Callie's Christmas Wish

by Merline Lovelace

  “Callie! Travis and I were just talking about you. How’s Rome?”

  “Absolutely incredible.” Her gaze locked on the window. “At this precise moment I’m sitting on the side of the bed in my apartment, looking through the balcony door, watching snow blanket the dome of St. Peter’s.”

  “Get. Out.”

  “I kid you not! Hold on while I get Dawn on the line.”

  Their friend answered on the second ring and shouted over the din in the background. “About time you called.”

  “What?”

  “I said, it’s about time you called.”

  “I can barely hear you. Where are you?”

  “Sunday brunch at Paoli’s. Where are you, and more important, what the heck took you so long to contact your best friends?”

  “I’ve been a little busy.”

  “That’s what I tried to tell her,” Kate put in. “She wanted to call you, but I twisted her arm and made her wait until you got your feet on the ground.”

  “I waited,” Dawn groused, “but I didn’t like it. So spill it, girl. No! Hold on, I need to go someplace without all these decibels.”

  Callie heard a thump, a muffled voice, the clash of pots and pans. Then blessed silence.

  “Okay,” Dawn announced breathlessly. “I’m in the ladies’ room. Wait a sec while I put the seat down. There. I’m good. Now talk. How’s Rome? What’s happening with you and Joe?”

  “Rome is clean and bright and dusted with snow from top to bottom. And Joe...”

  Callie didn’t spin out the pause deliberately. She just needed a couple seconds to sort through everything that had happened in the three tumultuous days since she’d landed in Italy.

  “We’ve been together this whole time. After he picked me up at the airport Friday morning, we drove down to Naples to meet with his prospective client. Then...”

  “Wait. Back up. You crawl off a plane after a nine-hour flight and he takes you to Naples for a business meeting?”

  “Actually, we went for a sort of pre-Christmas feast with Signor Audi and his family. At their water buffalo ranch.”

  Dawn made a “huh” noise but Kate caught the connection immediately.

  “Buffalo, as in mozzarella cheese?”

  “As in a dozen different varieties of mozzarella, all of them scrumptious.”

  “And you went to the source of these dozen different varieties?”

  “We did! Honestly, it was so interesting. The buffalo get scrubbed, massaged, milked and scrubbed again. All done robotically.”

  “Sounds fascinating,” Dawn commented in a voice that clearly indicated otherwise. “Back to Joe. Three whole days with Mr. If I Tell You I’ll Have to Kill You, and you haven’t changed your mind?”

  “No,” Callie said at the same moment the sound of a loud flush came through the phone. “Just the opposite.”

  “What? I can’t hear you.”

  “I said Joe and I are great. Fantastic. Wonderful.”

  “Wow,” Dawn murmured after a short silence. “Those must have been some three days.”

  “They were. I’ll zip off an email tomorrow with all the juicy details.”

  “And pictures,” Kate insisted. “We want pictures of your apartment and where you work.”

  “Will do. Say hi to Travis and Brian and Tommy. I love you all and miss you already.”

  “Give Joe our best. And Carlo, when you see him.”

  “Will do,” Callie promised again. “Ciao for now.”

  She clicked off and pushed off the bed. Her first order of business was to uncork the wine and let it breathe. She wasted a few moments hunting for a corkscrew until she realized the cap was a twist-off. Interesting. One of her coworkers back in Boston had been a self-professed and completely unapologetic wine snob. Devin would no doubt have heart palpitations if he had to twist rather than uncork and meticulously decant.

  Smiling at the thought, she went ahead and set the table with the silverware and pretty red-and-yellow napkins she’d found in her hunt for a corkscrew. No wine goblets, but the wavy green water glasses would do nicely.

  That homey task done, she transferred the carryalls to the bedroom. She left Joe’s on the bed but unpacked her toiletries and stuffed the clothes she’d worn over the weekend in the laundry bag she found hanging in the hand-painted wardrobe. Her two suitcases were in the wardrobe, too, left there by the so-efficient Emilio. She pulled one out, but before she could lug it to the bed to unpack, her phone chirped. The succinct text message made her grin.

