay in bed and snuggle up next to Giuseppe for just a few more hours.
We arrive in Rome today; something I should be looking forward to, but I’ve had so much fun on this cruise that I don’t want it to end. I rub Giuseppe’s soft belly and think about how the week whizzed by.
Isabelle, Mia, and I became good friends, hanging out together for the entire cruise. Much of our time was spent eating. The food was delicious. A little too delicious, if you know what I mean. Thankfully, we all packed yoga pants to accommodate the extra pounds we somehow accumulated. When we weren’t getting dressed up for dinner, you could find us wearing them.
After the fourth day at sea, we ran out of clean yoga pants. Isabelle suggested we start doing laps around the promenade deck to shed the unwanted weight.
It seemed like a good idea at the time. Then I tried it. Turns out it was not a good idea. Not at all. Isabelle’s idea of laps involve hardcore running, not casually strolling around the deck while having a good gossip with your girlfriends. I managed to keep up with her for exactly ten seconds before I tripped and flew headlong into Mia. She had been lounging on a deckchair reading a magazine when I knocked her down to the ground with me.
The cute French waiter was walking by when the incident happened. He helped Mia up, whispering something in her ear that caused her to blush. After a good five minutes of flirting, they finally realized I was still sprawled on the deck clutching my ankle.
While Mia helped me hobble to the doctor’s office, she told me she was surprised that I agreed to go running with Isabelle. Apparently, she had set all sorts of track and field records when she was in the Air Force.
Needless to say, from then on my only laps consisted of walking back and forth to the soft serve ice cream machine. By the end of the cruise, I could do one of those laps in under three minutes. I probably deserve some sort of gold medal for always beating my rivals to the soft serve despite my injury.
“I could really go for some ice cream,” I say to Giuseppe. “Do you think that’s an odd thing to eat for breakfast?”
As usual, Giuseppe doesn’t respond. He’s the strong, silent type. Well, actually, he isn’t all that strong. I could probably snap him in two with one hand while holding an ice cream cone in the other.
I stretch my arms over my head and yawn. Time to get a move on. I shower and get dressed, then look at Giuseppe lounging in bed. “All right, lazy bones, time for you to get going too.” I scoop him up, kiss the top of his head, and stick him in my suitcase.
Hey, wait a minute, you didn’t think Giuseppe was a random stranger I picked up in the bar last night, did you? Get your mind out of the gutter. I’m not that kind of girl. No, Giuseppe is a teddy bear. A super adorable teddy bear who sports a tiny t-shirt that says “Italia” on it.
Yes, I know, I’m in my twenties and I shouldn’t be sleeping with stuffed animals, let alone traveling with them, but who made up that silly rule, anyway? Probably a disgruntled elf at Santa’s workshop who wanted to cut down on the number of teddy bears he had to sew during the Christmas rush.
My mom was surprised that I decided to bring Giuseppe with me because of who gave him to me. My eyes get a little misty as I think about how Joel—I mean, what’s-his-name—presented the
teddy bear to me when we began dating during our first year of graduate school. We’d spent hours together leafing through dusty, old documents in the archives section of the library, followed by passionate debates about the history of the Roman Empire over spaghetti in a hole-in-the-wall Italian restaurant near campus.
One night, when I was making a point about the Roman emperor Augustus, he leaned across the table and kissed me. I never could think about Augustus, the month of August, or the number six after that night without remembering the shivers that went down my spine when he pressed his lips against mine.
Are you wondering what the number six has to do with Roman emperors? August—which was named after Augustus—wasn’t always the eight month in the calendar. In ancient Roman times, it was the sixth month. So, Augustus, August, six…makes total sense, right? Well, it makes sense if you’re a historian whose mind likes to go off on weird tangents.
But enough of all this reminiscing. Italy awaits.
I smile at Giuseppe. “You’re the only good thing that came out of that relationship.” I snap my suitcase shut and place it by the door for the porter to collect, then head to the dining room to meet the girls for our last breakfast together before we head our separate ways.
