Flipped (Better With Prosecco Book 1)

by Lisa-Marie Cabrelli

  They pulled up to a row of coral colored townhouses and he spotted Sara standing outside the front gate on the driveway, a bundle in her arms and a wide grin on her face.

  “He’s here!” she called behind her, and a sturdy, robust woman emerged from the bottom level of the house followed by an even more sturdy, robust and older man. They, too, were grinning like mad people, and Dean felt his face light up in return. He had a soft spot for Sara. She’d been with Adam a long time so she felt very much like a sister to him. He hadn’t realized how much he missed her until that moment.

  The limo pulled slowly to a stop, the driver yanking the parking brake on the steep hill, and Dean climbed out of the car.

  Sara passed the bundle to the woman who must be her mother and barreled into Dean’s chest. He dropped his hand luggage on the road so he could give her a proper hug.

  “Are you okay, Dean? I’ve been so worried about you since Adam mentioned you were ill. How do you feel? Have you eaten? Mama made a spread. You must be starving after that long journey. Come and see your godson!” Adam laughed at her enthusiasm as Sara pulled him toward the others. “Mama, Atillio, this is Dean McLean, one of my favorite people on the planet. Dean, this is my Mama, you can call her Stella, and this is Atillio. Atillio is the sindaco of Borgotaro. That’s like the Mayor in the US. He’s a big fan of Rolling Thunder.” Sara took the bundle back from her mother and peeled back the blanket to reveal a pink and perfect face, a miniature replica of Adam, fast asleep. “And this…,” she said, “is Andrew. Isn’t he gorgeous?”

  Dean leaned over and brushed a feather light finger across his flushed cheek so as not to wake him. He had visited Sara in the hospital when baby Andrew had been born, and he had looked sort of like an alien. Now he looked like a baby from a TV commercial; all fat, juicy cheeks and long, black eyelashes. How could Adam be missing this? “He is certainly that Sara. He was gorgeous in LA, and now he’s even gorgeouser. Italy is obviously good for him.”

  Sara and her mother exchanged a quick look, but Dean pretended not to notice. It wasn’t his place to ask why Sara she was still here if Adam didn’t want to tell him. But it made him sad to think that they might be having problems. Sara was the best thing that had ever happened to Adam, and he was a better man when he was with her. He was crazy to be so far away from his beautiful wife and growing child. Dean felt a lump in his throat. If he had a family as perfect as this, he wouldn’t let them out of his sight for a minute. He turned his attention toward greeting the two older people. He put his hand out toward Stella, but she batted it away and stepped forward to pull him into a tight hug; so tight he had trouble catching his breath.

  “You are so very welcome to our casa, Deany.” She was so short that her head was tucked neatly into his armpit and he smiled at the sound of her daughter’s pet name for him being spoken in her Italian accent. It was like the added “E” sound on the end simply wasn’t enough vowels, so she added another; the word coming out as “Deenia.” It could be worse.

  “Thank you so much for having me, Stella. It is kind of you to allow me into your home during such a busy time with your grandson and all.”

  “Pah!!” She stepped out of the hug and smacked his arm with surprising force. “You are family, no? There is always room for family. Family should always be first. Right, Sara?” She shot a look in Sara’s direction from under her huge monobrow. “Family should be together.”

  “Ma…” Sara shifted the baby in her arms but didn’t look up.

  Dean could see her discomfort and broke the tension by turning to Atillio and shaking his hand. “So, from the little I saw on the drive here, you have a wonderful town to look after. It’s a beautiful village; you must be proud to be the leader.”

  The old man’s face broke into a smile, his lips stretching from deep within each plump cheek. He reminded Dean a little of Yoda. His head seemed to sink into his round body and his collar poked into the bottom of his chin. Dean imagined that he was probably an athlete in his youth, perhaps a rugby player, or more likely a sturdy defender on a soccer team, considering they were in Italy. His grip was firm and enthusiastic; his hands felt callused against Dean’s palm. This man was a hard-worker. Dean liked him immediately.