  Coming up. Using the override.

  Ha! Who said you couldn’t teach an old dog new tricks? Still grinning, Callie went to join Joe for her first meal in her new home.

  Chapter Eight

  Joe stayed the night, taking up more than his fair share of the double bed, and had to leave early Monday morning.

  “I’ll be in Zurich until Wednesday,” he told Callie as he tucked his shaving kit into his carryall. “Then I have to fly back to the States. You’ve got Emilio’s number. Call him if you need anything before I get back.”

  “Any idea when that might be?”

  “Not sure. I’ll try to make it before Christmas, but I have to put together the team I promised Marcello Audi I’d bring in the first week in January. Some top people to beef up electronic surveillance at his venue sites. More to conduct hands-on training for his security staff.”

  She nodded but suffered another silent qualm about the prospect of spending Christmas on her own in Italy. Her decision, she reminded herself fiercely as Joe zipped his carryall. Her decision.

  Besides, if the center was as short-staffed as Carlo had indicated, she wouldn’t have time to feel lonely. Or so she thought, right up until she walked Joe to the door of her tiny apartment.

  “Have a safe trip home.”

  “Plan to.” He curled a knuckle under her chin and tipped her face to his. “Good luck at the center. You sure you can find it?”

  “Two blocks to the north and one to the east? I think so. But if I have any trouble,” she promised solemnly, “I’ll use the directional finder on my phone.”

  “Whatever works.” He took the hit with a philosophical shrug and made a slow pass over her lower lip with his thumb. “Don’t let the heartache you find there get you too down.”

  Easier said than done, she knew. She still carried painful memories of some of the children’s cases she’d worked in her heart.

  “I plan to stay too busy to get down.”

  “After meeting il Drago, I can pretty much guarantee you will.”

  “Il Drago? The dragon? I hope that doesn’t refer to my new boss.”

  “Carlo’s tag for her, not mine. It fits, though. The woman put us both through the wringer when he told her I wanted to review the center’s refugee screening process.”

  “Wonderful. You pissed off my new boss. Exactly what I needed to hear before my first day on the job.”

  His mouth curved in one of his rare grins. “My money’s on you, Pansy Eyes. Just aim one of your cool, we-need-to-talk looks at her and she’ll fold like washi. Thin Japanese paper,” he said in answer to her blank look. “They use it make origami and wrap gifts to burn in honor of their ancestors.”

  This man amazed her. He really did. Bible verses. Japanese origami. Fiery tribal beauties. Hired assassins. She was still trying to fit all these facets of his personality into their respective niches when he dropped a quick kiss on her lips.

  “Call me,” he ordered as he headed down the narrow S-shaped stairs. “Let me know how today goes.”

  “I will.”

  He’d hit the first floor landing before she remembered the Christmas gifts she’d purchased in Naples. She leaned over the railing to call him back, but he was already out the
door.

  Damn! He could’ve taken Dawn’s and Kate’s and Tommy’s back to the States with him. Opened his, too, while he was here. She’d have to FedEx the others and keep his until his return to Rome. Hopefully in time for Christmas.

  She gave the high-tech palm pad a sideways glance as she wandered back into her new home. Joe’s presence had made the two rooms seem cozy. Okay, crowded. Now they felt empty, sucked of their vitality.

  All right. Enough of that. She had things to do, places to go, people to see. With a determined roll of her shoulders, Callie shook off her deflated feeling and set to work unpacking the suitcases Emilio had delivered.

  Not that she had all that much to unpack. She’d based her wardrobe choices on a study of Rome’s average winter temperatures and her preliminary research into the shelter run by International Aid to Displaced Women. The center’s residents were older than the children she’d worked with for the past six years. They’d lost their husbands, their families, all ties to their native lands. Some had survived unimaginable horrors. Callie knew they’d relate more to jeans and a sweater than a tailored black pantsuit.

