Madalina rolled her eyes. “Wheesht.”
“I wish you’d stop doing that,” I muttered. “You make me feel stupid.”
“That is because you are stupid, Princess Grace. You do not carry your passport in your purse.”
“I know that. I made a bad decision today, okay? I didn’t put my money belt on this morning.”
“Money belt? Wheesht. Who needs a money belt? Carry it in your bra. That is why we wear them, yes?”
I eyed her querulously. “I’m not as blessed as you are in that area, Madalina. My passport wouldn’t fit in my bra.”
“Hmm,” she grunted, noncommittally.
The officer nodded, eyes lighting up, clearly understanding we were discussing some of his favorite female body parts. I couldn’t afford to snap at Madalina, though. Whether her querulousness was real or inferred, she was going above and beyond the call of duty to help me, and I was not going to burn any bridges right now if I could help it. I kept my eyes on my hands in my lap, not wanting to make eye contact with the leering officer. My palms were swathed in what appeared to be cheesecloth, rather than first aid gauze and I snickered. Of course it was cheesecloth. We were at a bakery.
There seemed to be no more questions forthcoming, but when I looked up, they guy was just sitting there, his eyes making a circuitous route between Madalina and me. Apparently, he was doing his own analytical research on the varieties of the female form.
“Are we finished with the report yet?” I asked briskly, resisting the urge to cross my arms. Or make the sign of the devil horns.
Madalina reached for the officer’s cup and saucer without asking him if he was finished, loaded it onto the tray with the first aid paraphernalia, and turned to go back inside, leaving me alone with the heavy-lidded man across from me.
Taking the not-so-subtle hints from both of us, he rose, brushed his hands together, and shoved the notepad back into his shirt pocket. His eyes never leaving my face, he stretched lazily, his chest expanding, biceps flexing against the pale blue cuffs of his shirt sleeves. I was not about to acknowledge the not-so-subtle hint he was making.
“I come. Look to you,” he said, his English almost unintelligible, but his roving eyes filling in the blanks of his intended message. Amazed at his tenacity, I simply had no words, so I turned my head away, pretending I hadn’t understood him. He reverted to Italian, murmuring just low enough that I only caught a familiar word now and then, but the tone of his voice made me want to squirm.
A group of what could only be American tourists in purple velvet sweat suits and red hats noisily made their way up the cobbled street. I suddenly wanted to hide my nationality, not because I didn’t think The Red Hat Society was something special, and not because I really cared what this uniformed Neanderthal was saying about me, but because I had come here to be alone. By myself. Where no one knew me, or claimed me, or had any expectations of me. Where I could find the me that had disappeared behind the mask of “I’m fine. Really, I’m fine.”
I wanted to feel young again, or at least, feel my age. Untainted, unscathed, hopeful, believing. I wanted to open my eye, my heart, and my hand, just like Fabio had said, and find beauty, whether in Lucca, or at home in my Southern California urbanity. But even more importantly, I wanted to find the beauty inside of me.
It suddenly seemed like I’d been holding my breath for way too long.
I did not turn around, even when the officer stopped oozing words. I hoped he would just leave. The polite Ani in me felt obligated to thank him, but this girl who’d forgotten how to breathe refused to speak to him again, lest he mistake my words for a proposal of marriage.
He made a soft grunt. I glanced up at him for the sake of good manners, but his eyes darted past me, a mask of professional detachment falling into place.
I turned to find Paulo Durante threading his way between the tables behind me. I was a little surprised at the rush of emotions that flooded through me at the sight of him, and I could feel a smile tugging at my mouth.
Madalina shoved through the bakery door and practically threw herself into Paulo’s arms, babbling exuberantly, pausing only to plant loud kisses on both his cheeks. And then his mouth. He returned her embrace, not even trying to get a word in edgewise until she was finished. I rolled my eyes and slumped in my chair, turning my back to them, listening to him speak quick and low to her.
Yep, he knew l’Aurora, all right. Very well, apparently.
