There was no reason for melancholy, he told himself, no cause for sadness. None. So why did he feel so bad? He had expected that Canadian girl to show up at the restaurant again with some transparent reason to see him. He had been dreading the inevitable confrontation, because he certainly didn’t want any involvement.
But niente. She was gone. For the first couple of nights after they had rescued Pinot, he had kept so sharp an eye on the restaurant door that the head waiter, Paolo, who normally never asked anything personal of his boss, said, “Capo, have you heard from Flavia lately?”
For Flavia was the only person anyone could imagine Sandro would miss or for whom he would ever be on the lookout. Flavia was the only person who had the power to dramatically change Sandro’s moods. Flavia was the only person who could make Sandro feel or appear vulnerable and everyone in the Totti family itself and in the Totti family’s employ knew as much.
“No,” he barked at Paolo, quickly apologizing. “Mi scusa, Paolo. No, I have not heard from Flavia. I am just worried about a little cat I thought I saw out there last night. Maybe he’s hungry.”
“But I thought you trapped that cat and that he was going to have a home?”
“Yes, yes, but this was another cat.”
What had this woman done to him? It was true that he now noticed things he hadn’t noticed before meeting her—stray cats, dogs that appeared to be without owners, injured pigeons in the piazzas of Rome—and he worried about them. He had never been one to be deliberately cruel to an animal before, but now they were on his radar in an unprecedented fashion. What had Sigrid and her exorbitant amount of empathy done to him? All the years with his gentle father hadn’t had this large an effect.
Still, the comment to Paolo had been a lie. He had not noticed a cat since that wonderful night with Sigrid. And he certainly did not want to discuss Flavia. She had been another of his father’s strays, a Christmas stray. Seven years ago, almost to the day, she had shown up at the restaurant, looking for work and claiming to be desperate. Sandro’s father had felt so sorry for her that he had hired her to help in the kitchen, though she had no resume, no references. Before long, she and Sandro had become an item. He turned his life over to her, trusting her with everything, including introducing her to a long-time family business rival at a party one night.
Enrico Della Lucia and Sandro had been boyhood acquaintances in Tuscany, where their fathers were competitors in the wine business. The Della Lucias ran a much bigger business than the Tottis, but they respected each other’s products and business methods. The two boys had gone to school together and played on local soccer teams together and gone on to university together in nearby Florence. Though not friends exactly, they had developed, like their fathers, a grudging respect and tolerance for each other.
They moved to Rome at the same time, both bored with life in the country. Rome was the place, they agreed, to be a bachelor. Meeting Flavia, though, had changed Sandro’s mind about that. Rome was the place to get married. He had even bought Flavia a ring and was preparing to propose on Christmas Eve, a year after they had met, a year after his father had opened up their lives to—unbeknownst to the Tottis—a conniving stray.
* * * *
Sandro never did get to propose, because Flavia dropped him a week before Christmas, announcing her engagement to Enrico. “I’m sorry, Sandro,” she said, archly, “but the Della Lucias have far more to offer. Why would I marry a millionaire, when I could marry a multi-millionaire?” The sting of that cold pronouncement still reverberated for Sandro, as did the cynicism and fear that Christmas had left behind. Flavia resigned from the restaurant and but for a mention or a photo or two in the gossip sections and society pages of newspapers he had not heard from her or Enrico again.
After Flavia, he had devoted himself to active bachelorhood in Rome and had made the decision that if he would marry it would be to have a family, to merge the family business with another, to get his parents off his back about grandchildren. It would not be for love because love was pointless and ultimately resulted in hurt and humiliation.
Though he had slept with many women, none had stayed in his mind past a night or two. None until that Canadian woman showed up and climbed a fence right onto his property and into his bed and right into his thoughts now, too, it seemed. Well, enough of that, Sandro. Time to take this Vespone back to the restaurant and get some administrative work done. Even if he wanted to see Sigrid, he admitted, he couldn’t, because he did not know the name of her B&B. He didn’t even know in which neighbourhood of Rome it was located and there were thousands of B&Bs in the city.
