An American Girl in Italy

by Aubrie Dionne

  ‘B-but—’

  The waitress came over with the empty tray. ‘E finite, signore.’

  He slipped her a fifty-dollar bill. ‘Grazie.’

  Already the members of the orchestra were looking to him for guidance. He stood, murmuring, ‘I have to go.’

  Carly sat at the table with shockwaves rattling her composure. Here she was trying to avoid his advances, and he’d already locked her out. A small ache swelled inside her, along with the feeling she’d missed something just short of paradise.

  ‘Would you like something, signorina?’ The waitress stood before her with a pad and pencil in hand.

  Carly shook her head. The only thing she needed now was a level head to play that aria the way it was meant to be played. Michelangelo had distracted her enough.

  * * *

  Carly spent Tuesday in a never-ending slew of rehearsals for their last concert at the Arch of Peace. Michelangelo made no move to speak with her, which was fine with her, because the aria had never sounded better. This time she’d get it right.

  The audience at the Arch of Peace was absurdly large, covering the entire rounded square of the Piazza Sempione and spilling into the main city park. People brought lawn chairs and blankets, and some even sat on the grass, reminding Carly of the fourth of July fireworks show at the Hatch Memorial Shell along the Charles River in Boston.

  Behind them the Arch rose in a colossal stone structure of solidarity and truth. Its origins dated back to the Roman walls of Milan. For Carly, it brought no peace.

  Her heart sped as she stood on the makeshift stage Michelangelo had constructed solely for this event. Alaina stretched beside her, closing her eyes to envision her character in the aria. Wolf stood on his podium, his baton raised. Behind him sat the entire orchestra with their instruments ready and waiting to play. This was the moment of truth, their last chance to prove themselves.

  She brought her reed to her lips. The song began like all the others, with her chirpy sixteenth notes. Her fingers shook, making the notes feel rushed and edgy when they should have danced with joy. She scanned the audience, which a performer should never do while playing. Michelangelo sat in the front row. Instead of watching her, he gazed down at his feet. His disinterest, or more like feigned ambivalence, sent a shockwave through her gut.

  She lost her support, and the reed felt like a closed-off tube in her mouth. Her oboe squawked, and the ugly noise reverberated across the square like a dying duck.

  Alaina’s eyes widened as she took a breath and came in, stumbling on her words. She reached for a high note, and her voice faltered before she picked up the melody again.

  Face burning with embarrassment, Carly kept playing, feeling as if she had been roasted in front of everyone like a pig on a spit. The aria dragged on with Alaina’s shaky words and her own disjointed notes until every nerve on her body shook. She ended the final cadence with a sour note that just went flatter at the end.

  Silence fell as the audience decided how to react. Carly brought her reed down from her lips as Alaina walked prematurely off stage, leaving her standing there alone. Then, a single person clapped. She glanced down to see Michelangelo rising in a standing ovation. He looked like a fool, but he didn’t care. He only had eyes for her. Around him, light applause began as they followed his example.

  Carly narrowed her gaze and looked away. It was too little too late. She’d allowed him to get too close to her emotions, and in doing so, he’d ruined their aria and her last chance to prove herself on the tour. In that moment, she vowed never to let a man distract her again.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Accent

  This time it didn’t take a musical genius to know that something had gone terribly wrong in the aria. While Carly struggled with the music, Michelangelo felt as though he was right up there with her. Every ounce of heartbreak, embarrassment, and shame spread directly to him.

  It was all his fault.

  He’d distracted her this whole tour by leading her on, then cutting her off as though she was nothing to him. But she was so much more.

  Carly was the first woman that had made him forget about his problems with the winery. She proved to him he could have a life outside the vineyard, and she made him feel youthful and sexy again when so many of his family’s problems rested on his shoulders. He loved her dry sense of humor and her blunt honesty.

  And now he’d lost her.

  As Carly’s eyes narrowed at him, he died a little inside. He could hardly blame her; he’d been an idiota earlier on in the day.