Between now and the time I’d left her this morning, Madalina seemed to have located the man who could climb her magnificent tower. And for some reason I didn’t want to explore, the fact that it was Paulo Durante stuck like a burr under my saddle.
They approached the table arm in arm—more precisely, Madalina was playing barnacle on Paulo’s arm—and she winked at me. “I hear you already meet our Paulo, Princess Grace. He stays away too long. I am glad you bring him to us today. Pops and Crina will be happy to see him.” I thought she seemed pretty happy to see him herself, as she reached up and patted his cheek rather forcefully.
He just nodded graciously, so I winced for him.
“Paulo.” I was in too much pain to feel very sociable, especially in light of these new developments. “Thank you, again, for your help today.” I hoped I sounded grateful. He had, after all, gone out of his way to make certain I was taken care of, to return my rented bicycle for me, and to come check on me as he’d promised. I owed him at least a little courtesy, even though I now realized why—or for whom—he’d really come. “Did everything go okay at the bike shop?”
“Yes, very okay,” he said, stepping closer and holding out the hand not held captive by Madalina. In his palm was a receipt neatly wrapped around a stack of bills. Tucked into the pile was my California driver’s license. I’d completely forgotten I’d been required to leave some form of ID to keep while riding the bike. “When I explained the situation, the owner, Giovanni, felt terrible about your experience. He wanted you to have a full refund, and since he’d already charged your card, he gave me cash instead. It isn’t much, but it is yours.” He placed it on the table beside my arm and flashed me a rather self-satisfied grin. I met his eyes and smiled my appreciation, ashamed at the thoughts I’d just been having… until Madalina cut in, drawing him away and into a rapid-fire conversation in hushed tones behind me. The officer joined in briefly before getting into his car and driving away.
I had an almost visceral longing for my bed upstairs. It was so close I could practically smell the bleach mingled with last night’s tears, but it might as well have been a million miles away for all the likelihood of me getting there any time soon.
I chewed on my bottom lip and glared down the lane, watching a small car turn onto via Fillungo a few blocks away.
CHAPTER TEN
Dodging bicycles and pedestrians, skirting front stoops and flower pots, it was a miniature taxi making its way toward us, maneuvering the narrow streets with the finesse that only comes from years of experience. Granted, the car was tiny; I was surprised to discover it had four doors. It pulled up to the doorway across the street from us and Madalina released Paulo as she called out, waving both hands over her head.
“Isa! Come, per favore!”
Oh no. I closed my eyes in defeat again. I was going to be subject to more humiliation, more questions, and more time spent away from bed.
The lovely Mrs. Adimari paid the cab driver, who scuttled off down the lane, and then she crossed over to us after checking for traffic. What traffic, I wondered. Cyclists? Purple-suited mad hatters? The ruffles at the deep neckline of her blouse fluttered up around her cheeks as she approached, and I wondered how she didn’t turn an ankle braving the uneven stones in those heels.
She listened attentively while Madalina, who’d gone back to stroking Paulo’s left bicep, presumably explained the circumstances around my condition. Paulo confirmed the Romanian girl’s words with nods and agreeable murmurings—I tried not to gag—then told Mrs. Adimari what I co
uld only assume was a quick rundown of his version of things. All three of them kept throwing concerned glances my way.
I lowered my chin to my chest, studying the crisscross pattern of the threads in the cheesecloth wrapped around my hands, and thought about a bottle of whiskey. Not that I ever drank, but right now might be a fine time to start. At least it would take the edge off my pain, according to every cowboy in every Western I’d ever watched with my dad.
“Ani?” Madalina placed both palms flat on the table and dipped her head to catch my eye.
The look on her face was genuine concern, and then my eyes were burning, my nose tingling, and I couldn’t swallow the lump in my throat. I spoke around it, my voice catching on it. “I—I need to go lie down, Madalina. I’m not fee—feeling so well.”
I dropped my gaze again in the silence that followed my stuttered admission, and then Mrs. Adimari was in front of me, crouching in her short gray pencil skirt, a fine-boned hand on my black jeans.