* * *
After we disembark the cruise ship, the girls and I share a taxi to the train station with Celeste. Celeste had become a bit of a mother figure to us during our transatlantic crossing, offering us advice about our love lives.
We’d point out that none of us currently had a love life and didn’t want boyfriends, but she’d wave her hands in the air and tell us that the perfect guy was out there for each of us. Just like her Ernie had been for her. Then she’d launch into more of her dating tips. Some of them were a bit odd, especially after her third margarita, like put the toilet seat up when you’re finished to keep him off balance, and wear perfume that smells like bacon, because no one can resist bacon.
As we pull up to the station, I smile as I remember one of Celeste’s other pieces of advice—when you’re riding public transportation, wear something unusual, like scuba gear. That way, if you’re sitting next to a cute guy, it’ll be a great conversation starter.
Seriously, she said scuba gear. She swore that it worked for a friend of hers on the subway in New York City. It was love at first sight when he stepped on one of her friend’s flippers.
I look down at what I’m wearing. Faded jeans, black flats, and a gray t-shirt that reads, “Don’t make me repeat myself. -History.” It’s nondescript enough that no guy—cute or otherwise—will want to start up a conversation with me.
“Well, I guess this is goodbye,” I say as we approach the ticket booth. “We’re all headed in different directions from here.”
Celeste gives me a hug. Fortunately, she doesn’t smell like pork products, bacon or otherwise. “Now, you stay in touch, you hear?” As she rushes off to catch the train that will take her to Brindisi, a port in the heel of Italy, where she’ll catch a ferry to Greece, she yells over her shoulder, “Come visit me when you’re done with your cooking school, Ginny. The food’s fabulous in Greece, especially the baklava.”
I turn to Isabelle and Mia to say goodbye, but they’re both holding up their train tickets and grinning ear to ear. “Surprise! We decided to go to Ravenna with you,” Mia says.
“What? I thought you were headed to Germany and Mia was heading to Paris,” I say.
“Eventually,” Isabelle says. “But first we want to spend some time in Ravenna and see these mosaics you’ve been raving about.”
“Oh, my gosh, you guys, this is fabulous! We’ll have so much fun together.” I furrow my brow. “You know I’ll be busy during the days, right?”
“Don’t worry, we can amuse ourselves,” Mia says. “Then at night, you can make us the recipes you learn in your class. I’ll even do the dishes.”
“It’s a deal.” I look at the departures board. “Looks like our train is boarding now. Anyone see where Platform B is?”
“Over there.” Isabelle points at a sign on the other side of the station. “It leaves in two minutes. We’ll need to run to make it.”
She tears off, yelling, “excuse me” as she dodges between people. Mia and I follow, panting as we try to keep up. We dart down the stairs leading to the platform and reach the train just as the doors are beginning to close.
Isabelle manages to slip through, then wedges the doors open with her suitcase. The conductor spots us and blows his whistle repeatedly while gesticulating wildly at us. I try to placate him while Mia climbs over Isabelle’s suitcase, pulling her own behind her.
“Hand me your bag,” Mia says.
As I start to pass it to her, I’m knocked to the ground when someone barrels into me. I sit up in a daze and find myself staring at a man with piercing blue eyes. He’s crouched over me, saying something in Italian. I think he’s asking me if the fish is fresh.
I feel a spark as he touches my shoulder lightly, then repeats himself.
What is with this guy and fish? What an odd conversation to have with someone in a train station.
I look at his hand, and he pulls it away. I find myself wishing he would put his hand back on my shoulder. Then I shake my head and rub my temples. What is wrong with me? Do I have a concussion? Why am I thinking about this stranger’s hand?
“Oh, you’re American,” the blue-eyed stranger says in English.
I feel my face grow warm. How did he know I’m American? How much of that did I say out loud? Oh, no, did I just say that out loud?
My thoughts—or my spoken dialogue, I’m not sure which—are interrupted by the conductor’s whistle.