  The concert ended, and Michelangelo shot up from his seat to find her. He had no idea what he’d say, but he had to try. It wasn’t every day a woman like that came around, and he couldn’t let her go that easily. But where would she go after such an embarrassing spectacle?

  Backstage. Of course.

  As he walked around the stage, Ms. Maxhammer’s voice stopped him in his tracks. ‘Another wonderful evening, Mr. Ricci.’

  He turned around and gave her his most sincere smile. ‘I do my best.’

  Her gray curls had been reformed into a glossy wave. She looked like old Hollywood royalty. ‘What an excellent idea to have this final concert here at such a monumental icon of Milan.’

  ‘I must say the location was purely your maestro’s idea. All I did was to make it happen.’

  Her fingers touched her neck, where a ruby necklace sparkled in the concert lights. ‘And so modest, too.’ She grabbed his sleeve and pulled him close. ‘Tell me, do you have any faults?’

  Faults? Like lying about being an experienced tour guide? Or distracting the lead oboist enough to ruin the last concert? He gulped down his reply. ‘Several, I’m afraid. Although such a great evening is not the time to dredge them up.’

  She wiggled her finger at him. ‘Touché, Mr. Ricci, touché.’

  A blur of red over her shoulder caught his eye. Was it Carly?

  Michelangelo needed to find her before she got back to the hotel, or she’d never let him into her room. ‘If you’ll excuse me, I have to—’

  Alaina pushed through the crowd, almost blinding him with her bejeweled monstrosity of a dress. She positioned herself between them as if they’d invited her to join the conversation. ‘Michelangelo, please excuse me, I have urgent news for Ms. Maxhammer.’

  ‘Of course.’ He moved to turn away, but Alaina grabbed his arm. ‘And I’d like to speak with you afterward.’

  He resisted the urge to recoil. Splendido. Just what I wanted. ‘I don’t mean to intrude if this is a private conversation.’

  ‘It’s not, and it won’t take long.’ She turned to Ms. Maxhammer. ‘Carly Davis has disappeared.’

  Michelangelo blinked in shock.

  Ms. Maxhammer narrowed her eyes. ‘What do you mean?’

  Alaina smacked her lips together. ‘She took off after our aria, and hasn’t been seen since. The second oboe played her solos in the last piece.’

  Ms. Maxhammer scanned the crowd. ‘Well, maybe she got sick. Has anyone called the hotel?’

  ‘I have, ma’am, and no one’s in our room. They say she hasn’t checked in yet.’

  ‘Well then, where could she be?’

  Alaina put both her hands on her hips. ‘I think she was so embarrassed that she ruined my aria that she snuck off like a coward.’

  Ms. Maxhammer wrinkled her already wrinkled brow. ‘She’s supposed to attend this evening’s reception.’

  Alaina’s lips twitched as if she held back a smirk. ‘I have reason to believe she may have gone out…’ she paused for effect. ‘Drinking.’

  ‘Ha!’ Ms. Maxhammer scoffed. ‘Drinking on the job?’

  Michelangelo placed his hand on her arm. ‘You don’t know that. She probably had some sort of emergency.’ Then an idea brightened in his mind, he could save Carly, give him a chance to talk with her, and get him away from Alaina all at the same time. ‘Let me go look for her.’

  Alaina gaped as though he’d pulled some trick on her
. ‘Picking up drunk orchestra members is not in your job description.’

  He ignored her and looked to Ms. Maxhammer. ‘I found Trixie, and I can find her.’

  ‘Very well.’ Ms. Maxhammer waved him away. ‘Go find her before she gets into trouble. The streets of Milan are like any other big city. It’s not a place where you want to get lost, especially if you’re not in your right mind.’

  ‘Yes, ma’am.’ Michelangelo moved, but a vice-like grip closed on his arm. He turned around, knowing full well who to expect.

  Alaina stared at him like a jealous girlfriend. ‘I’m coming with you.’

  He pried her fingers off. ‘No you’re not. You have to stay with the orchestra and greet the audience in the reception, as per Ms. Maxhammer’s wishes.’

  She put hands on her curvy hips. ‘I’m not under the same contract as the rest of the orchestra, I’m a soloist.’

