Your boyfriend seems like a sweet guy.
My boyfriend? What did Preston say to her? Did he tell her he was my boyfriend?
He seems hurt that you haven’t spoken or texted him.
I shake my head. My mom doesn’t understand. Preston isn’t hurt, he’s angry. He hates me. The only reason he’s been trying to get a hold of me is so that he can tell me what an awful person I am. Before I can text her back and set the record straight, she sends me another message.
He thinks you have pistanthrophobia, which is why you’re avoiding him.
What? He thinks I have pistanthrophobia? He’s so wrong. I’m not avoiding him because I have trust issues after my experiences with what’s-his-name. I’m avoiding him because he’s a jerk. Just like what’s-his-name. Even if I had told Preston the truth about who I am and why I dropped out of graduate school, and even if he had told me that he believed me, he would have ended up betraying me eventually.
So I told him about Joel and how I thought he was never the right guy for you.
I sit up straight in bed and throw the covers off me. She told him about my ex-boyfriend? What? Why? My hand shakes as I dial her number.
“Mom, why did you tell Preston about what’s-his-name,” I blurt out once she answers.
“Hi, honey. It’s so nice to hear your voice. I thought you’d be asleep by now. What time is it there now?”
“It’s eleven.”
“Eleven? Really? I thought it was one in the morning. I never can figure out the time difference between Florida and Europe. Did you get my texts?”
I grit my teeth. “Yes, Mom. That’s why I’m calling.”
“That Preston of yours is so sweet.”
“He’s not my Preston,” I say.
“Did you know that he’s going to be awarded with the Herodotus Prize for excellence in teaching? The award ceremony is taking place in Boston. He’s there now for a couple of weeks before he heads back to Ravenna to teach at the Silver Fox Summer Academy.”
“Mom,” I say, trying to get a word in edgewise.
She continues without stopping to take a breath. “Did I mention that your father received the same award before you were born. Isn’t that an amazing coincidence?”
“Amazing,” I say dryly.
“You must be so proud of him. Your father dedicated the award to me in his acceptance speech. Maybe Preston will do the same.”
“Dedicate the award to you?”
“No, silly. Dedicate it to you.”
“Mom, I don’t know what Preston told you, but I think you have the wrong end of the stick. He isn’t my boyfriend.”
“He isn’t? But I assumed—”
“Exactly, you assumed. But your assumption was wrong. He isn’t my boyfriend. He isn’t my anything.” When she doesn’t respond, I add, “Mom, are you still there?”
“I’m here, honey. I’m just confused. When I spoke with Preston, it was obvious that he’s in love with you. He went on for an hour gushing about what an amazing woman you are.”
“Gushing about me? Are you sure that was Preston you spoke with? The Preston I know isn’t in love with me. He detests me.”
“Why would he detest you? No one could detest you.”
A smile plays across my lips. “Well, you have to say that. You’re my mother.”
“I would say that even if I wasn’t your mother.”
“That’s sweet, but…” I chew on my bottom lip for a moment. “But Preston doesn’t see things that way. For one thing, I lied to him about who I am.”
“He told me about that. I certainly didn’t raise you to be a liar, young lady,” my mom says sternly. Then she laughs. “I can’t believe you said your father was a cat trainer.”
“It’s not just that. I lied about all sorts of things.” I sigh. “It started off small when I first met him on the train. I led him to believe I was staying in Bologna, not going on to Ravenna. I also told him I was a chef. But that was when I thought I wouldn’t see him ever again. Then he showed up in class, and I was stuck with him as my cooking partner. When I found out that he was a professor of ancient history, I couldn’t tell him the truth, that I had been a graduate student, and the lies started snowballing from there.”
“But, honey, I don’t understand why you didn’t tell him about grad school in the first place.”
I’m dumbfounded. Of course, I understand why my mom wouldn’t approve of me lying to Preston. I’m ashamed about it myself. But surely she sees why I felt compelled to. “Mom, don’t you get it? There’s no way I could have faced his scorn.”