“I think he wants us to board the train,” the man says. “Here, let me help you up.”
As I try to stand, I collapse back on the platform, wincing in pain. “Not my ankle again,” I say. Yes, I’m pretty sure I said that out loud.
“Did you sprain it?” he asks, placing his hand gently on my ankle. He pushes my jeans up slightly and I feel that sparking sensation again as his fingers brush my bare skin.
“They’re not going to hold the train much longer,” Isabelle says.
“Maybe we should stay here and get you to a doctor,” Mia adds.
I look up in surprise. They’re standing right next to me holding their bags. How did I not notice them walking over from the train to where I’m lying on the ground? Was I so mesmerized by this stranger’s presence?
“I’ll be fine,” I say. “I just twisted it.”
As Isabelle and Mia help me to my feet, I notice the blue-eyed man picking up books from the platform. They must have fallen when he collided into me. As he puts them into a scuffed leather satchel that looks like it might have belonged to Indiana Jones in a previous life, I see the title of one of them—The History of the Roman Empire in Ravenna. I sigh. I read that same book for a seminar in graduate school. Yet another reminder of what’s-his-name.
He looks down at the books in his hands, then points at my t-shirt and smiles. “Do you like reading about history?”
“Nope,” I say. “I’m more of a sci-fi kind of girl.”
Mia looks at me with surprise. I shoot her a meaningful glance.
“Oh, yeah. Ginny is a huge sci-fi geek,” she says. “She’s seen all the Star Wars movies.”
The guy shrugs and steps back so that I can hobble onto the train. As we make our way to our seats, I remind myself of what my t-shirt says about not letting history repeat itself. The last thing I need is to be attracted to a history nerd, even if he has amazing blue eyes.
If I ever date again—and that’s a big maybe—it’ll be with a guy who is as far away from academia as you can get. Perhaps a construction worker. Maybe even a used car salesman. Anything but a dweeby nerd.
* * *
“Here it is,” Mia says as she reaches the end of the train compartment. “Let’s see, I have 32-A.” She points at a window seat. “What do you guys have?”
“I’m 32-B,” Isabell
e says. “Right across from you on the other side of the table. Ginny must be in one of the seats next to us, 32-C or 32-D.”
I clutch the back of the seat in front of me as the train lurches forward, trying not to put my weight on my injured ankle. I glance at my ticket and frown. “No, I’m in 32-G. It’s across the aisle.”
Mia scoots into her seat. “Sit next to us. No one’s sitting there.”
“Okay,” I say. As I set my purse on the table, the door to the next compartment slides open and a young boy runs through screaming at the top of his lungs in Italian. I’m not exactly sure what he is saying, but I think it has something to do with a Martian invasion.
A harried-looking woman pushes past me and grabs the boy by his arm. She marches him back to where I’m standing and points at the seat next to Mia. He reluctantly sits while she settles in next to Isabelle.
I exchange glances with the girls. Isabelle rolls her eyes. Mia says, “I guess they’re not free after all.”
I reach down for my purse, then sigh. The little boy is in the process of pulling everything out of my bag and arranging it on the table. His mother is tapping away at her phone, oblivious to the Jenga tower he’s creating out of my wallet, make-up bag, and hairbrush. Hopefully, she’s doing a search for tips on how to teach children to respect other people’s property. I snatch my belongings back and stuff them in my purse.
“Excuse me, miss. Is this yours? I found it on the floor.”
I turn and see the man who crashed into me on the platform. He’s dressed exactly how you’d expect a history nerd to dress—tweed jacket, a button-down shirt, jeans, and sneakers. After gazing into his blue eyes for a moment too long, I look down to see what he’s holding in his hand and groan.
Now would be a good time for the Martians to invade. I’d much rather die from one of their ray guns than from the embarrassment I feel as he hands me a…hmm, how should I put this? Let’s just say that it was a particular product that men don’t need to buy on a monthly basis.
Smitten with Ravioli Page 2