Pasta Imperfect

by Maddy Hunter

Keely’s face disappeared behind a bubble that grew bigger…and bigger…and —

  Brandy Ann turned suddenly and caught the bubble in her fist. “That’s very rude.” She yanked the wad out of Keely’s mouth and crushed it in her hand.

  Oh, yeah. I liked this woman.

  KREOOOOO! Feedback screeched out over the loudspeaker system at a pitch that could cause eardrums to pop. KREOOOOO! “I —” kreooooo “— I hate when that happens,” asserted a voice that wasn’t Duncan’s. “If you would all return to your seats, I have an announcement I’d like to make.”

  Keely and Brandy Ann grunted with frustration and headed back to their seats. I boosted myself high enough to see a man in a rose-colored polo shirt with silver hair and a George Hamilton tan standing in the aisle at the front of the bus. Ah, yes. The bigwig Jackie had pointed out in the basilica.

  “For those of you who don’t know me, please allow me to introduce myself. My name is Philip Blackmore, and I’m the executive vice president and associate publisher of Hightower Books, the company sponsoring this tour. Please accept my apologies for this unfortunate calamity that has befallen us. One never expects disaster to strike while on holiday.”

  “He’s never traveled with us before, has he, dear?” whispered Nana.

  “I understand the inconvenience of having to travel without any of your belongings,” he continued in a sympathetic tone. “I know this is the kind of event that can ruin a vacation, but I want you to know that Hightower Books is committed to doing everything possible to salvage this tour and make it the most memorable trip of your lifetime. To that end, I’ve been in contact with our company president, who has authorized me to make amends for this catastrophe in a way that is sure to delight all of you who have ever imagined your name in print.”

  Nana leaned close to my ear. “That means, he don’t wanna get sued.”

  “Drumroll, please,” Blackmore said, grinning at his own cleverness. “Ladies and gentlemen, Hightower Books is proud to announce an opportunity for all aspiring writers on our tour. A contest!”

  Squeals from the front. Squeals from the back. There was no denying it. The word “contest” created as much pandemonium among romance writers as the word “embargo” created among Iowa grain farmers.

  “To the person who submits the most marketable synopsis of a book-length romantic novel, including the first five pages of a proposed first chapter, we are offering a single book contract for publication of said book, and” — he paused for dramatic effect — “a cash advance of ten thousand dollars.”

  Screaming. Yelling. Cheering. The woman in the seat in front of me leaped into the aisle and began to boogie.

  KREOOOOOO! “I knew you’d be excited,” Blackmore said pleasantly.

  “Who’s going to judge the contest?” someone yelled out. “You?”

  “I’ll leave the all-important task of judging to a panel of three people, two of whom have devoted more years to the publishing industry than they’d care to admit. Sylvia, would you stand up so people can see you?”

  Three seats down from me on the left, a fiftyish woman with puffy features, mousy hair, and a gray jacket that bagged around her like an off - the - rack elephant leg stood up and waved to the passengers. “I’m sure you’re all familiar with the name Sylvia Root,” Blackmore enthused, “founder and president of the acclaimed Sylvia Root Literary Agency. Please observe her nose, because it’s reputed to be the best one in the business for sniffing out best sellers. If Sylvia takes you on, you can be assured of literary stardom. And who knows? The next sensation of the publishing world could be seated right on this very bus.”

  Oohs. Aahs. Sporadic clapping.

  A nod of Blackmore’s head, and Sylvia slumped back into her seat. “Our second judge is a senior editor at Hightower Books and present editor of both Marla Michaels and Gillian Jones. You probably don’t know him by name, but the publishing industry wouldn’t be the institution it is today without his scrupulous knowledge and talent. A touch of his red pen, and he can turn any writer’s work into a literary masterpiece. Gabriel Fox.”

  The man from the basilica with the spit-polished appearance and beard stepped into the aisle close to where Blackmore stood, sketched a bow, then sat back down. From this short second glimpse I caught of him, I judged him to be in his mid-forties with the kind of wiry body that smacked of either good genetics, long-distance running, or the Atkins diet.