  “Thank you, son. Thank you. I have so much love for my village and the people, and I have so much love for you. You are very good in acting. Your movies are happy movies. We have seen them all here in Borgotaro.”

  Anxiety flickered in Dean’s stomach. “You’ve had my movies here? People here have seen them?”

  “Of course we have seen them. We are so proud to have the Producer of the film as one of Borgotaro’s sons. We show them all.”

  “One of the Producers?” He was confused. There were only three producers, all of them Hollywood big-wigs. None from Borgotaro as far as he knew.

  Sara stepped forward and put a hand on his arm. “He means Adam, Dean. Adam may have given the impression that he was the Producer. We were visiting here when Rolling Thunder Two came out a few years ago, and he presented it at the local theatre. There was some confusion from the townspeople as to his role, so he just told them all he was a Producer. You know how he is.” She turned to Atillio. “Adam isn’t the Producer, Til, remember?”

  “Of course, of course.” Atillio’s arms waved around in the air as if there were mosquitos attacking. “I say producer, you say director.”

  “Well, he wasn’t the director either,” grumbled an irritated Dean. What happened to, ‘No one will know you, Dean. You’ll be invisible there, Dean.’ Adam had known he wouldn’t be invisible, but he’d sent him here anyway. That was annoying.

  Atillio grabbed the suitcase at Dean’s feet and took Dean by the arm with his firm grip, guiding him towards the townhouse. “So you have wonderful timing, Dean. You see, next week starts the tourist season in our humble town, and we have parties, big parties. Will you host the first party for us?”

  Sara jogged up behind them patting the baby on the back as she ran and he gurgled. “Til means events, not parties Deany. They have events in the squares. Like concerts and stuff, you know? The first one is next week, and Atillio was wondering if you wouldn’t mind opening the season. Kind of like a grand marshal kind of thing, you know? I asked him to wait for you to settle in before he asked you, but…” She shot Atillio a playful scowl.

  Dean stopped in his tracks, Atillio took a few seconds to realize they were now standing still and jolted to a stop in surprise. Dean turned to the three of them, desperation molded onto his face. “I was kind of hoping to go incognito while I was here. I was hoping we just wouldn’t tell anyone it was me and I could maybe enjoy a little quiet time?” Stella and Atillio exchanged an amused look and Sara didn’t even bother trying to hide her giggle.

  “How do you propose to do that?” Sara said, her giggle infecting Stella who gave a tiny snort of mirth.

  He felt his heart sinking. It was just as he had suspected. All of the people of Borgotaro knew who he was, and next they’d be asking what he was doing here. What was wrong with him. This was not going as planned. He hadn’t been here for more than a few minutes, and already he realized that he might have been played. Why would Adam send him here at all?

  “Sara, Adam said it would be fine here. That it was a small town and no one would know who I was. No one would recognize me.”

  Sara’s smile dropped from her face. “Well, there was your first mistake, Deany. Listening to Adam.”

  “What do you mean? Why wouldn’t I listen to Adam?” Dean looked around in confusion, but the other two wouldn’t meet his eye.

  “Since when did Adam start telling the truth about anything?” Sara sighed and shifted the bundle in her arms; the baby hiccupped from within his cozy cocoon. “You’re a really sweet guy Dean, but sometimes you can be blind where Adam is concerned.”

  Dean felt his stomach drop. What had Adam sent him into? He knew Adam had been having some marital difficulties, but he’d decided to stay out of it because he di
dn’t think he could be a neutral party, he loved them equally. Now it sounded like maybe their problems were worse than he’d thought, and Adam had dropped him right into the middle of it.

  “Sara, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean…”

  Sara took a deep breath and pulled the baby closer to her chest. “No - I’m sorry, Dean. It has nothing to do with you. I told Adam that we mustn’t bring you into it. I almost said no to your visit, but it sounded so good, having you here with us. Anyway….” She smiled weakly at her mother who patted her on the arm. “Let’s go inside and get you settled. Til, how about we give Dean a few days to adjust before we start throwing gigs his way, huh?”

  “Gigs?” Atillio said, “I don’t know this word, gigs.”

