Wanderlost

by Jen Malone

  Although speaking of eating, maybe there is something I can be honest with Sam about without putting Elizabeth’s future in jeopardy. We pause on one of a hundred different bridges that all look alike, arching over a canal. This one even has a gondola passing underneath. I wonder if those guys ever get tired of striped shirts and “O Sole Mio”? Sam leans over the railing to watch the boat disappear underneath the bridge. When he straightens he catches sight of my expression and his eyes go wide.

  “Uh-oh. I don’t really like that look.”

  I sigh. “We need to talk.”

  “Four worst words in the English language.” He leans over the railing again, I think to buy time. When he looks at me again, he’s clearly hurt. “Don’t say it. Please. I know I’m too young for you by some people’s definition, but I don’t care about that. Nobody here cares about that. The past few days have been . . . and I just . . .” His eyes rest on my lips for a second before he jerks them back to the water below us. He whispers, “Just please don’t, okay?”

  He thinks I’m putting a stop to this? Is he crazy?! And did he just give me a whole speech about how much he doesn’t want to stop either? My heart does a little salsa dance around my rib cage and I can’t keep the smile off my face.

  “It’s not that,” I say.

  He takes a deep breath and exhales. Then his eyes go wide. “Did I just make a total fool out of myself? Because sometimes I get ahead of myself. I’m not talking about telling someone I love them at the end of my very first phone call with that person or anything on that level of ridiculous or anything, but . . .”

  I punch him in the arm, still smiling. Then I grab his shirt in my fist and tug him in for a kiss. A kiss I hope conveys how very much I do not think he made a fool of himself. And how very much I do not want to stop kissing him. At all.

  “Wow,” he says when we break apart. “Let’s have this talk more often.”

  I laugh, then grow quiet. Sam tilts my chin up with his finger and says, “Hey. Hey, you can talk to me. About anything. I hope you know I’m not just here for the kissing. Although I’m not not here for the kissing, because that’s pretty great too.” He chuckles and brushes his lips across mine, whisper soft. He moves his lips to my ear and whispers, “But not just the kissing. Promise. Talk to me.”

  God, this has to go well because if I mess things up with this guy . . . plus, his reaction is going to tell me everything I need to know about how I can expect him to react to the much, much bigger lies if I can ever bring myself to confess to those someday far, far in the future.

  Sam steps back and I play with the hem of my T-shirt as I finally work up the nerve to say, “Um, so, I, well . . .” I keep my eyes fixed on the water below us. Another gondola passes under our bridge and a tourist riding in the bow of the boat snaps a photo. I look away, at Sam, whose eyes are fixed on me. “I haven’t been completely honest with you about something.”

  I’m scared to even utter those words, knowing how strongly he feels about lying. The last thing I expect is for him to say, “I know. I already know.”

  TWENTY-THREE

  Sam knows. He knows?

  “You . . . you do?” I sputter. What does this mean? Is he saying he knows I’m not Elizabeth? Does he know I’m not a college graduate? Does he—

  “It was totally obvious from the first day.”

  The first day. What the heck is he talking about? I must look confused because he puts his hand on my arm and says, “Look, I know you don’t speak Spanish, Dimple.”

  The breath goes out of me in a whoosh. Oh. Spanish. Right.

  Wait.

  “You do? How?”

  “Oh, please. You never reacted when I talked to Bento, never joined in. Then you confirmed it for me when you had me write out the directions to Bento for the Sound of Music tour.”

  And here I thought I’d been all subtle about that.

  “I figured you were embarrassed, though why you lied on your application is beyond me. Mom was desperate for a guide and that would never have put you out of the running. To be honest, her choices were you or . . . you.”

  I hang my head and pretend to be ashamed of my résumé fraud. “I’m sorry. I don’t know why I did that. Your mom mentioned knowing a second language as being a job requirement, so I just checked the box. I didn’t think it meant the driver would only speak Spanish.”

  “Don’t worry about it. Bento’s totally cool with everything. He really likes you.”

  “He does?”

  “How could he not?” Sam murmurs. He catches my eye and then ducks his head, and the words “I really like you too” hang in the air between us, even though he doesn’t say them out loud.