  * * *

  An hour later she emerged into a city that had come alive after its snowy night. The sun was a bright sphere, the air frosty. Tucking her chin in her scarf and her hands deep in the pockets of her duster, Callie set off for the center.

  The Monday morning traffic had churned the streets to slush, but the wrought-iron balconies and green-painted shutters adorning the buildings on both sides of the street still sported downy white eyebrows. School kids with monster book bags clumped by in oversize boots. Housewives bundled up against the cold clutched fishnet shopping bags as they headed to the local butchers and greengrocers. Office workers stood elbow to elbow at espresso bars, munching pastries, scanning folded newspapers and getting the necessary caffeine jolt to jump-start their day.

  When a patron exited one of those tiny cafés, the scent of fresh-ground coffee and hot croissants lured Callie inside. She studied the chalkboard menu while waiting in line and managed to order in her few phrases of broken Italian. The white chocolate cream concoction came in a glass with a silver handle and was topped with a frothy heart almost too pretty to slurp. She carried it and a still-warm croissant to a stand-up counter and consumed both while studying the framed black-and-white photos filling every square inch of wall space.

  Many were from WWII and depicted US soldiers who must have chosen this little café as a favorite gathering spot. Others looked like they were from the late ’40s and early ’50s. Callie spotted an extremely well-endowed Sophia Loren in one, a Jack Kennedy look-alike in another.

  Intrigued, she edged closer to examine the scrawled signature. It was Kennedy. Young, impossibly handsome, flashing that famous grin, with his arm hooked over the back of a chair occupied by a pouty blonde Callie didn’t recognize. She would’ve liked to take a closer look at some of the other celebrities, but a quick glance at the clock above the bar sent her back out into the bright, cold morning.

  A quick turn brought her to her new place of employment. Identified only by the street number above its door, the three-story building that housed the IADW center blended in with its neighbors. Like them, it was stuccoed, only this was a deeper terra-cotta red than either of its neighbors. Marble pediments decorated the first-floor windows; green shutters framed the others. Callie noted the absence of any security cameras and felt a tingle at the back of her neck as she remembered Joe’s comment about terrorists using refugee centers as conduits to the West.

  Although he hadn’t mentioned it—probably because he hadn’t wanted to scare her—she suspected these centers could become targets, too, for extremists at both ends of the spectrum. Ultra-right neo-Nazi types stirred to fury over the influx of “foreigners” might present as much of a threat as leftist revolutionaries seeking to exploit the residents’ hopes and fears.

  With these—hopefully remote!—possibilities in mind, she pressed the bell centered in a dented and slightly rusted speaker box.

  “Sì?”

  The single syllable came across as clipped and distinctly impatient.

  “My name is Callie Langston. I’m...”

  “Finally! Come in. I’m in the storeroom. Down the hall, last door on the right.”

  The locked clicked, and Callie stepped into a foyer tiled in gray marble. A graceful arch led from the foyer to a long hallway. Doors opened off either side of the hall, and at the far end a graceful marble staircase spiraled upward.

  She made her way to the last door on the right as instructed while admiring the Murano glass sconces and elaborate ceiling medallions that suggested the center had once been home to a fairly well-to-do family. She was only a few feet from her destination when a thump and a curse sounded from its open door. A quick glance inside showed a cluttered office and a rail-thin woman with short, flyaway white hair. While Callie watched, the woman shoved aside a carton with a logo that depicted what looked like a giant green hand cupping a dark-eyed baby in its palm.

  The hearty shove sent the box careening into a stack of similarly marked cartons. They wobbled wildly, precipitating another muttered curse and a quick jump forward from Callie. Between them, the two women managed to keep the tower more or less upright.

  The save didn’t appear to afford the older woman much satisfaction. Hands on hips, she scowled at the stack, as if daring it to take another wobble. Only after she’d stared it down did she turn a look of unalloyed disgust on Callie.

  “I’ve told this group again and again we need supplies for women and adolescent girls.”

  Her English was thick and heavily accented.