  “I’ve not appointed our third and final judge,” Blackmore confessed, “but to ensure a fair mix on the panel, I’d like to open the position to someone whose interests are as far removed from the publishing industry as humanly possible. I know we have some tour guests from America’s heartland traveling with us. A group of seniors from Iowa, is that right?”

  “You bet!” shouted Dick Teig. Hoots. Whistles. Scattered applause. “The only one of us not old enough to join AARP is Emily!”

  “Would any of you be willing to act as the third judge on our panel? I realize you didn’t sign on to the tour to participate in our program, but let’s face it, Midwesterners like you, and Jane Pauley, and —” He stirred the air with his hand, struggling to produce another name. “— and Jesse ‘the body’ Ventura are known for their forthrightness and homespun values, and I need the input of a person whose opinion I can trust to be fair and unbiased. I’m not being overly dramatic when I tell you that your participation could change someone on this bus’s life forever. Do I have any volunteers?”

  Hands shot into the air all over the place. The Teigs. The Stolees. Osmond Chelsvig. I scanned the bus. All my group was volunteering. Even Nana. Whoa! This was a switch. Normally, they were so preoccupied with being punctual that they devoted most of their vacation time to checking their watches and queuing up at the bus a half a day ahead of time. Philip Blackmore had read them like books. They might have homespun values, but that didn’t mean they were immune to a little well-placed flattery.

  “Well, this is wonderfully encouraging,” Philip said, obviously delighted with the number of hands inviting him to pick me, pick me. “I didn’t expect so many volunteers. But your willingness creates something of a dilemma for me.”

  “No dilemma about it,” insisted Osmond Chelsvig, who slowly unfolded himself from his seat and stepped into the aisle to issue instructions. Osmond was still president of Windsor City’s electoral board despite advancing age, arthritis, double hearing aids, and the fact that he was the only person outside of Massachusetts who’d voted for George McGovern back in ’72. “We gotta be democratic and do this by secret ballot. Listen up now. Remove your name tags from their plastic casings.” He extracted his and held it in the air. “Then maybe that fella back there who’s dressed in the Jungle Jim getup will be good enough to collect them in that hat of his and bring them up to the front of the bus.”

  I assumed he was referring to Fred, unless there was another person on board who was operating under the mistaken impression that we were touring Africa instead of Italy.

  A round of applause erupted as Fred reluctantly removed his hat and made his way down the aisle collecting Iowa name tags.

  “And the winner is,” announced Philip Blackmore a few minutes later as he removed a name tag from Fred’s hat, “Margaret Andrew!”

  Hoots and hollers. A gasp of surprise from Mom. “Oh, my goodness!” I heard her exclaim from the back. “I feel so honored. I’ve never won anything in my life!”

  “Where are you, Margaret?” asked Blackmore, peering down the aisle.

  “Right here!” She stood up and put her hand on automatic pilot, waving to the crowd like a chubbier version of the queen of England. Oh yeah, this was going to be an evenly judged contest — the winner determined by a literary barracuda, an editorial golden boy, and a woman whose idea of truly gripping fiction was The Runaway Bunny.

  “I’ll meet with judges and contestants later at the hotel to explain how the contest will be conducted,” Blackmore said, “but let me urge all of you who will be submitting
stories to gather your thoughts and commit them to paper as soon as possible. I wish you all the best of luck.”

  “How long are you giving us to do this?” someone called out.

  “Three days,” Blackmore replied.

  “Three days!” people whined in unison.

  Blackmore stood his ground. “The winner will have to prove to me that he or she can work quickly and meet a deadline. A writer needs to be talented as well as organized and efficient to meet marketing demands. Three days, ladies and gentlemen, and at the end of that time, one of you will most assuredly be on his or her way to joining the ranks of the rich and famous.”

  I could feel the electricity in the air as Philip Blackmore returned to his seat. I could hear the anxious twitters and agonized sighs of would-be contestants as they congregated in the aisles. And as the miles passed, I saw the looks they exchanged with each other shift from adoration to suspicion, and their lips curve from smiles into sneers.

  Oh, yeah. This boded well.