“My name is Isadora. Isa.”
“I’m Ani.” I was mortified to meet her under these circumstances. Up close, she was even more glamorous with her mocha skin and her makeup and hair all understated elegance. I, on the other hand, was once again at my worst, but this time, no amount of coffee, per her orders or not, was going to set things right for me.
“You must go to the doctor. Madalina says you cannot walk. Perhaps your foot is broken?”
“I don’t think so.” I shook my head quickly. “I think I just twisted it. I need to put some ice on it and rest, that’s all.”
“Wheesht!” Madalina shrieked. “Ice! How could I forget?” She turned and bustled back into the bakery. Paulo offered Isa a chair, then drew another one up and sat down, leaning forward in front of me, his elbows resting on his knees. I didn’t look at him, but I could feel his eyes on me.
“Ani, you should see the doctor.” He spoke softly, but firmly.
I glared at stones between his feet. These people were ganging up on me.
“I—I don’t know.” My ankle did hurt like crazy, and fear was starting to introduce itself in a very persistent manner.
“Mrs. Adimari has a good suggestion,” he cajoled, smiling encouragingly at me. He seemed so much more relaxed now. Maybe he was warming up to me.
Or maybe it was just the presence of Madalina that had him heating up. I quickly stopped feeling quite so appreciative.
Paulo gestured toward Isadora, inviting her to speak. His hands, large, but in that long, artistic way some men had, rested on his thighs again, and I watched his fingers curl around his knees.
“Please. Call me Isa.” Her voice was warm, patient. “My uncle is a doctor,” she stated. “I shall take you to his clinica.”
I shook my head. “No, please. I have no money. My insurance card—”
“You do not need money.” She waved away my protest. “He is famiglia.” Well, perhaps that made perfect sense to her, but I wasn’t famiglia. I was an American stranger, and a clumsy one, to boot. “I will call him now and speak with him. Paulo?” She turned to my rescuer while she dug her phone from her purse. “You will call the taxi for me?” I think she spoke in English for my benefit.
By the time Madalina returned with a plastic bag of crushed ice, the same taxi driver who had delivered Isa had returned, and Paulo, who apparently underestimated how much I weighed, bent over me as though to sweep me up in his arms and carry me to my waiting ride.
I pushed his hands away, amazed anew at the unexpected and rather intrusive gallantry the men here practiced, and declared that I was fit to hop on my good foot if he would just lend me his arm for support.
He laughed at me.
Laughed at me. Like I was being silly.
But I was being practical. I had visions of his noble mission ending in a tangled heap of bodies in the middle of the street, cries of “My leg!” emanating from not one, but both of us. And I only had one leg to spare as it was.
I did manage to stand, but as soon as I lowered my foot to the ground, even before I attempted to put any weight on it, the blood rushing to it made me light-headed. I sucked in a breath and closed my eyes. I could feel myself sway, even though I had one arm looped through Paulo’s, and reached out to grab the table to steady myself, forgetting about the wounds on my palms. A harsh sound escaped from between my clenched teeth.
Before I could protest again, he muttered something about stubborn women under his breath, bent down and picked me up anyway, lifting me high against his chest. Simultaneously surprised, mortified, and in silence-rendering pain, I wrapped an arm around his neck and held on. Breathing through my nose, I dipped my head and rested it against his shoulder, clenching my teeth together to keep from groaning.
Oh mercy. Sunshine and woodshop and spice and musk. He smelled amazing, and with my face pressed against his neck, it was rather intoxicating, making me a little woozy. Or maybe that was the pain. I was having a hard time telling the difference at the moment. The slow and steady beat of his pulse against my cheek seemed to mock the frantic pace mine had developed.
He didn’t drop me. Or break his leg in the process. Madalina held the door of the taxi open for me and he lowered me safely and gently to the seat. “Move back to the other door,” he directed. “Rest your foot on the seat like you did in the police car.”