  I’m so flustered I forget where I’d been going with this line of conversation and say, “Yeah, Bento’s great. Do you happen to know where he goes when he’s not driving us? Like today, for instance, when we don’t need the bus. What do you think he’s doing? Is it rude of us not to invite him along to do stuff?”

  Sam snorts. “I wouldn’t worry about Bento. You know that expression ‘a girl in every port’? That’s what Bento has. Only in his case they’re men.”

  “Oh. Ooooooooh.”

  “Yeah, oh,” says Sam, waggling his eyebrows up and down.

  “Okay, then. Well, his secret is safe with me,” I say.

  “Pretty positive he’s not keeping anything secret. But I’m sure he’ll be glad to have your blessing.” He gives me a conspiratorial wink. “You, on the other hand, are keeping secrets. And yours is safe with me.”

  I bring my eyes up to meet his. They’re staring back at me with such complete trust that I consider saying “Thanks” and calling it a confession, but it isn’t the one I need to make. Because I really like him too. Oh, and plus, we’re in Italy and the pasta dishes look unbelievably amazing since, hello, it’s Italy. I’d be lying if I said that wasn’t factoring in here.

  I drop my eyes again.

  “I wasn’t talking about the Spanish. Even though it’s a huge relief to not have to try to hide that from you anymore. I think Bento was at the end of his acting rope, so it was only a matter of time.” I manage a laugh, but Sam is now studying me with scrunched eyebrows.

  “If it wasn’t the Spanish, what was it?”

  I blush. “So, the thing is, you have to understand that you’re super worldly and all and I didn’t want you to think I was just some typical American girl from the suburbs who doesn’t appreciate foreign culture.”

  I look at Sam, but he just waits for me to continue.

  I take a deep breath. “I don’t have celiac,” I rush out.

  “You . . . ? What?”

  “I don’t have celiac disease. I’m just a ridiculously picky eater and I was embarrassed, but there was no way in hell I was eating goose brains or whatever else was on that menu and I didn’t want you to think I was some brat, so I lied.”

  “You made up a disease because you didn’t want to tell me you don’t like Austrian food?”

  “Um, yes?”

  I expect him to get angry or maybe roll his eyes, but instead he blinks at me a few times and then starts laughing. Loudly. A few passersby glance our way.

  “Sam!” I tug on his sleeve. “Sam, you’re making a scene.”

  “I’m making a scene?” he says between gulps for air. “Are you telling me we gave a waiter in arguably the best restaurant in Vienna a total line about you not being able to eat gluten? That is priceless.”

  I don’t think it’s that funny. But his laughter is kind of contagious and at least he’s not mad, so that’s something. In fact, he’s handling this all surprisingly well. He says he has trust issues over the stuff with his mom lying to him about his dad, but wow. He’s being very mellow about all of this. I help him straighten up and hold him by the arms as he collects himself.

  He swipes at a tear of laughter in the corner of his eye. “You are completely adorable, do you know that? When I read your résumé back at the office, I thought you were som
e classic overachiever, a Goody-Two-shoes know-it-all who’d be bossy and snobby. And then we talked on the phone and you weren’t like that at all. At all. I don’t know if you felt it too, but it was like we just . . . clicked.”

  I nod.

  Sam bites his lip. “As long as we’re making confessions, I have one. I wasn’t annoying my mom around the office. In fact, I had to spend three hours begging her to send me here instead of a home health aide. All because I was dying to meet you in person.”

  “You were?” A laugh tickles my insides and burbles out of me, but Sam is very serious as he tucks a strand of hair behind my ear.

  “Yep. Best use of three hours ever, too. C’mere.”

  He tucks me under his arm and gazes down at me. “You are so cute.” His finger hooks beneath my chin again and he tilts it up. His presses his lips against mine and I happy-sigh into them.

  His reaction to my confession is not at all what I expected. But I will for sure take it.

  “Is there anything else I need to know?” he asks, breaking away but not releasing me. “Are you actually a spy for MI6? Part of the Witness Protection Program? Any other dark secrets hiding in your closet?”

  Um . . .