“Scorn? Scorn for what?”
“For plagiarizing.”
“But you didn’t plagiarize.”
“I know that,” I snap. “But he doesn’t. Apparently, I’m all the talk in the ancient history academic circles. Everyone is talking about how Ginny Maarschalkerweerd, the daughter of the great Nicholas Maarschalkerweerd, was a cheat. That she’s so stupid that she had to copy someone else’s research paper. That she couldn’t make it on her own. That she doesn’t hold a candle to her father.”
I hear my mother sigh. “How many times do I have to tell you that you’re not stupid before you’ll believe me?”
“But I am stupid. I was stupid to drop out of grad school. I only did it because my thesis advisor told me that unless I did, he’d smear Dad’s reputation. But he broke his promise and did it anyway. He’s behind all the stories swirling around about me.” I take a deep breath. “Maybe Isabelle was right. I should have fought the charges. I should have stood up for myself.”
“Don’t be so hard on yourself. You did what you thought was right at the time. Besides, from what Preston told me, his plan backfired. No one thinks any less of your father.”
“That’s good,” I say. “But they do think less of me.”
“Oh, honey, only the people who don’t know you think less of you. Anyone who knows you doesn’t. They’re on your side.”
“I wish that was true, but it isn’t.”
“Preston’s on your side.”
I furrow my brow. “He is?”
“He is.”
“He believes I’m innocent?”
“He does.”
“No, that can’t be right,” I say, shaking my head. “Why would he believe me?”
“Because he loves you.” My mom chuckles. “Despite the ridiculous stories you told him. Did you really try to pass yourself off as a Star Wars fan?”
“Yeah, not my finest moment. In fact, I haven’t had a lot of fine moments lately.”
“Well, it’s time you pick yourself back up and make things right. The first thing you need to do is apologize to Preston. Next, you should think about what really makes you happy. Then you should—”
“Mom, can you hold that thought? I need to go. The cat is hacking up a hairball on my favorite sweatshirt.”
* * *
I pick Midnight up and plop him on the tiled floor, then take a few steps to the side to get out of the way. Instead of coughing up a hairball as I expected, he pads over to me and rubs his body against my legs. I take a few more steps away from the cat, but end up tripping over my sneakers and tumbling backward onto my bed.
Midnight yowls, then leaps into the air, landing directly on my chest with a thud. He snuggles up against my face, purring loudly. “Don’t you dare get that drool on me,” I warn the feline. He responds by licking me, leaving a trail of cat saliva on my neck. Oddly, it feels comforting. I gently stroke the back of his head while I think about the conversation I had with my mom.
Yes, she’s right, I should apologize to Preston. But I’m going to have to work up my courage for that conversation. It won’t be easy. I push that thought out of my mind for now. Instead, I ponder my mom’s second suggestion—think about what really makes me happy. I don’t think she was just talking about my love life. Ever since I dropped out of graduate school, she’s been trying to get me to reassess what I really want out of life, career-wise.
/> This trip to Italy has made me realize that being a professor isn’t it. I smile as I think about how enraptured the Silver Foxes were during the tour Preston led of the Basilica di San Vitale and the Mausoleum of Gallo Placida. They loved hearing him tell them about this history of the two sites. Even during class, when he’d share a snippet or two about the history of the Roman Empire, they ate it up.
I have to admit that he’s a great teacher—engaging and knowledgeable about his subject matter. Not to mention patient. Even when someone would ask what I would consider to be a silly question, he didn’t make them feel dumb. He was never condescending or full of himself, like I thought he was. He’s simply passionate about what he loves. Just like my father was.
As for me, I do love ancient history, but the thought of teaching it leaves me cold. Nor do I want to go back to graduate school. Academia isn’t really for me. Sure, I thought it was, but over the past few weeks, I realize that I haven’t missed it one bit. I have no idea what the future holds for me, but I do know one thing for sure. It’ll involve something I’m passionate about, not just what I think I’m supposed to do.