  ‘Very well, but I don’t need your help. I’ll find her faster if I go alone.’

  Her lower lip trembled. ‘What about us?’

  He swallowed her comment hard. ‘Us?’

  ‘You know there’s only two more days of the tour, and you haven’t even come over to say a word to me. If you think you can just go kissing me that first night, and then—’

  ‘Listen.’ He took her arm and brought her over to a quiet place. ‘You forced that kiss. All I’ve been is cordial to you, like everyone else in this orchestra. It’s my job. But as for us, there is no us.’ At this point he didn’t care if she complained and he lost his job. The charade could go on no longer.

  Alaina put her hand up to her neck and stifled a quiet little sob. ‘You don’t mean that.’

  Michelangelo leaned in, giving her his most serious glare. ‘I do.’

  ‘Damn it.’ She stomped on the cobblestone. ‘Every guy I meet is Mr. Wrong. I’m never going to fall in love.’

  As much as he felt bad for her, he couldn’t be the one to show her love. He had feelings for someone else, someone who’d gone missing, maybe put herself in danger. He turned and pushed through the crowd before Alaina could stop him. She’d already done enough.

  He jumped into his Fiat and merged into traffic before he realized he had absolutely no idea where Carly would go. He pulled over, took out his phone and tried her number. He was sent directly to voicemail.

  Merda! He put both hands on the wheel and placed his forehead on the rim. This was all his fault. If he hadn’t led her on in the first place—after all, what with his winery problems, he knew things couldn’t have gone anywhere between them—then she would have never bombed the aria and jeopardized her career—the one thing that meant the most to her. He’d been such an idiota, and he had to make things right. Where would she go?

  The only other place she knew of in Milan was the Galleria. Flinging on his turn signal, he maneuvered back into the traffic, weaving between the larger trucks.

  Lit by the golden storefront lights, the Galleria was even more magical at night. Michelangelo jogged the length of the storefronts. Most of the shops had closed, leaving only the restaurants and bars, overfilling with patrons with queues curving around the front.

  In all of Milan, did he really think she’d come back here? It was the only place she knew of. Carly was a practical woman. She wouldn’t take chances with a place she didn’t know—even if she was out of her mind.

  He walked in circles, until he found himself on top of the bull mosaic in the center. He’d never believed in the tradition of spinning on the bull—just another way to get tourists into the Galleria to shop. But, desperate to find her, he closed his eyes and spun on his heels.

  The force of his spin whipped through his hair. He’d cast himself adrift. His vinery was slipping through his fingers, his mother lost more of her memories every day, and now he’d met the most amazing woman only to drive her away.

  Please, let me find her.

  When he stopped, his gaze settled on Zucca’s Bar, the place with the longest wait. That’s where he’d try. Getting in line, he smoothed his suit and hair and put on his most charming smile. The hostess was a young woman in her early twenties, with her silken black hair pulled up into a high ponytail.

  He placed both his hands on her hostess stand and spoke in a low velvety voice. ‘Buona sera, signorina.’

  She giggled. ‘Buona sera, signore. Would you like me to take your name for this list?’

  ‘No, thank you. I’m meeting someone here.’

  She pouted. ‘A woman?’

  ‘Yes, an American woman by the name of Carly Davis.’

  She checked the list, chewing on the end of her pen. ‘I don’t see her name here, signore.’

  He considered turning away. Was he really going to listen to a mosaic of a bull? Still, he had to be thorough if he was ever to find her. ‘She may have gone straight to the bar. Please allow me to check inside.’

  She shook her pen at him playfully. ‘You cannot cut the line, signore.’

  He smiled, catching her eyes. He took her hand with the pen and lowered it to the hostess stand. ‘I assure you, she saved a seat. If I’m wrong, I’ll find my way out.’

  She watched his hand on hers. ‘Can I trust you, signore?’

  He winked. ‘Certemente.’

  She gave him a sideways smile. ‘Go on, the bar’s in the back.’

  Maybe he still had some of that smooth as gelato charm? If so, he was going to need it.

  Michelangelo breathed with relief as he cut through the tables and circled around waiters and waitresses with steaming dishes and glasses of wine.

