Smitten with Ravioli

by Ellen Jacobson

  “Luke…wait, I remember. He’s the one who drinks the funny-colored milk.”

  “Yeah, and Leia is his sister.”

  “Sure, of course, I knew that.” I ring the bell. “Love her sword.”

  “You mean light saber.”

  “Sword, light saber, same thing.”

  “I guess. Except one has a—”

  “Light,” I say, finishing his sentence. I hop onto my pink Princess Leia-themed bike. “Well, should we get going?”

  “Yep, we’ll bike around town for a while, then it’s about four miles to our destination.”

  “And where’s that exactly?”

  “The Basilica of Sant’ Apollinare in Classe. It’s one of the UNESCO sites in the area. But it’s not visited as much as the other sites because it’s outside of Ravenna. I know you’re not crazy about history, but I thought it would be a fun outing. Plus, I packed a picnic lunch with plenty of calories to replenish the ones we’ll be working off.”

  After exploring Ravenna by bike, we pedal out of town mid-morning. I think about how Preston has planned the perfect romantic date, from picking out a bike he thought I would like to organizing a picnic. What’s-his-name used to do things like that. All guys all start out sweet, like bombolones, but then you end up being betrayed. Don’t get too close to Preston, I remind myself, unless you want to go through that heartache again.

  When we arrive at the basilica, we park our bikes. I remove my helmet and stow it in my basket. Running my fingers through my curls, I try to get them to fluff up after being squashed under my helmet. Preston rings the bell on my bike to get my attention. He points at the church. “This way.”

  As we walk up the cobbled path toward the entrance, he goes into professor mode. “For five hundred years, the city of Classe was an important military port for the Roman Empire. Did you know that when the basilica was built 1500 years ago, it was on the seashore?”

  Yes, I want to shout out. I do know that. I studied ancient history in grad school.

  But he doesn’t wait to hear my answer, assuming I don’t have a clue about the history of the area. Assuming it was just a rhetorical question, he continues with his lecture. “But with all the accumulation of silt over the years, the coastline is more than five miles to the east now. Octavian probably chose this spot because of its strategic location.”

  He pauses for a moment to let a group of nuns pass by, then leans down and smiles. “You might know Octavian better by the name Augustus, which he took when he became emperor.”

  I clench my fists. The last thing I want to be reminded of is Emperor Augustus given his association with what’s-his-name.

  Oblivious to the effect that his history lesson is having on me, he carries on. “It was a great site in many respects, but it didn’t have easy access to fresh water. That all changed when Emperor Trajen built an aqueduct to Ravenna, which some say also served Classe.” He smiles. “But, hey you probably already know that.”

  Yes, I do know that, but I pretend to be surprised. “Why would I know that?”

  “You told me about that guy trying to pick you up by talking about Witmer’s theory about the cultural importance of aqueducts, remember?”

  “Yeah, he was a jerk.”

  “He didn’t deserve you,” Preston says, ruffling my hair. “Anyway, ‘classe’ comes from the Latin word—”

  I hold up my hand, impatient with his ongoing lecture. Any ancient history grad student worth their salt knows this. “Yes, yes, I know, it comes from the Latin word, classis, which means fleet.”

  He stops walking. “How did you know that?”

  “Lucky guess?”

  “No seriously, how did you know that?”

  Think quick. How do I explain the fact that my father started teaching me Latin before I could walk?

  “I went to Catholic school. We had to study it.”

  “Oh,” he says. “Most people forget the Latin they learned in school. I’m impressed.”

  “That’s all I remember, really,” I say with a slight shrug. Then I look down at the ground and chew my lip. Why did I lie to Preston? Sure, it was only a partial lie. I did go to Catholic school, and I did study Latin, but that’s not the real explanation as to why I know what classis means. But it’s not like I want a boyfriend, especially not one who is a history professor, so it doesn’t matter if I wasn’t exactly honest with him, right? Or does it?