While I’m scratching Midnight’s belly, I realize that I never asked my mom why Preston called her. I send a quick text and she responds saying that he has my charm bracelet and wants to return it to me. It fell into the pocket of his jacket during our fight after the cooking demonstration. He’s offered to mail it to my mom if that’s what I’d prefer since I don’t seem to want to see him, let alone talk to him. I tell her that I have a better plan—I’m going to pick it up from him in person.
My mom mentioned he was going to be awarded the Herodotus Prize. That would be the perfect time to get my bracelet from Preston and apologize to him. After doing a quick search online, I break out into a cold sweat, hives erupt all over my body, and I begin to hyperventilate. The award ceremony is in two days’ time. The only way I can get there in time would be to fly.
An airplane? No way, no how.
15
Drooling Cats vs. Teddy Bears
The next evening I find myself at the airport in Athens, a plane ticket and my passport clutched in my hand. When I reach the end of the jet bridge, my feet turn to clay. A cheerful flight attendant beckons me forward, but I can’t budge. Thoughts of my father dying in a fiery plane crash overwhelm me. My pulse rate doubles, my breathing is shallow. I feel my backpack slip out of my hand. It hits the floor with a thud, startling me.
You can do it, I tell myself.
No, I can’t.
Yes, you can.
No, I can’t.
Ginny, knock it off. You can do it.
You’re not the boss of me!
Hysterical laughter bubbles up inside me. This ridiculous back and forth I’m having with myself reminds me of all the disagreements Preston and I have.
Not have. It’s had. Past tense. I don’t have disagreements with him anymore. I ended things and for good reason. He’s a jerk. I can’t trust him. He’ll end up breaking my heart, just like what’s-his-name did. Now, turn around and march back up that jet bridge. He’s not worth getting on this plane for.
But Mom said that he’s on your side. He thinks you’re innocent of the plagiarism charges.
No, he doesn’t. He thinks I did it.
You think that she made that up? Are you saying that she’s a liar?
Of course, Mom isn’t a liar. She misheard what he said. That’s all.
Hmm…I don’t think she misheard him at all. I think you just don’t want to believe it. Preston was right. You have pistanthrophobia. Admit it—you have trust issues.
What I have is issues with you. Did anyone ever tell you how annoying you are?
Stop trying to change the subject. You wouldn’t be getting on this plane if you didn’t think there was a chance for something between you and Preston.
“Come on, lady, get a move on.” I turn and see the man behind me holding my backpack. He thrusts it in my hands and jerks his finger at the airplane door. “We don’t have all day.”
I take a deep breath, tell my inner voice to be quiet, and take a cautious step forward. The flight attendant’s expression is no longer cheerful. “Seat 46-L,” she says crisply, looking at my boarding pass. “Cross through the galley, then turn right.”
“Do you have to pay for air sickness bags or are they complimentary?” I ask.
“No, they’re free,” she says. “You’ll find one in the pocket in front of your seat.”
“How many are there?”
“Bags? Just the one.” Her eyes widen and she takes a step back. “Why? Do you feel sick?”
“No, I just like to be prepared.”
Clenching my backpack tightly, I make my way down the aisle and look at my fellow passengers. They all seem so calm. Don’t they realize that this silver tube is a death trap? Don’t they realize we’re all going to die? Don’t they realize—?
Hey, inner voice, knock it off!
You can’t tell me what to do!
Yes, I can!
No, you can’t!
If you promise to be quiet, I’ll buy you an overpriced cocktail once they start the drinks service.
That seems to do the trick. There’s nothing my inner voice loves more than an overpriced drink.
As I near my seat, an overpowering stench overtakes me. Three men are seated in the row in front of mine and they all reek of body spray. What makes it worse is that they’re all wearing different scents. One smells like the guys from the train—that intoxicating blend of doggy doo-doo and bubblegum. Another is sporting a fragrance that was probably inspired by a landfill. The third man is the least offensive, with an odor reminiscent of a teen-aged boy’s gym shoes.
