Lucky Break

by J. Minter

  SBB sighed. “If only I weren’t committed to being in L.A. all week. I’m reading lines for Gladiatrix and I’m totally freaking out about it. I’ve only gained two pounds of muscle this week.” She paused. “Tell you what: if you come back from Italy and you’re totally over Jony—and in the meantime, I get the part—I will throw us both a huge We Rule celebration. Anywhere you want.”

  Behind me, Helga tapped my shoulder lightly.

  “We’re finished here, Flan. I’ll let you get dressed. I hope everything works out for you, romantically and otherwise.”

  I mouthed thanks to Helga as I mulled over SBB’s offer. It was certainly tempting, and I did really want SBB to get the part. But from my mental state, being “totally” over Alex—well, it seemed so far away.

  I had to ask: “What if I’m not over Jony?”

  “Well then,” SBB said seriously, “we’ll have to resort to Bianca, won’t we? That’s not a promise—it’s a threat. Now get to Italy and get over him, okay?”

  Chapter 8

  TRAVELING IN STYLE

  Buongiorno, bella,” a trim, dark-haired flight attendant whispered softly in my ear the next morning. “We’ll be landing in Naples in half an hour. Can I get you some espresso? A breakfast panini? Gelato?”

  I glanced down at my watch. It was barely past midnight New York time, but I could already see the sun peeking through windows of the eight-seater private jet my parents had chartered to take us to Naples. I blinked up at the handsome flight attendant, whose name tag read LUIGI. Even though I hardly ever passed up the opportunity to indulge in a little gelato, I hadn’t been able to stomach much since the breakup.

  “An espresso sounds great,” I told Luigi, who winked and whisked himself off to the kitchen, giving me quite a view of the back of his fitted white trousers. Who knew my parents traveled with such attractive hospitality?

  “Isn’t he fabulous?” My mom leaned across the aisle. She had her sleep mask perched on her forehead. I looked over at the window seat next to her, where my dad’s own mask was still firmly in place over his eyes.

  “Of course, your father is my one and only,” my mom continued. “But when he put me in charge of staffing the jet, I figured it couldn’t hurt to hire eye candy, as long as they got the job done. You know what they say—a woman can never be too rich, too skinny, or surrounded by too many gorgeous men.”

  “Did somebody say gorgeous men?” my dad asked sleepily, pulling up his eye mask and the window shade. “Look no further, ladies.”

  My mom leaned over to kiss him, and an unexpected pang of sadness shot through me. I’d seen my parents kiss a million times, but never on the heels of such an earth-shattering breakup.

  I was relieved when Luigi returned with espressos for all of us, and super excited when he also brought these incredibly buttery Italian cookies that were phenomenal dipped in the coffee. Maybe I did have my appetite back. I focused my attention on drowning my sorrows in sugar, caffeine, and the ridiculously beautiful views outside as the plane came into Naples.

  From the moment we touched down, I could feel the energy of Italy. We were only at the airport, but I sort of have a sixth sense about these things. Out the window, I could see the ground crew shouting orders at each other with a ferocity that reminded me a little of New York, but mixed with a cool European vibe.

  When we deplaned and followed the ramp toward customs, there was a definite bustle in the airport around us. Noisy tourists shoved past each other, and everyone was shouting in different languages. But somehow, there seemed to be a shield between my family and all the other noise. Nothing fazed us. We marched straight through customs, and our bags were waiting for us in the town car parked outside. Less than twenty minutes after landing, we were on our way to the private ferry that would take us down to the Amalfi Coast.

  I checked my watch again. It was a goal of mine to stop being obsessed with what time it was in New York, but so far, I hadn’t made much progress. It was nine in the morning Naples time, which meant it was three a.m. in New York. I hoped Alex was tossing and turning miserably in his bed. Either that or having nightmares about what a huge mistake he’d made by cheating on me … Hold on. I could not spend a whole week thinking about what Alex was up to every second of the day.