When Sandro returned to La Capanna, he was surprised to see his father there. “Ciao, papa,” he said, kissing him on both cheeks. “Why are you down from Tuscany?”
“There’s been a problem with our alarm system since last week, so Paolo called me to come and take care of it.”
“Why didn’t he talk to me about it?”
“He says he did. And he said that he brought it up with you again and you didn’t seem to know what he was talking about or have the slightest memory of his having tried to get your assistance with it. He says you have been horribly distracted and frankly, son, I have noticed it, too, just by talking to you on the phone. Is Flavia back in your life? Because I cannot think of anything else that would devastate and preoccupy you so…”
“No! Dio, papà! Why does everyone keep asking about Flavia? No, no Flavia. And I am not distracted or preoccupied or anything. I am fine. Now what about the alarm system? What is the problem, exactly?”
“You do not need to be so harsh with us. We only ask because we care.”
“I apologize. Now what is it about the alarm system?”
“It is not working properly and I’m rather surprised you have not noticed it yourself. You are in the restaurant every night. Have you not remarked that the alarm has sounded spontaneously three times this week and yet, in spite of that fact, the signal is not sent to the police station? This doesn’t seem likely to provide our business, our family, our neighbouring businesses or our customers much protection, or much peace. Does it to you?”
“Well no, papà, I am sorry but I noticed none of this.”
“The last time it worked properly was when I was here last week, that day we saw the little cat, the one you rescued. Do you remember we tested it that morning?”
“Yes, I do. And it hasn’t worked since?”
“No. So we just called a technician who looked at the wiring and said something had pulled one of the wires and the sensor box out of place. Because the fencing around the patio is covered in ivy and branches, the position of the wiring is not something that is easily noticeable. But these systems are very sensitive, of course, so I wondered if maybe when you were rescuing that cat you might have done something unintentionally. It was worth it, of course, but I would just like to understand what happened, so it won’t happen again. It will cost us a fair bit to have the system put properly in place again.”
For the first time in a week, Sandro smiled a real smile, not the fake one he managed for customers or staff or the pretty ladies who worked in the stores nearby. “I know what happened,” he told his father. “And I’ll make sure it never happens again.”
“What was it, Sandro?”
“I’ll tell you later. I’ll explain it all later. But I know exactly what happened.”
Chapter Five
Looking around the adoption centre inside the Torre Argentina cat sanctuary, Sigrid believed that this must have been why she met Sandro.
He was the one who handed me that pamphlet that night.
In a fit of despair she decided that she would not mope around Rome worrying about how hopeless she was with men. Two male-related disasters in a twelve-week time frame! She was going to do something useful. It was almost Christmas and helping others was the most important thing, whatever one’s religious beliefs.
With that in mind, she hopped on Guido la Vespa one afternoon and
introduced herself to the cat ladies, the gattare, at the shelter located beneath street level at the excavation site of several Roman Temples. The gattare did precisely the kind of volunteer work Sigrid did in Toronto, only with a much more beautiful backdrop. The shelter had an indoors with a welcome centre for visitors, cages for injured animals or those waiting to be spayed or neutered. It had an adoption centre with cats of all ages, sizes and colours.
And it had an outdoor section, around the ruins below street level, where the cats who had been spayed and neutered but were too feral for adoption lolled about, charmed tourists and Romans alike, and ate at the feeding stations situated among the ancient columns.
The ladies had greeted her warmly and complimented her Italian. “Yes,” they said, “We can always use volunteers, but the work is not glamorous. You will be cleaning litter boxes, giving insulin injections to diabetic cats, putting food out both indoors and outdoors, cleaning the dishes up afterward, grooming cats when needed and helping with transport of supplies and cats when necessary.”
“Sarei felice, I would be happy to do any and all of that,” Sigrid assured them. And she was. Christmas was one of the busiest times at any animal shelter. Sigrid knew this from experience. Not only did people go shopping for pets at Christmas, but tragically, people also abandoned pets they had been given during the holidays once they discovered that a pet is not a piece of furniture, but rather a sentient being requiring care and patience.