  He turned into a smaller antechamber in the back, where people sat at a circular bar watching television and flirting over martinis. A few private booths sat in the back.

  No Carly.

  Disappointment rushed up, and he squelched it down. Really, did he expect to find her in the very first place he looked? Life just wasn’t that easy. At least not for him, not these days.

  A flash of red caught his attention from the back booth. The waiter brought over a tray with a strawberry margarita, and a slender arm wearing the same dress Carly had worn on stage snaked out. The waiter spoke in Italian, and she spoke in perfect Italian back, with a slight accent he’d tried to teach her how to erase.

  Carly was here.

  Now, he had to figure out how to convince her to give him a second chance.

  Chapter Eighteen

  One More

  Carly told the waiter to keep them coming in Italian. She licked the salt off the rim and sipped her margarita, the cool tanginess calming her parched throat. Two more days.

  In two days she could jump right back on that plane and pick up her life where she’d left it in Boston. No more Italy, no more arias, no more Michelangelo. Sure she had to get back to the orchestra and finish the tour—all they had left were personal vacation days anyway. But two or three more margaritas wouldn’t hurt.

  When she’d told Michelangelo in the bus that first day she’d never be coming back, she meant it. The entire country was a tease, right down to its snarky reviewers and hot-and-cold tour guide.

  ‘Is this seat taken, signorina?’

  In her second margarita buzz, it took her a moment to recognize the voice. She turned her head slowly, dreading the one person she didn’t want to see again. What the hell was he doing here?

  ‘It is.’

  He crossed his arms. ‘Looks empty to me.’

  She leveled with him. It was all she could do. ‘What are you doing here?’

  Michelangelo slipped into the booth across from her. ‘Ms. Maxhammer’s looking for you. Thanks to Alaina, she knows you’re out drinking.’

  ‘Alaina. Yes, let’s talk about her.’ Carly took a large sip and stared him down. ‘One girlfriend isn’t enough for you?’

  ‘I told you. She was never my girlfriend, and tonight I told her so. She won’t be a problem anymore.’

  Carly wiped her mouth on her napkin. ‘You did it because the tour is ending. Cut me off, then
cut her off like some game.’

  His stared intensely. ‘No, I did it for you.’

  Carly stopped mid sip. ‘For me?’ Her words came out sarcastically. The alcohol had stripped her normal politeness filter, but she didn’t care.

  ‘Alaina wanted to come with me to look for you, but I wanted to find you myself, so we could talk.’

  Carly waved her hand as if swatting a fly—a Michelangelo fly. ‘Talk about what?’

  ‘About what I’ve been keeping from you this entire trip.’

  That got her attention. She pushed her margarita away. ‘And what’s that?’ A wife at home? She wouldn’t be surprised.

  He sighed and placed both arms on the table. Sheer vulnerability shone through his eyes. ‘I’m not a tour guide. In fact, the only tours I ever gave were on my family’s vineyard as a kid. Cavolo, I’m more interested in pruning grapevines and fermenting the perfect robust wine than remembering when St. Peter’s Basilica was built.’

  His words sobered her and she dropped the sarcastic façade. ‘So what are you doing here?’

  ‘My winery has had a few rough years since my father passed away. We had some droughts and problems with pests. We’re no longer able to pay the mortgage my father signed when he refinanced our land for more fields. My landlords are breathing down my throat. They already set up a new lease with someone who’s going to tear the whole place down. That’s why I had to leave the banquet the other night—to buy my winery more time.’

  Her margarita turned to acid in her stomach. ‘That’s horrible.’

  He rubbed his forehead. ‘And that’s not all. My mother has Alzheimer’s. She’s slipping away more and more every day, and the winery is the only thing that brings back her memories. If I take her away, she’ll spiral downhill quickly. I will have lost both my parents and everything they worked for.’

  The reality of his situation tore her apart. He was no longer an Italian playboy, but a hardworking family man trying his best to keep his life together. No wonder he cut it off between them. He had greater problems to deal with. ‘Why didn’t you tell me before?’