  I shake my head. “Not a one,” I say, keeping my eyes on his lips.

  Okay, so in spite of all the happy feels I’m having, underneath it all, the avocado pit is still there. Which I sort of suspected would be the case. On the upside, Sam seems to roll with things pretty well. Maybe I can find some way to confess to him once we’re back home. Maybe he won’t see a need to tell his mom everything. He’d have to really like me a lot for that, but that could totally happen, right? All’s well that ends well? And at that point, this whole trip will be a (hopefully) happy memory in our rearview mirrors.

  It could happen.

  Right?

  TWENTY-FOUR

  Aside from Emma looking ridiculous in the glittery mask she bought in a street market and insisted on wearing nonstop, Venice was a hit. Three days of wandering churches and museums and piazzas and strolling along canals. And pizza! And pasta! All things I can now safely eat out in the open, versus PowerBars in the confines of a ladies’ room stall.

  But now we’ve left all the mystery of the foggy city behind for sparkly sunshine on the Mediterranean and a couple of quiet days of lounging in the small hill towns of Cinque Terre.

  Cinque Terre is really five towns (hence the name, which in Italian means—drumroll, please—“five towns.” Well, “lands,” actually, but same difference) connected by train and mountain passes. There are no cars allowed so we had to leave Bento behind in La Spezia and hop a train for this stretch of the journey. Thankfully Sam was along to help us navigate buying tickets and show us where to get off, because I may be getting better when there’s a driver escorting me door to door, but there’s nothing like an Italian train station to put someone in her place.

  The towns are all small collections of brightly colored villas built into the terraced hillsides. The best part about Cinque Terre is that you can soak up tons of atmosphere by barely moving. You can pretty much explore the entire town of Vernazza, where we’re staying, in under an hour, which means we have some much-needed lazy, hazy summer days of relaxation in our future.

  I’m thinking it might be my new favorite (I know!) as I stretch my legs out to the side of the café table. I close my eyes and tilt my face up to catch the warmth of the morning sun.

  Now this is the life.

  A shock of cold hits my back and I jump ten feet in the air, knocking my chair over and nearly falling on top of it myself, if not for the strong arms that catch me. A slew of ice cubes tumble out the back of my shirt.

  “Sam Bellamy!” I screech.

  Emma, who is (or was, that is) seated beside me, tsk-tsks him. “You are a wicked boy, Sam.”

  He grins at her and kicks aside a few cubes. “Emma, my capacity for tomfoolery is unsurpassed.”

  I snort and punch his arm a little more aggressively than I intended. He yelps and rubs it. “Hey, I was just trying to help wake you up. I thought you might be sleepy after all that hiking yesterday.”

  Sam, Mr. Fenton, Emma, Mary, and I walked the two hours of hillside trails carved between Vernazza and Monterosso and then caught the train back. I’m feeling those climbs today, but I can’t exactly complain about my stiffness if the people three times my age aren’t. So much for my stereotype about frail, helpless senior citizens just waiting at death’s doorstep.

  “It’s Italy. I’m certain I can find some espresso somewhere around here to help with the waking-up part,” I say.

  “Yeah, but with all the cream and sugar you add, I’m not sure there’s any room for caffeine in those tiny cups.”

  I narrow my eyes at him and he laughs again and pulls a chair out for his grandmother, who has been hovering quietly behind him. Luckily for Sam’s other arm, Mr. Fenton approaches the table then.

  “Pesto focaccia, anyone?” he asks. He’s juggling a giant pizza-sized piece of flatbread.

  “For breakfast?” Emma asks.

  “Local delicacy. Don’t think they’re too particular on when you enjoy it.”

  “At least he didn’t bring one with anchovies. That’s the other local delicacy,” adds Mary from her seat next to Emma.

  “So’s limoncello,” says Hank, joining our group, plopping into a seat and pulling Maisy onto his lap. “Don’t y’all ask me how I know that one.”

  He winces and shakes aspirin from a bottle into his palm before passing the container to Maisy. Oh great. Hank and Maisy, hangover version. That should be super fun on our boat-ride outing this morning.