  Better to think about my friends in Paris. I tried to imagine them—would they be enjoying croissants and cappuccinos along the Seine by now? No, they’d only landed an hour ago. They were probably still stuck at baggage claim at Charles de Gaulle, where my online research had told me that the ground crew went on strike at least three times a week. I knew I should have told Camille to expect delays at the airport when I handed over the GPA binder. Would they be able to manage without me?

  I pulled out my phone and sent a hurried text to make sure that everything was going okay so far.

  “Flan.” My mother’s voice interrupted me from across the town car. “Why the furrowed brow? You’re in Italy, if you hadn’t noticed.”

  As usual, Mom was right. With the kids on bikes, tiny cars, and teens on scooters, it was hard not to notice that we were in Italy as we zoomed through the crazy streets of Naples. And I thought New York taxi drivers were insane. But even with the blaring horns of nearby cars ringing in my ears, the ease of traveling with my parents was soothing.

  “Here we are,” my dad said as we pulled into a small marina. “Right on time—and of course, there’s Alfonso with the Duchess.” He gestured to a gleaming white yacht at the end of a marina. “It’s a beautiful boat, Flan. You’ll love the captain, too; he tells the best stories about his days in the Navy—”

  “Richard, do you want to bore your own daughter to death?” my mom interrupted. “Flan, trust me, do not ask Alfonso about the war. You just sit back, relax, and enjoy the sea breeze on your youthful skin, okay?”

  “Sounds good to me.” I laughed.

  I followed my parents down the dock toward the Duchess. She was an eighteen-foot yacht with a large, pristine deck, and sails that extended way up into the sunny sky. Somehow, the town car driver hauled all three of our bags over his shoulders, and even lifted my carry-on bag in the crook of his arm. There was someone to do everything for us here.

  “Special delivery,” a good-looking guy about my age said with a grin. “I know you love our margherita, Signore Flood.” He had dark hair, dimples—and the biggest box of pizza I had ever seen, balanced on his shoulder.

  My dad shrugged at me. “I always have one of Tony’s famous pizzas delivered to the docks when we land. It just starts the trip off right. Here,” he said, taking the box from the delivery boy. “It’s my daughter’s first time in Italy—she should have the first bite.”

  “You know what they say.” the boy grinned. “One bite of Tony’s mozzarella and an American girl cannot help but fall in love.”

  With both my parents, the chauffeur, Alfonso the yacht captain, and the more-and-more-gorgeous-with-every-accented-word-he-said delivery boy all watching me, I nervously opened the box of pizza, picked up a wide floppy slice, and took a bite.

  Ohhhmygod. You grow up in the city and think you know a thing or two about good pizza. Then you go to Italy and your mind gets absolutely blown.

  “You’re right,” I said to the delivery boy, my mouth still full of hot tomato sauce and cheese. “I think I am in love.”

  “Sweetheart,” my dad said, putting his arm around me, “there’s more where that came from. Hop on the Duchess and we’ll see how many times you fall in love this week.”

  With those auspicious words, we waved good-bye to the pizza boy and the driver, and spread out on the top deck of the yacht. Alfonso came by to kiss both of my parents on both cheeks. When he was introduced to me, he wrapped me in his arms and kept saying the word bellissima.

  “Italian men have a soft spot for blondes,” my mom explained, shaking her head. “I’m afraid you’re going to get quite a lot of attention this week.”

  It was kind of unexpected to have strangers kissing me
and showering me with compliments, but then again, in light of the Jony saga, maybe attention from strangers was exactly what I needed.

  A few minutes after Alfonso steered the yacht out of the Naples marina, he came by with a tray of sparkling water, olives, and a bowl of sliced citrus fruit, marinated in this sweet, tangy syrup.

  “Sweet, sparkly, and a little bit salty,” he explained with a twinkling grin. “Just like we hope your trip will be in Italy.”

  The trip from Naples to Sorrento, the small coastal town where we were staying, took about forty-five minutes. My parents and I found spots to recline on the soft seats of the deck and closed our eyes. I could feel the warm sun beating down on us, but a cool ocean breeze kept it comfortable. And little by little, the noise from the marina was replaced with the lapping sounds of the sparkling Mediterranean.