  He runs his fingers up my arm, interrupting my thoughts. “Maybe this was a bad idea, coming here. You don’t like history. You’re going to be bored. Sometimes, I forget that not everyone is as passionate about history as I am.”

  “No, it’ll be fine,” I say. “They have mosaics, right?”

  He nods.

  “I like those. They’re pretty.”

  “Well, if you’re sure…”

  “I’m sure,” I say, tugging on his arm. “Let’s go inside.”

  We walk through the nave, past marble columns and faded frescoes. When we reach the triumphal arch, my jaw drops. Even though I’ve seen the mosaics in pictures before, they’re a million times more impressive in person.

  “Do you like it?”

  “I love it.”

  I want nothing more than to talk with Preston about the historical significance of the basilica. But I can’t. I can’t let on that not only do I love history, but that I’ve spent years studying it. If only I was here with someone else, someone other than Preston, someone I could be my real self around.

  No, that’s a lie. The only person I want to be with right now is Preston. I love being with him. I love spending time with him. I wish I could be honest about who I really am. But I can’t. Because if I did, he’d never speak to me again.

  * * *

  Just when things couldn’t get worse, I see someone I know—Professor Ratcliffe. Normally, I’d be delighted to see him. He and my father were good friends and co-authored several research papers together. But the last thing I need is for him to recognize me and come over and say hi. The game would definitely be up then.

  I tug at Preston’s sleeve. “Actually, do you mind if we go? I’m probably mosaiced out for the day.”

  “Of course,” he says. “History in small doses is probably best.”

  I keep my head down as we walk out of the basilica and pray that Professor Ratcliffe doesn’t turn around.

  “Hungry?” Preston asks once we’re outside.

  “Yep,” I say. “As long as lunch doesn’t involve bombolones. I think I’ve had my fill of donuts for the year.”

  “You might change your mind tomorrow morning,” he says dryly.

  “Probably.” I chuckle. “My willpower is less of a power and more of an aspiration.”

  He walks toward a large tree, pulls a blanket out of his backpack, and lays it on the ground.

  “Shouldn’t we picnic somewhere else?” I ask, feeling anxiety course through me. The last place I want to linger at is the basilica for fear that Professor Ratcliffe will see us.

  “I think we’re allowed to picnic on the grounds, and it’s a romantic spot, don’t you think?”

  “Uh-huh,” I say, wishing I had a hat to hide my face from being spotted.

  “I thought being in the shade would be good. It’s getting kind of warm. But we can move to over there, if you want,” he says, pointing at a bench by the entrance.

  “No, this is good,” I say. “But maybe we should move the blanket to the other side of the tree. It has a better view.” By better view, I mean one that’s out of the way, out of view of people passing by.

  “You want a view of a trash can?” he asks, perplexed.

  “Uh-huh. It’s an Italian trash can,” I say, as though that explains it.

  He furrows his brow, apparently confused by my interest in foreign garbage receptacles. Then he shrugs and moves the blanket. He probably figures it’s no less bizarre than my father’s supposed cat training business. I really need to make my lies a bit more realistic. Or maybe stop lying. />
  Preston has thought of everything. It’s amazing what he managed to stow in his backpack—crusty bread, cheese, meat, olives, and sodas.

  As we sip on our drinks and take in the romantic view of our garbage can, Preston gives me a sideways look. “So, what are your plans after the cooking program is finished?”

  I chew on my lip while I consider this. Then I answer honestly. “I don’t know. I guess I’ll head back home. I was thinking about booking passage on a freighter ship. Or trying to get a job on a cruise ship.”

  “Will it be hard to find another manicurist job?” he asks.

  “I have no idea.” Another honest answer, since I’m not actually a manicurist. I decide to go for a trifecta of lies. “I’m thinking about making a career change.” Completely true. Since I don’t have a future as a history professor to look forward to, I’ll need to figure out what else to do with my life. My money will run out in a few months, and I can’t imagine my mom will let me live on her couch for the rest of my life without chipping in.