  Chapter 3

  A traffic accident in a tunnel outside the city limits kept us in gridlock on the Autostrada for hours, so we arrived in Florence after dark, which seemed a good thing since my instincts told me that the district where the Hotel Cosimo Firenze was located might not stand up too well in the glare of the noonday sun. The hotel itself appeared nice enough. Plain edifice. Victorian globe lights attached to the building. Crisp awning overhanging the entryway. Potted plants flanking the doors. It was the other stuff that threw me. The cars parked tailpipe to fender on the narrow sidewalk. The sea of garbage cans piled at the curb. The lack of streetlights. The cachet of spoiled meat and rotting fruit polluting the air. The rubbish lying in the gutters. I guess Florentines prided themselves on retaining the ambiance of their humble medieval beginnings.

  We filed through a nine-by-twelve lobby that was crammed with vinyl - covered sofas and chairs straight out of the 1950s. Newspapers lay strewn across a small coffee table. A table lamp was set up for reading, but it was missing a shade. A flight of narrow, enclosed stairs led to the upper floors. Philip Blackmore cupped his hands around his mouth and addressed us as we squeezed into the lobby area.

  “Could I have your attention before you all rush off? In about fifteen minutes I’d like to meet with all potential contest entrants and judges in the lobby.” He eyed the space disdainfully. “Such as it is. It’s getting late, so please try to be punctual.”

  Oohs. Aahs. An undercurrent of excitement.

  A night clerk slouched on a stool behind the front desk — a huge slug of a man with a stubbled jaw, three chins, lizard eyes, and approximately one tooth in his head. He gnawed on a cigar as he grabbed room keys off a board on the wall and handed them to Duncan.

  “Some of you with single-room assignments may have to double up while we’re here,” Duncan announced as he distributed keys. “But I hope you’ll take it in stride. Who knows? Your accidental roommate could end up changing your life in some unexpected way. Every room has two double beds. I’ll record who’s in what room and will copy the list for Emily so we’ll both know where to find you. Breakfast is served in the dining room between 7:00 and 9:00 A.M. And there’s no need to look for a guest elevator because there isn’t one. We’re all going to have to use the stairs. Sorry for the inconvenience. But since we don’t have luggage, at least no one has to haul an oversized pullman up four flights of stairs.”

  Good-natured laughter. Nods of assent. I couldn’t believe how well everyone was taking the burned luggage thing.

  The night clerk growled a string of Italian that caused Duncan to take a peek behind the front desk. “Correction. Someone is going to be getting some exercise. A pullman the size of a Ford Explorer recently arrived from the Florence airport. Emily? Where are you? Is this your missing bag?”

  My eyes bulged. My heart leaped. “They found my suitcase?” I squealed, shouldering my way to the front of the crowd for a look-see. “But…but how did the airlines know I was going to be here?”

  “I called Alitalia to report the change in venue,” Duncan said, as I peered over the counter. Flush against the wall was my trusty pullman, its tapestried exterior dotted with a slew of orange stickers proclaiming it to be HEAVY. “That’s it! I can’t believe it! It’s not in Kansas anymore!” I spun around and wrapped my arms around the person standing closest to me. “My stuff,” I cried, bouncing up and down with Gillian Jones in her tragically crinkled silk pantsuit. “They found my stuff! This is so cool! I have my suitcase back!”

  But Gillian wasn’t smiling. And neither was anyone else.

  I froze midbounce.

  Oops.

  I escaped being assigned a roommate, so I wouldn’t have to fight over which bed I wanted, both of which sagged in the middle. I didn’t know what anyone else’s room looked like, but mine was a pit. Soiled carpet. A solitary armchair with cigarette holes burned into the upholstery. Paint chipping off bare, grime-encrusted walls. No phone. No air-conditioning. No minibar with treats. The only goody for sale was a liter of bottled water that I could buy for twenty thousand lire. Ten dollars for water. Like that was going to happen. Boy, I could expect to catch an earful about this.

  I ran to the bathroom and yanked open the folding vinyl door. EH! It was the size of a gym locker. There was no shower curtain. No mirrored medicine cabinet. Just a showerhead poked into the wall, an evil-looking drain in the middle of the floor, and a toilet and sink squushed against each other. Back home I used the bathroom; here, I’d be wearing it.