  Dean felt awful. Here he was worried about being recognized when Sara was struggling with some real problems. He crossed to her and pulled her into a hug. “I don’t know what’s happening with you two, Sara, but as you know, I love you both. I’m not taking sides if there are truly sides to be taken. Okay? And I’m sorry I didn’t call you sooner. I should have. I just thought that you both wanted time and space. It didn’t occur to me that you might be struggling and that’s pretty crappy of me. I’ll be a better friend now I’m here. I promise.”

  Sara smiled at him, although her eyes were shiny with pooled tears. “No, I’m sorry Deany. This is a terrible way to welcome you to what is supposed to be a respite of peace. Why don’t we have a cup of coffee and then you can go out for a walk and explore a bit? This mountain air will do you good, no doubt. You can keep your head down, and maybe you won’t be accosted... if you’re lucky.” She jabbed an elbow into his side and grinned at him. “Want to carry Andrew, and I’ll show you to your room?”

  Dean accepted the warm, wriggling bundle. Looking down at that perfect, little face, he felt a mixture of crazy gratitude that he was here and terrible guilt that he'd been such a bad friend. He should have called Sara sooner. Once again he felt that uneasy edge of anxiety creeping in. Was it Hollywood that was making him so self-involved? Was his job changing who he was? He vowed to use this time in Borgotaro to figure out what this constant anxiety was all about. Was his body trying to send him a message? If so, what was it?

  11

  Hazel

  Hazel managed three more steps up the hill before she had to stop and rest again. Her calves were burning from the steep climb and her hair had tumbled from its carefully arranged chignon and was now plastered to the sides of her cheeks like sideburns. Boy did she regret these heels as a travel choice. This hill was like Mount Everest, and she was pulling two wheelie cases the size of small children. She looked at the directions on the paper again to make sure she hadn’t made a mistake. If she had to walk one step further, she might possibly sit down right here on the hill and cry.

  The cafe guy had agreed that it was an easy walk, right? She’d asked him that specific question. Is it an easy walk? And he’d agreed. At least she thought he’d agreed. He’d nodded enthusiastically, anyway. She felt like she had been walking for hours. She hadn’t even registered her surroundings because she’d been way too busy looking down, trying to figure out the map. She was also fiddling with her stupid phone which refused to get a signal or connect, even though it was telling her quite frantically, well, frantically in her mind anyway, that she had messages. They were probably messages from Liz and maybe from slimy Samuel, and she couldn’t get any of them. She cursed the cafe guy, the absent taxi drivers, her mother and anyone else she could think of. Did they have any idea how hard it was to walk on cobblestone streets in heels while trying to work your phone and dragging two fat suitcases that kept nipping painfully at your heels?

  Hazel confirmed that she had the right house, number “#22”, and was admiring the large garden and imposing iron gate in front of her when she heard Indigo’s voice.

  “Beep, beep.”

  She couldn’t possibly be hearing Indigo’s voice because Indigo wasn’t here. She was coming next week. They’d discussed it in depth and decided that it would be best if Hazel came on ahead. She’d have the opportunity to scout out what work needed to be done and make some plans before she had to deal with her crazy mother. But, here she came, driving up into the little driveway at the foot of the fence. Wait! She was driving a car. A car that could have picked her up at the train station a half hour ago.

  “Beep, beep?” Hazel released the handles of her large suitcases and put her sweaty hands on her hips. This day just kept getting suckier and suckier. “Beep, beep, Mother? Seriously? You knew what time I was getting in. You had all of my travel details. If you were here, then why didn't you pick me up at the station? And what are you doing here, anyway?”

  Indigo flung open the car door, and her peasant skirt billowed out from the seat like an escaping bird. “Oh, I deleted those emails you sent me, Hazel. They're always so boring. They’re full of numbers and details and blah, blah, blah.” She jumped out of the little Fiat Panda, presumably rented, and floated over to give Hazel a bone-crushing hug. Hazel struggled in her grasp, but Indigo ignored her efforts to escape. “I left you five messages, sweetie,” she said.