  “Really? What did you have in mind?”

  “I have no idea.” I sigh. “But enough about me. Why don’t you tell me about you? Did you always want to be a professor?”

  He shakes his head. “When I was growing up, everyone assumed I’d take over my dad’s business. He has a car repair shop. I worked there in the summers and over the weekends, but I hated it. It took me a while, but I finally worked up the courage to tell him that I wanted to go to college.”

  “How did he take it?”

  “Not well. I think he thought that I betrayed him.”

  “Funny how we think we need to follow in our father’s footsteps,” I muse.

  “Did everyone expect you to become a cat trainer?”

  “No, if I’m honest, I put that pressure on myself.” I’m actually talking about being a professor, not a cat trainer, but Preston doesn’t know that, so again, I’m not lying to him. “Maybe that’s why I don’t know what I want to do with my life. I never opened myself up to the possibility of being anything other than a…”

  “A manicurist?”

  “Exactly.” Oh, well. I guess my run on the truth was going to end sooner or later.

  He looks at my short, unvarnished nails. “How come you never give yourself a manicure?”

  “Oh, just taking a break,” I say breezily. “It’s good to let your nails have a breather from nail polish.”

  He leans back against the tree trunk. “You know, we’ve never talked about us.”

  “I’m surprised you don’t have a string of girlfriends back home.”

  His eyes widen. “First of all, I would never have a string of girlfriends. I’m a one-woman kind of guy. And second, do you really think I would have kissed you if I did have a girlfriend?” Then his face darkens. “I would never cheat on anyone.”

  “I’m sorry,” I say, putting my hand on his. “I didn’t think you would. I guess I just thought someone as cute as you would already be taken.”

  “You think I’m cute?”

  “A little bit,” I say, holding up my fingers. “This much.”

  “That sure is a little bit.”

  I spread my fingers farther apart. “Okay, this much.”

  “Still not a lot to write home about.”

  “This much?” I ask, increasing the distance by another inch or two.

  “Okay, that’ll do…for now.” He grins. “Ready for our next stop?”

  “Where’s that?”

  “The archaeological park. We passed it on our way here. I have a friend who is going to give us a guided tour.”

  “Super. Just let me hit the ladies’ room and I’ll be right back.”

  I take a very circuitous route to and from the restroom, ducking occasionally to avoid Professor Ratcliffe. As I near our picnic spot, I think I hear the professor’s voice. I go to dive behind a tree, but I startle as a squirrel darts in front of me, and I end up tripping on a rock and landing on the ground.

  10

  Bad Dad Jokes

  Preston rushes over. “Oh, my gosh, are you okay?”

  “I’m fine,” I say. “Just embarrassed.“

  He grins as he helps me to my feet. “You get knocked down a lot.”

  “At least it was on soft grass this time.” I press my hands against his chest to steady myself. I feel his heart beating through the thin material of his shirt. It’s beating fast. Or is that my heartbeat pitter-pattering?

  His hands travel up my arms to my shoulders, lightly squeezing along the way. “Anything hurt?”

  “I don’t think so.” Not that I would know if I was in pain. All I can feel right now is pure pleasure as his fingers graze my neck.

  He cups my face in his hands. “How about here?” he asks as he lightly brushes his lips against mine.

  “I’m not sure. You better check again.” I slide my hands around his back and tilt my head sideways. He nips my bottom lip, then runs his hands through my hair, drawing me toward him as he deepens the kiss.

  It seems like forever before he finally pulls back. My breath catches in my throat at the sight of those blue eyes of his.

  “How was that?” he asks softly.

  He’s looking at me with such intensity that I can barely speak. “It was…” My voice trails off. I don’t know how to express what I’m feeling. What I wouldn’t give for a dictionary right now so I could do a search for just the right word. I rack my brain.

  Oh, wait, I’ve got it.

  Smitten.

  That’s what I feel.