I pull my scarf over my nose and scoot into my spot by the window. After tucking my backpack under the seat in front of me—the one occupied by Mr. Landfill—I grab the aircraft safety card and familiarize myself with what to do in case of an emergency. The two seats next to me are empty. I breathe a sigh of relief. That will make it so much easier to dash to the rear of the airplane, where the nearest exit is located, should it be required.
“Excuse me, excuse me, coming through,” a nasally voice says loudly. I pop my head up and see a middle-aged woman wearing a colorful mumu slowly pushing a roller bag in front of her. A soft-sided case is perched on top of her suitcase. A large purse is slung over one shoulder and an overstuffed tote bag is dangling from the other.
“Sorry about that,” she says as her tote bag smacks Mr. Smelly Gym Shoes in the face. She looks at her boarding pass, looks at the seat next to me, then smiles brightly.
My inner voice groans at the thought of spending the next ten hours seated next to Mrs. Mumu. At last, I’m in agreement with my inner voice for once.
She hands the soft-sided case to Mr. Smelly Gym Shoe. “Hang onto this for a moment, hon, while I get settled.” Then she passes her purse and tote bag to me. “Do you mind?”
She peers at the overhead storage bin. “Humph. It looks full.”
“Please take your seats quickly so that we can have an on-time departure,” the flight attendant says over the loudspeaker.
The woman continues to stare at the overhead storage bin as though it’s a puzzle to be solved. Then she shrugs, pushes her suitcase further down the aisle toward the rear of the aircraft and leaves it there.
The flight attendant announces over the intercom, “All luggage must be stowed before takeoff.” After a beat, she adds, “That means you in the back, ma’am.”
Mrs. Mumu puts her hands on her hips, then screeches, “There isn’t any room, hon. How about if I set it on its side so it doesn’t roll down the aisle?”
“If you can’t find a spot to stow it, bring it back to the front of the aircraft and we’ll check it in for you to your final destination.”
“Don’t worry, hon, there’s a spot right here.” She opens the door to the lavatory and shoves her bag inside. “Problem solved.”
The flight attendant
marches down the aisle. “Ma’am, you cannot stow your suitcase in there.”
“That’s okay. I don’t need anything during the flight from it. I have everything I need in these,” she says as she pats her tote bag and purse.
The flight attendant shakes her head, grabs the suitcase out of the lavatory, and wheels it down the aisle, muttering something about making a poor career choice.
The woman shrugs and slides into the aisle seat. Then she lifts up the armrest between the aisle and middle seat and scoots next to me.
“Ladies and gentlemen, we’re ready to get underway. Flight attendants, prepare doors for departure and cross-check.”
I feel the airplane move backwards. “It looks like the aisle seat is empty,” I say. “If you move over there, then we’ll have more room.”
She shows me her boarding pass. “No can do. It says 46-K right here. This is my assigned seat.”
“Oh, I’m sure it will be fine if you take the aisle seat,” I say confidently.
“No, if the plane crashes, they use the seat map to identify the survivors.”
I grip the armrest tightly and try to calm my breathing. I do not need talk of plane crashes right now. From my personal, painful experience, people don’t survive.
Mrs. Mumu taps the seat in front of her. “Sonny, want to hand me that bag?”
He passes it over the seat back and she sets it in her lap. Then she coos, “It’s okay, Pookie. Mama’s got you.” She unzips the front of the bag an inch or two and a paw snakes out. A cat’s paw. It manages to sink its claws into my arm, before her owner turns the bag to face her, forcing the creature to detach itself from my body.
As I inspect the scratch marks on my arm, I reassure myself that things could be worse. Instead of only having to put up with a loud, obnoxious woman and her vicious cat for the entire flight, I could have been seated next to a crying baby.
Then the cat starts yowling, a sound so intense and piercing that I think my eardrums are bleeding. A crying baby—heck, even crying triplets—would be heaven in comparison.
Smitten with Ravioli Page 14