  “Okay, guys,” I say. “You have thirty minutes for breakfast and then we need to meet the charter boat at the end of the dock. I’d say to allow about seven minutes or so to walk there. I clocked it yesterday when I confirmed the booking.”

  Look at me, all fancy tour guide. I’m definitely getting the hang of things. I even remembered to walk at senior-citizen speed when I timed the commute.

  “Better leave now, then,” Hank says, lifting Maisy back up and setting her on her feet. “Not moving too fast at the moment. I thought all those Lone Star beers I enjoy back home would have meant I could keep up with the shots they were pouring last night, but hooooo-ey!”

  They wander away, oblivious to our laughter.

  Thirty minutes later we catch up with our Texans on the boat dock. The water below us is the kind of blue-green you only see in the artificial waterfalls at minigolf courses and it glimmers in the bright sunshine. Even this early in the day the deck of the boat we step onto feels deliciously warm beneath my newly bare feet. We settle into seats on the small fishing boat we’ve chartered for the day. Our captain, who introduces himself as Marcello, looks like a crusty old seaman in a windbreaker and a floppy hat, but his smile is wide and genuine as he welcomes us.

  I don’t really have high hopes for enjoying the fishing portion of the morning, but after so many hours spent driving on this trip, being out on the water feels like freedom. Marcello pulls away from the dock and aims us along the coastline. We follow the curve of the coast for a while and I close my eyes, soaking up the sun like a lizard on a rock. When I inhale the pure sea air, it fills my body.

  This moment. Right here. This is the one I’ll remember when I think back on this trip.

  I open my eyes to find Sam looking at me. He smiles his yummy just-for-me smile.

  Perfection.

  And then Dolores throws up.

  Chaos ensues as several people jump up at once, sending the little boat listing to one side. Dolores immediately bursts into tears and Sam races to her side to comfort her.

  Marcello wastes no time dipping a bucket into the sea to fill with water and producing a rag to clean the mess. Lucky tour guide me, I get the honors. This was so not in the brochure.

  Though I do feel awful for Dolores. I can’t tell if her tears are from discomfort or embarrassment, but with the way she’s
clutching her stomach, it’s clear she can’t continue. When I finish cleaning up and swishing the rag clean, I move next to Marcello.

  “Short of turning around, is there anywhere you could drop the two of us for the next few hours and then pick us up on your way back?”

  I’m a little nervous about being stranded alone with Dolores since she’s the one on this tour I’m most intimidated by. I love Mr. Fenton and Mary and Emma. Hank is maybe not the most PC of individuals (by a long shot!) but he and Maisy are off in their own hormone-filled world and are generally harmless. Dolores, though? She’s a tough nut to crack, even if she seems much more content now that she has her grandson by her side. Too bad content and engaged with our group are two very different things. Except what kind of tour guide—much less person—would I be if I left her to her own devices in this state? I’m sure Sam would do it, but I know he’s been looking forward to the boat trip and I don’t want him to have to miss out. I can take one for the team. That’s my job and I’m getting pretty okay with doing my job, if I say so myself.

  “Si, si. We have bellissimo beach near Riomaggiore. Few minutes by boat.” Marcello turns the boat back toward land and aims us at another terraced town with houses stacked on top of one another up into the mountains.

  I fill Sam in on the plan, who in turn whispers it to Dolores. She nods, still swiping at her eyes with a handkerchief Mr. Fenton produced.

  A few minutes later Marcello pulls alongside a tiny stretch of rocks that form a deserted beach. The mountainside comes right to the edge of the water, surrounding it on three sides with cliffs of jagged rock. To our left, there is a waterfall spilling over the top and into the sea below. It’s breathtaking.

  When Marcello has gotten as close as he can without bottoming out, he cuts the engine and he and Sam hop out and gently pull the boat in until only their knees are submerged in the ocean. Then Sam does something better than one thousand of Mr. Darcy’s Pride and Prejudice proposals. He carries his grandmother to shore. Like, in his arms. Total swoon. When he sets her down on the rocky beach, it looks as though she’d like to kiss the ground. Me, I’d like to kiss Sam. I hop out behind them and splash over, which is not easy with the slippery rocks below.