So this was how, a week before Christmas on a rainy, gray weekday morning, Sigrid found herself stringing up some extra decorations—a wreath and a Babbo Natale, the Italian equivalent of Santa—on the front door of the sanctuary’s greeting centre. She was having a heck of a time getting the wreath just right and it didn’t help that one of the outdoor cats had decided that the shoelaces on Sigrid’s Chuck Taylors made great toys.
“Careful, kitty,” she admonished. “I don’t want to step on you. Plus, you’re making it hard for me to concentrate.”
“You need to say that in Italian. He’s an Italian cat.”
Sigrid froze. That voice. She hadn’t even felt his presence behind her or heard him coming down the steps. He had just sort of appeared, as he had the night she met him. She was thrilled. And she was terrified. Dealing with the feelings Sandro inspired was more difficult than dealing with heartache. If only he would just stay away. And yet, she was happy he hadn’t.
She turned and faced him. Sandro was looking oddly vulnerable—again all in black but this time wearing a winter coat and with an elegantly-tied red scarf, a perfect festive touch, a nod to the season. His hair was wet from the weather and pasted to his cheeks, his lips sexier than she remembered. And oh, how she remembered. Before she went all mushy, she reminded herself of their last conversation and how unkind he had been, how insulting. Straightening up, she said, “You’re right. I’ll tell him that in Italian. Now, if you’ll allow me, I’d like to get back to my work.”
“I see you took my advice,” he said.
“What? About working here?”
“Yes.”
“Yes, well, it’s nearly Christmas and it is a good cause.”
“I have some news about Pinot you might like: his surgery went well and after a week in recovery at the animal hospital he is now in his new home and doing perfectly, all things considered. Thanks to what we did he can expect many more years of life, and a good life at that, not like the one he had on the street.”
“That’s wonderful news. Glad our little kitty amputee is doing well and getting the love he needs.” Sigrid was really quite happy about what Sandro had told her, but she didn’t want to let her guard down. “And if that’s what you’ve come to tell me, thank you. I’ve got to get back to hanging up Babbo Natale.”
“That’s not all I’ve come to tell you. It turns out that when you jumped the fence around La Capanna’s patio that night you did something to the alarm system. Because of you, we have had to get it all reset, which is costing a small fortune. My father was so worried about it he had to come down from Tuscany this week.”
“Oh my, I’m terribly sorry. But you know it was unintentional and for a good reason. You told me your father was very concerned about the cat so I’m sure he will understand. Please give him my sincere apologies.”
“You can apologize yourself, in person. In fact, I insist. Unless, that is, you want to get stuck with the bill for the work we have to get done.”
“You wouldn’t!”
“Yes, I would. I insist you come and apologize.”
“Fine. I remember where it is.” As though I could ever forget. “I’ll be there later today. Right now I have to work.”
“I’ll help you and we can go back together.”
“I don’t need help.”
“Yes, you do. Look what you’ve done to poor Babbo Natale.”
Sigrid realized she had stuck a nail right through his eye. “Oh! Poor Santa!”
Sandro grabbed the hammer from her. “Let me take care of it. Is there anything else you must do?”
“Yes, I have to clean a bunch of litter boxes.” She smiled. “Care to help me with that? If not, I insist that you go back to the restaurant and wait for me there.”
Sandro laughed. “Still the wildcat! All right, I will help you. I have never been afraid of any kind of work.”
When Sigrid brought Sandro into the shelter’s welcome area, she saw that while these gattare may have mostly been senior citizens, they all still knew a beautiful man when they saw one. Body language changed, tone of voice changed and girlish giggling was barely stifled as he greeted each of them with a smooth, “Piacere,” and a kiss on both cheeks. Great, thought Sigrid. Even after menopause, there is no respite from men.
“He’s going to help me,” she said.