  Before I knew it, we were docking again. When I opened my eyes this time, the view of Sorrento took my breath away. There were high stone walls leading up to the city, and orange trees in full bloom dotting almost every part of the coast. I could see umbrellas set up all along the waterfront and tables full of very stylish patrons enjoying a leisurely lunch.

  “I knew you’d love it here,” my dad said, grinning at my excited expression. “Just wait until you take a spin through town.”

  A crew arrived to transport our bags up the high stairs to where the large, private villa my parents had bought last year stood at the edge of the coastline. They’d been here several times since then, and I’d seen more than a few slide shows of photos from their travels, but nothing prepared me for the view when my parents opened up the French doors to the room where I’d be staying.

  “Do you think you can manage here for a week?” my mother asked, suddenly sounding nervous. “I hope it’s not too drafty. If we’d known you were coming sooner, I would have had them install another skylight, but—”

  “It’s perfect,” I breathed.

  The cool stone tiles were the same golden color as the sun, which was now high in the sky. The bed faced the balcony, which looked out at the sea, which seemed to go on forever. From here, New York felt so far away—and for the first time since we’d left the city, I was glad.

  “We thought we’d have a relaxing day after all the hectic travel,” my mom said. She seemed unaware of the fact that, compared to most people’s experience, our day of travel had been anything but hectic. “Dad’s going to order dinner from the café down the street. We’ll take it out on the balcony and chill. Sound good?”

  I sort of loved to hate my mom’s tendency to use lingo a generation below hers, but I was happy to hear the word chill.

  “It sounds great.” I laughed.

  We each claimed a plush chaise lounge on the main balcony and basked in the fantastic Amalfi sun. Even though we’d just chowed down on Tony’s famous margarita pizza, I somehow found room for about six more courses that my dad insisted I try before going to sleep. Each one was better than the one before it.

  “Why didn’t anyone ever tell me about spumoni before?” I gasped, spooning up the pistachio, chocolate, and strawberry ice creamy deliciousness in my bowl. “This stuff is definitely going on my list of ‘things to be eaten again ASAP.’”

  “That’s my daughter.” My dad beamed.

  I could see my parents sharing relieved looks that I was a) getting nourishment and b) occasionally smiling. Usually I prided myself on the fact that I was self-sufficient, but today it felt good to be taken care of.

  On the glass table next to me, I saw my cell phone buzz. I practically leapt to pick it up. It was a text from Camille. I hadn’t heard from her all day.

  YOU’LL NEVER BELIEVE IT—WE JUST LEFT CHARLES DE GAULLE. ALL THE BAGGAGE HANDLERS WERE ON STRIKE ALL DAY! YOU WOULD HAVE DIED. BUT IT WAS HILARIOUS BECAUSE ONE OF THEM FELL IN LOOOOVE WITH AMORY, AND HE TOOK HER TO THE BACK ROOM TO LOOK FOR HER STUFF. JASON GOT ADORABLY JEALOUS. BUT NEVER MIND OUR BORING DETAILS—HOW ARE YOU?

  Crazy. My biggest organization fear for the trip had come true. My friends had spent the whole day at the airport, which meant they’d missed their reservations at the Louvre and probably hadn’t even gotten into the city in time to eat dinner at Sud on rue Cler.

  But strangely, Camille’s text made it sound like it had actually been sort of an adventure. Oh, I wanted to be there so badly!

  I looked over at my parents, who were both serenely enjoying the scenery, and I remembered that my purpose this week was different from my friends’. I was taking care of Flan.

  Here I was on this gorgeous balcony, eating amazing food, with the world’s most supersupportive parents. Things were going to be okay. Before I knew it, I felt myself drifting off to sleep. The cool Amalfi breeze was in my hair, and I wasn’t even thinking about what time it was in New York.

  Chapter 9

  PARENTPALOOZA

  9:55 A.M., SUNDAY MORNING

  Standing outside Sorrento’s motorcycle

  rental shop:

  How incredible is Italy? You don’t even have to be a licensed driver to rent a scooter. Which puts fourteen-year-old me in very good standing for some serious coastal cruising. Get yer motor running!