  Hazel extricated herself from her mother’s patchouli grasp and looked down at her phone in dismay. Yep - five messages. So nothing from Liz or Slimy Samuel after all. Just her crazy mother leaving her crazy messages. She sighed and repeated, “What are you doing here, Mother? I thought we’d agreed. You’d give me some space to figure some stuff out first, and you would come next week.”

  “Oh but that just seemed so grumpy of you, baby. I knew you probably didn’t mean it. You’ve just been upset with losing that stupid job and everything. Of course, you wanted me to be here for you. I mean you haven’t seen your Mama in two weeks!”

  “It’s been one week, Mother. And I did mean it.” She sighed and looked up at the rusting, iron gate. Creeping vines covered the towering, steel columns. A rusty mailbox was half-secured to one of the stone pillars, dangling dangerously and sadly while spilling wet, sales brochures into the gravel ditch at the edge of the tarmac road. There was a huge padlock on a thick, iron chain which held the gate together. It looked as if it had been there for years and didn't look as though anyone had ever opened it. She turned to Indigo, “So why haven’t you been inside yet?”

  Indigo picked up her cases from the hill and started to pull them away from the iron gate. The house sat on a large corner lot, and she passed the car and followed the tall wall toward the rear of the house. “Oh, I’ve been inside. I just went the easy way. There’s a backdoor that’s open. No one has that key,” she nodded toward the iron padlock.

  “No one has the key?” Hazel called after her and then ran to catch up, swearing under her breath as her heel caught in the ditch and she felt her ankle twist. “How long has this house been empty?”

  “Only since your Daddy’s cousin died a few weeks ago. She used the back door too. Apparently she locked up the front gate years ago. She was quite the loner it seems.”

  “Who was this person, Mother, and why did she leave the house to you? Can you explain all this to me?”

  “Sure, honey bunny. But let’s get you a cup of tea first shall we?”

  As they climbed the crumbling, brick steps up to the back door, Hazel felt a sense of foreboding creep into her body. This house was huge. When her mother had said an Italian house, she had pictured a cute little cottage somewhere in a field surrounded by vineyards. She had not imagined a villa.

  The back door opened directly into the kitchen. Leading out of the kitchen into the rest of the house was a long hallway. The ceiling was at least nine feet above her head, and she gasped in delight. Delicate floral frescoes, faded but beautiful, covered the entire hallway ceiling and she could see that they stretched into the rooms to either side.

  “Let’s have a tour!” Indigo said as she unceremoniously let go of the handles of Hazel’s suitcases and they thumped to the floor. “This is the kitchen. It might need some work.”

  H
azel looked around, and her foreboding swallowed her. This was a kitchen? It must have been last updated in the 1940’s. The cabinetry was a peeling blue laminate, and doors were swinging on hinges. The stove looked like some ancient torture device, and the fridge was as small as the one she used to have in her dorm room. But, Hazel also immediately picked out the gems. Probably the original dark green and black, mosaic floor felt cool under her stocking feet; the heels hadn’t made it past the door. The centerpiece of the kitchen was a large, battered, but well-loved, oak table that looked to seat at least eight. A deep, white porcelain sink sat below an expansive window that looked out over a giant fig tree in the back garden. There were treasures here. Hazel felt the first stirrings of excitement.

  The rest of the house was in pretty much the same state - which was basically a disaster full of sweet surprises. A layer of dust covered every inch of the grand living room, but an imposing marble-fronted fireplace made Hazel drool. She itched to rip the sheets off of the covered furniture to discover what was beneath, but she had plenty of time for that. There was a crystal chandelier in the ornate dining room, three oversize bedrooms on the second floor, and a third, yes a third floor, with two more bedrooms and an additional bathroom. Not only that, but there was a small staircase leading to a real, honest-to-goodness, widow’s walk. This wasn’t a house - it was a mansion. And it was going to be a lot of work. Hazel wasn’t sure how much cash her relative had left in that bank account her mother had mentioned, but she would need to sit her mother down and have a serious conversation about allocating funds. This house was going to take a lot more than she had initially imagined.