The ladies stared in disbelief. Sigrid found that amusing. They obviously didn’t think it odd for someone like her to be cleaning litter boxes, but for a man who looked and dressed like Sandro to do so? Pazzo! Crazy.
Sandro dutifully helped her, stopping though, to stare at all the cats in cages in the adoption centre. “Poveri,” he said. “The poor little things.”
When it came time to leave, the gattare again all huddled about, watching Sandro and giggling, a couple of them even winking at Sigrid. One of them approached Sigrid and took her aside, conspiratorially. “This man likes you very, very much, Signora Sigrid.”
“No, no, he doesn’t. You don’t know what is happening here,” said Sigrid.
“Yes, yes, I do. And I assure you, this man is, how do you say in English, smitten with you.”
Sigrid laughed and waved her off. “No, listen. I have to get going. I will see you all soon. Ci vediamo, Signore.”
“Ci vediamo.” More giggles as she left with Sandro.
Once up on the via Florida, Sigrid put on her helmet and walked to where she had parked Guido la Vespa. “I’ll meet you there,” she said. “I’m bringing Guido, as lovely as your Lancia is.”
“By all means, bring your Vespa. I haven’t got my Lancia with me. I’ve brought my Vespone. Do you want to see it? I’ve just parked it over here.”
Sigrid followed and saw a larger version of her bike, tan in colour. “It’s great,” she said. “Have you named it?”
Sandro shook his head. “Crazy girl. No, men don’t name their motorbikes. And most women don’t, either, just crazy Canadian girls. Anyway, now you have seen a Vespone, or ‘big wasp,’ in English. And you know that ‘Vespa’ means ‘wasp,’ don’t you?”
“Yes, I knew that. They were so named because supposedly that’s what they look like, wasps.”
“I can’t tell you anything, can I?”
“Obviously you can, since you’re forcing me out to the restaurant to apologize to your father in person, for something I’m sure he knows I didn’t mean to do and was done entirely in good cause.”
Sandro let out a sigh and put his hands out in a gesture of surrender. “Okay, look, just follow me on Guido. I do
n’t want to fight.”
The sight of Sandro from behind was distracting. He certainly looked enticing, no matter the environment or the angle—on a bike, in a restaurant, in a car, at an animal hospital or cat shelter, in bed…She managed to concentrate enough on road safety, though, to follow him through the route of winding back alleys and Roman boulevards he took to get to La Capanna.
Once there, they parked their bikes and removed their helmets, facing each other behind the patio where they had first met.
“I can’t believe it, Sandro.”
“What? You can’t believe what?”
“How come you don’t have helmet hair? I mean, your hair looks great in spite of the rain and the fact that you’ve had your helmet on.”
“Too bad I can’t say the same for you,” he replied, his mouth twitching into a smile. “You should see yourself right now.”
“Not sure I want to. Is there a ladies’ room in the restaurant? I don’t want to frighten your dad and if I look that terrible he might…”
“Salve.” A handsome, older man had stepped outside the patio into the laneway. Sigrid knew right away who it was and all of a sudden had an idea of how distinguished Sandro would look in forty years. “Who is your lovely friend, mio figlio?”
Sigrid began madly ruffling her hair and trying to duck behind Sandro.
“Stop, stop, you look lovely my dear. My name is Giuseppe Totti. I am Sandro’s father. Piacere,” he said, bowing so slightly and extending a hand to Sigrid.
“Piacere. My name is Sigrid O’Herlihy.”
Giuseppe Totti began laughing. “Oh, I’m afraid that is difficult for Italians.”
Sandro stepped in. “Just try ‘Sigrid,’ papà.”
“And how do you know this lovely woman? Americana, si?”
“No, she’s Canadian. And I met her the night I—well we, actually—trapped that gray cat that had you so worried.”
“Davvero? Really? Well please, come in, come in and be seated. Let’s have some coffee and biscotti. It’s not too late for a little more breakfast, is it?”
Amore and Pinot Grigio - a Guido la Vespa Christmas Tale [Guido la Vespa] (BookStrand Publishing Mainstream) Page 5