  10:02 A.M., SUNDAY MORNING

  One block … and two small fender

  benders later:

  What is wrong with this country? Don’t they have laws? Why would anyone rent a scooter to a teenage Manhattanite who’s never been behind the wheel of anything in her life?

  “Flan! Are you okay?” my mom gasped. She flipped up the plastic eye shield on her helmet, hopped off her own bike, and started running toward me—and the second unlucky lamppost I’d just hit. “Thank God you were wearing your helmet!”

  “Oh, that’s what fenders are for,” my dad said casually, hopping off his bike to survey the scene. We were just outside the cobblestone streets of downtown Sorrento, on a main road connecting all the small towns along the coast. We had been on our way to visit a small waterfront cathedral—until my bad driving brought that plan to a screeching halt.

  “Just a small scratch on the lamppost,” my dad said. “And no damage to the bike, luckily. You’re not hurt, are you, sweetheart?”

  “Just a little shaken up,” I said, attempting to take off my helmet and realizing that I was actually a lot shaken up. “I’ll never make fun of Feb again for getting so many reckless-driving tickets. I had no idea it was so hard.”

  I felt my mom’s arms envelop me. “Darling, I think you just have a lot on your mind. Why not ride on the back of your father’s bike and just take in the sights?”

  I nodded and sighed. Riding my own bike around the curving coastline had seemed like such a good idea at the time—it was the kind of thing that would make a really great story to tell my friends, anyway. But it was actually a lot scarier than it looked. I took one last look at my enemy—the lamppost—and decided I’d be much happier riding tandem with my dad.

  After a quick exchange at the bike shop, we were down to two scooters, speeding out toward the shrine. I held on tight to my dad, feeling much more secure taking those hairpin turns. This was more like it!

  I’d woken up this morning to a surprise from my parents: breakfast in bed—a brimming bowl of strawberries; warm, crusty ciabatta and fresh butter; a pot of that fantastic Italian coffee—and the very good news that both of them were putting aside their business matters for the whole day. According to Dad, Mom’s vacation-only mandate had gone out the window when Nicoletta Dimore offered her a guest blogging spot reviewing a spa for her online zine.

  All morning, my parents had been jokingly referring to today as “Flan gets cultured,” which I only objected to slightly. I went to museums in the city! Sometimes. But my parents were clearly pretty serious about making the most of our day together. They’d really crammed in the sightseeing, starting with the ride out to this historic cathedral on the coast, moving right along to a boat cruise to the island of Capri, where we were going cheese tasting and shopping. Mom insisted that the stores
in Capri gave Fifth Avenue a run for its money.

  I loved having my parents all to myself—and against such a beautiful backdrop, too. Looking around at the steep cliffs dropping down to all that crazy blue water, it was hard to believe that people actually lived here and got to see these views every day. But then again, I knew people said that about Manhattan all the time. Crap—I wasn’t supposed to be thinking about Manhattan. It only led to me thinking about—

  “Flan,” my dad said. “We’re here.”

  Happy to be snapped out of my downward-spiraling thoughts, I hopped off the bike and joined my parents at the door of the cathedral. The hush inside the church was almost a shock to my system after spending so long listening to the roar of the bike, but once I stepped inside, I understood why everything was so quiet.

  The stained glass windows and old stone pews were so beautiful, they demanded a silent sort of reverence. I separated from my parents and walked through the church on my own, reading what signs I could find in English. It was actually really fun to try to make out some of the Italian using what I knew from French. When I came to the end of the dimly lit church, I pushed open the back door and was almost startled by the intense sunlight flooding into the backyard. It was a small, irregularly shaped plot of grass at the tip of a crag on the cliff. A low stone fence was the only thing separating me from the drop-off into the sea. I had never seen anything so magnificent—and I’d been to a lot of fashion shows.

  “Flan,” my father’s voice whispered. “You have to see this Michelangelo.” He led me around to the side of the church, where a large marble sculpture was prominently positioned so that it absolutely glowed in the sun. I could tell it was a man’s body, but half of the marble looked like it was still uncut, just the natural shape of the stone.

  “Why does it look like that?” I asked my dad. “Is it unfinished?”