  I’m smitten. Smitten with this gorgeous man in front of me whose kisses make me tingle from head to toe.

  But instead of telling him how I feel, I tug on his shirt, pulling him toward me. “Kiss me again,” I whisper.

  And he does.

  Slowly and thoroughly.

  It’s torture. Torture in a good way. A really, really good way.

  “Wait a minute, what happened to my purse?” I ask, breaking free from his embrace.

  “Your purse?” Preston smiles. “All you can think about after that kiss is your purse?”

  I turn and look around me. “When I fell, I must have dropped it. Do you see it anywhere?”

  “Relax. It’s over there.” He points at the garbage can. My purse is lying next to it, its contents strewn in the grass. A squirrel is sniffing at my belongings, presumably looking for acorns. Or maybe breath mints. I imagine even wild animals get stinky breath from time to time.

  “Come on, I’ll help you pick everything up,” he says.

  I feel my face grow warm as I remember the last time Preston helped me collect the contents of my purse. I thought I was going to die of embarrassment when he handed me those feminine products that men don’t have a need of. There’s no way I can let that happen again.

  “No, I can do it,” I say, rushing in front of him. I shove everything back in my purse, then make a quick inventory. Hairbrush—check. Phone—check. Wallet—check. Breath mints untouched by squirrels—check. Everything seems to be there except my passport. I frantically dig through my belongings again.

  “Looking for this?” Preston asks, playfully waving my passport at me.

  I breathe a sigh of relief and hold out my hand.

  “Not quite yet,” he says. “I want to see your picture first.”

  “Please, don’t. It’s awful. I look like I got into a fight with an orangutan and the orangutan won.”

  “How awful can it be? You’re adorable.” He gives me a quick kiss, holding my passport over his head so that I can’t grab it. Then he darts a few feet away and flips it open. “Well, you’re definitely cuter than an orangutan. Similar hair color, though.”

  “Hmm. I’m not quite sure how to take that.”

  “Virginia,” he reads out loud, then glances at me. “So Ginny is short for Virginia. It suits you. Virginia is far too serious of a name.”

  I feel a cold pit in my stomach as he looks back at my passport and purses his lips.
/>
  “Virginia Morgan Maarschalkerweerd.” He says my full name slowly, stumbling slightly as he tries to pronounce my last name. The last name that I never wanted him to know. The last name that will connect me to my father. The last name that will let him know that I’m not who I said I was.

  His blue eyes turn steely. “Why did you tell me your last name was Morgan?”

  * * *

  Preston furrows his brow as he reexamines my passport. “I don’t understand. You said your name was Ginny Morgan, not Ginny Maarschalkerweerd.” When he looks back up at me, his expression is cold. “Is Morgan your maiden name? Are you married? Were you married?”

  I feel a weight lift off my shoulders. He hasn’t made the connection to my father. “Nope,” I say with a smile. “I’m not married. Never have been. I’m happily single.”

  “You’re single?”

  I nod.

  “Happily single?”

  “Yep.”

  “Single?”

  I nod again.

  “Happily?”

  I chew on my lip. Where is he going with this?

  He snaps my passport shut, then fixes his gaze on me. “So, if you’re single, then what’s this between us?”

  I’m not sure how to answer. I know how I feel about him, but I also know that we don’t have a future. After a beat, I say, “It’s nice.”

  “It is,” he says, nodding slowly.

  I look down at the ground. “The cooking program will be over at the end of next week and I’ll be leaving then, so—”

  “So, it’s nothing serious,” he says, finishing my sentence. “Two single people enjoying some time together. Right?”

  “Right,” I force myself to say.

  He hands my passport back to me. “So what’s with using Morgan, then?”

  “Morgan is my middle name. Like the horses. My mom was a big horse person. She was so disappointed that I didn’t love them too, but, you know, allergies.” I sneeze to make a point. Then I sneeze two more times. For some reason, I can’t help but sneeze three times in a row. Never two, never four. Always three.