Every time he spoke, I was surprised again at how easily I understood him. He certainly had an accent, but he spoke casually, easily, taking his time with the words he chose. But then, as I listened to him converse with the taxi driver in Italian, I realized he spoke that way in general, no matter what language he used; with purpose. Except for when he’d been sorting things out with the overwrought Mr. Ricci, I remembered, but even then, he’d clearly been trying to get the man to see reason. And things had gone the way he wanted, hadn’t they?
I scooted backwards on the bench seat until my back was pressed against the door on the other side. He guided my leg for me, one hand under my calf, the other gently supporting my heel, until I was as comfortable as could be expected.
“Thank you,” I murmured. He studied me a moment longer, concern etched across his features, then he straightened, his head and shoulders disappearing above the door frame. He said something to Madalina over his shoulder. She responded with a grunt, and replied in rapid Italian to Isa. I caught the word telefono and assumed they were discussing how to keep in touch about my condition.
Paulo ducked his head back into the car, sympathy in his eyes. “I’m sorry your first day in Lucca has been so difficult, Ani.” He actually said my name with the accent in the right place. “Usually, coming to Lucca is like coming home to a good meal. She is a warm hostess and always has her arms open to visitors.”
I snorted. “I think I was standing too close and got slapped instead.”
Paulo grinned and dropped his head for a moment, nodding in understanding. The change in his demeanor from yesterday—even from his earlier reluctance when he’d first stepped in to help me up on the wall—was rather disarming, making me scramble to say something else clever just to see if I could make him smile some more. Then he lifted his eyes to my face again. “Do not worry, okay? Nothing happens by chance. If you keep your eyes and your heart open, you will find something good will come from this, I promise you.”
His words echoing Fabio’s from the night before made me smile. “Someone else said something like that to me, too, just last night. That I should open my eyes, open my heart, and open my hand to the beauty of Lucca.” I cupped both my bandaged hands in front of me. “I think I might have found more than I bargained for.”
Paulo laughed at me.
He laughed at me. But this time, I didn’t mind it one bit.
Then he lowered his voice and said, “You only see that you opened your hands and found trouble. But even in difficult times there is beauty.” He paused just long enough for me to think he was done before he added. “Because of your troubles, Ani, you now have new friends.” He tipped his
head toward the two women standing behind him and tapped his chest with his fingertips, reminding me of the solid warmth of it pressed to my side only moments before. He cocked his head. “Yes?”
I tried not to roll my eyes at how cheesy—and charming—his words were. “Yes, but I think I could have done without the trouble.”
“Ah, but maybe you could not do without the friends.” He reached out, caught himself before patting my foot, and thumped the seat back with an open hand instead. “Va con Dio, Ani.”
I sighed. Madalina was one lucky girl.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
The man who introduced himself as Dr. Lazzaro couldn’t have been farther from what I’d expected. I was certain Isa had referred to him as her kindly old uncle, but this was no frizzle-haired, barrel-chested do-gooder. Recessed lighting overhead glinted off his Colgate smile, making it difficult not to squint when looking at him, and the ice-blue shirt he wore must have been hand-picked by his wardrobe consultant for what it did to the color of his skin. Every feature of his face was squared off, a comic book superhero come to life, right down to the cleft in the chin and the old-school Clark Kent haircut. Short and slicked back on the sides, longer on top, one thick curl dipping rebelliously over his left eye.
Good ol’ Uncle Lazz. I almost snickered out loud. Apparently, the pain meds he’d given me were a little stronger than Tylenol, because I was finding it difficult to respond appropriately to my circumstances. And I wasn’t feeling much pain, either.
“I want to show you the beautiful picture of your leg.” He tacked a large X-ray to a lighted panel on the wall beside the exam table where I reclined, my left leg elevated on a pillow, encased in a cold gel pack. Instead of my pants, I wore a sheet wrapped tightly around my lower half. I’d had to remove them for the camera as they were too tight to roll up past my knee.
All the Way to Heaven Page 6