  This wasn’t good. This wasn’t good at all. We had people the size of sumo wrestlers on the tour. What if they stepped inside the room to take a shower and got wedged between the walls? I raced for the medication sack inside my suitcase to see if I’d remembered to pack a large economy jar of petroleum jelly.

  I heard a soft tap tap tap at the door. I froze. Oh, Lord, please make it a mindless complaint and not anyone who’ll be using the words “Dick Teig,” “shower,” and “naked” in the same sentence. “Coming,” I said, my heart in my mouth as I opened the door.

  I expelled a relieved breath as I regarded the Severid twins standing arm in arm in the corridor. Oh, thank God. Britha and Barbro would never allow Dick Teig inside their room, especially if he were naked. They’d probably never seen a naked man in their lives. The twins were seventy-three years old, had never married, and still lived together in the same house they’d grown up in on the outskirts of Windsor City. They were purebred Norwegian with porcelain complexions, Wedgwood blue eyes, birdlike frames that made them look fragile as glass, and fluffy white hair that reminded me of the cotton candy we bought at the state fair. They were as identical as a couple of Keebler cookies, their only distinguishing feature being the different names pinned to their bib jumpers.

  “We’re sorry to bother you, Emily, dear,” Britha apologized. Britha, who boasted of being the older sibling by ten minutes, had been head librarian at the local library for decades and still volunteered her services on a regular basis, maintaining the card catalogue and drilling other volunteers, like my mom, on the sanctity of the Dewey decimal system. “Would this be a good time for us to select a few articles of clothing?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Your mother mentioned you’d brought way too many clothes with you, so you’d be happy to share.”

  I pondered that for a millisecond. “SHE SAID WHAT?”

  Barbro’s eyes widened with fright. “She said you’d packed so darn much stuff, there’s no way you’d not have enough. But if that’s not right, give us the scoop. We’ll leave you here and fly the coop.”

  I stared at Barbro, stupefied. She’d been writing greeting card sentiments for so long that her brain no longer functioned normally. The upshot was, she couldn’t just talk anymore. She had to talk in rhyme. It was really weird. “I’m sorry, ladies.” I wrenched my gaze away from Barbro. “Would you run the part about my mother by me again?”

  Britha happily obliged. “Margaret said yo
u were so delighted to have your luggage back that she was sure you felt a moral obligation to distribute a few items of clothing to the poor unfortunates among us who lost everything in the fire.” Her gaze drifted past me to the bed. “That’s a lovely big suitcase, Emily. I bet it’s new. We bought new suitcases for the trip, too. Of course, they’re piles of ash now. Isn’t there a Bible lesson in that, Barbro?”

  Guilt smacked me hard in the face. Yes, my suitcase was the size of a big-screen TV. Yes, I’d packed my entire summer wardrobe, including a few fall and winter pieces that I knew would be indispensable should we run into a freak summer blizzard or a flood. But I hadn’t packed frivolously! I’d only brought along outfits I was pretty sure I might wear. On the other hand, Britha and Barbro lived in bib jumpers, shells, and elastic-waisted polyester pants. Neither one of them would be comfortable in my new one-shoulder sweaterdress with the leather shoulder strap, or my little stretch denim corset dress with the adjustable bra straps. I wasn’t even comfortable in them, but they fit like latex and looked really hot, so I didn’t mind that I couldn’t breathe while I was wearing them.

  I marked the expectant looks on the twins’ faces and forced a half smile. There was only one thing to do. “You wouldn’t know where my mother is by any chance, would you?” She got me into this mess. She could get me out.

  “She’s down in the lobby with those romance people,” said Britha, nodding toward the enclosed staircase behind her. My room was at the top of the stairs, so all foot traffic from the ground floor would be passing by my door. Lucky me.

  Barbro nodded. “I think their meeting’s almost through, so stand right there and she’ll see you.”

  I stared in awe. How did she do that? It was pretty clever, but it really set my teeth on edge.

  “Look how pretty your room is,” Britha said, jockeying with Barbro to eye the interior of my room. “We’re hoping for a nice room like this at the next hotel, aren’t we, Barbro? Is this what they call a deluxe suite?”