  “Do they listen? No! Do they keep sending diapers and teething rings? Yes! Does my idiota intern accept their shipments? Every time!”

  Despite her skeletal thinness and dandelion-fine white hair, she looked so fierce Callie half expected her to aim another kick at the precariously stacked boxes. Instead, she drilled the newcomer with a pair of startlingly blue eyes.

  “The prince insisted I take you on as my deputy. Your credentials are impressive, I’ll give you that. Far better than the one you’re replacing. But if you think working with us at the center will convince the prince to offer more than weekends in Monte Carlo or Antibes, you should think again.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Ah! So he didn’t tell you? No, of course he would not. He will wait for the right moment.”

  “Look, Signora Alberti... You are Signora Alberti, aren’t you?”

  “Sì.”

  “Look, Signora Alberti. The prince is a friend. A good friend. But if you don’t wish to accept me based on my credentials, that’s your prerogative.”

  “Magari.”

  “I’m sorry,” Callie said stiffly. “I don’t know that word.”

  “It means... How do you say in America? I wish.”

  Callie opened her mouth, but before she could tell the Wicked Witch of the East to take her job and stuff it, the director flapped an impatient hand.

  “Non importa. I will know soon enough if you’re as hopeless as the others. Come along. I’ll introduce you to the staff who aren’t in session. You’ll meet the rest at lunch. The residents, too.”

  * * *

  During the next hour, Callie’s initial impression of an irate, dandelion-haired virago who waged war with innocent boxes underwent a swift reevaluation.

  Despite her abrupt manner, Signora Alberti’s staff appeared to adore her. The two mental-health techs, one Italian and one French. The nurse-practitioner from Corinth, Greece. The three translators who between them spoke eleven different languages. The multinational kitchen crew busy cleaning up after breakfast. Even Signora Alberti’s idiota assistant, who turned out to be an Italian grad student working at the center as part of his hands-on training for a master’s in cognitive
therapy from La Sapienza, one of the oldest and most prestigious universities in Europe.

  Unfortunately, the intern’s English was as limited as Callie’s Italian. After struggling to communicate using the impatient director as an intermediary, they agreed to compare notes at a later date. Hopefully, when they’d each gained a little more facility with the other’s language.

  Staff intros over, Alberti gave Callie a tour of the upper stories. The second floor contained an arts and crafts area, a library, a TV room and a series of dormitory-like bedrooms, each two bedrooms linked by a shared bath. The third floor was entirely bedrooms. All but one were occupied.

  “We try to match roommates who speak the same language or at least practice the same religion,” the director said. “It’s not always possible, of course, but we try.”

  “How long do the residents stay here?”

  “We’ve placed some in jobs and homes within a few weeks. Others...” Her shoulders lifted. “Others stay much longer.”

  “Can they go out? Get their nails done or go to...”

  “Of course they can,” Alberti snapped. “This is a shelter, yes? Not a prison.”

  Properly chastised, Callie was given a tour of the first-floor meeting and counseling rooms, then shown her office. It was directly across from the director’s and sparsely appointed. A desk, two chairs, a metal file cabinet. Delicate sconces hinted at the house’s former glory, and pale squares marked the walls where pictures or portraits must have once hung.

  The director jabbed a finger at the flat-screen computer monitor sitting dead center on the desk. “We update our case files daily. All counseling sessions you have with residents, either one-on-one or in group. No excuses. No delays. Operating procedures require that we change the password once a week. When we remember,” she admitted grudgingly. “This week it’s Aleppo221.”

  “Got it.”

  The director tipped her chin toward a row of black binders perched atop the metal file cabinet. “Those notebooks contain our operating procedures. They’re in Italian, but have been translated in English and Arabic. You need to review them along with the case files, also in Italian and English. You’ve got some time now. We have lunch at noon, yes? There’s a group session you should sit in on at two this afternoon. And I’ve scheduled you to teach the beginning English class at four. It’s been on hold waiting for your arrival. Can you handle that?”