Make Me Bad
Page 27
I flung on a pair of leather sandals, stuffed the small room key in my purse, and set off down the narrow staircase. The woman who’d checked me in the day before was already set up behind the counter on the ground floor. She glanced up and smiled when she saw me approach.
“Feeling better?” she asked with a thick Italian accent.
I nodded. “Yeah, sorry about all the drama yesterday. I didn’t plan on arriving so close to death.”
She laughed and stood up, reaching across the counter with her hand. “It’s…” She paused for a moment, trying to find the right English word. “Normal?”
I nodded. “Ah, well that’s reassuring.”
“I’m Chiara.”
I grinned. “Georgie.”
She was younger than I’d thought at first, about my age or maybe a year or two older. Her long hair was darker than mine, nearly black, and her eyes almost matched.
“Are you having breakfast now?” she asked.
“Yeah.” I smoothed a hand against my stomach. “I’m starved.”
“There is a place,” she said, turning and pointing through the front door of the hotel. “Just up the road. The Blue Marlin. Tell Antonio that Chiara sent you.”
My stomach grumbled loudly then, as if wanting to answer her itself. Chiara laughed and waved me off, promising to see me when I returned to my room later.
I stepped out of the hotel and my sandals clapped against the stone walkway. I’d been in the square the day before, but this felt massively different. Then, not only had I been sick and disoriented, I’d arrived in the middle of the day when the square was crowded with tourists. Now, as I stepped away from the hotel and stood on the perimeter of the square, I felt like I was seeing a new side of Vernazza, a secret, quiet side. The tables and umbrellas used for the square’s restaurants were closed and pushed to the side, stored up until they needed them for lunch service later in the day.
An old man with thinning white hair swept out a doorway, nodding to me as I passed. Boats bobbed in the harbor, and this early, there were no children splashing in the water, no teenagers sunbathing on the large rocks. A few extra boats sat in the center of the square, stored with thin cloth covers over the top of them. I passed a sleepy cat relaxing in the center of one and it coaxed me closer with a few cheeky meows. It was fat and happy, most likely the result of daily scraps from pliable tourists.
What a lovely life, I thought, petting under its chin before my stomach reminded me for the twentieth time that I was nearing death if I didn’t feed myself soon. I turned from the cat, resisting its meows of protest, and turned in the direction of The Blue Marlin.
There was only one main street in Vernazza, the Via Roma. It wound straight from the village square up to the train station and the narrow lane was mostly meant for foot traffic, but that morning, a few motorized carts ran alongside me, making early morning deliveries. I walked along the side of the road, inspecting the shops as I passed them. They weren’t open yet, but I peered through the windows, admiring the things inside. Most had kitschy trinkets and cheap t-shirts, of course, but a few of them stocked specialty handmade pastas and local olive oil, bottled pesto and lemon candies. I memorized the name of one I wanted to visit later and continued my walk, all but salivating as I grew closer to The Blue Marlin and smelled the first sign of breakfast.
I dreamt of having a proper meal, one filled with croissants, sausage, and eggs. Oh, and toast and milky tea! When I strolled through the open door of the restaurant and saw the overflowing pastry case propped on the counter, I knew I wouldn’t be disappointed.
“Buongiorno,” greeted the man wiping down the top of the counter. He had lovely kind eyes rimmed by deep-set wrinkles.
I smiled and greeted him with a meek hello. My knowledge of the Italian language was abysmal, and even though I knew he’d just wished me good morning, I was too nervous to try the greeting on my own tongue. I didn’t want to sound like a silly oaf.
“English?” he asked, taking my shyness to mean I hadn’t understood him.
“Please,” I said as I breathed out, relieved.
He chuckled and slid a menu across the bar. “We don’t start serving eggs until 8:30 AM, but I can get you a coffee or pastry.”
With that, he went back to work and gave me a few moments of peace to review the menu and peruse the pastry case. I was deciding between an almond croissant or a plain one when four older tourists strolled into the restaurant dressed in proper hiking gear. They had on hats, boots, and industrial-grade sunglasses, and they even had walking sticks folded up and stuffed into the side pockets of their small backpacks. They passed behind me and waved to the man behind the counter. Without a word, he started whipping up drinks for them, a ritual they all seemed comfortable with.
“I think we should take the train to Monterosso and then hike back from there,” one of the American men said, addressing his group. “Everyone says that’s the best view. It’s the one you see on postcards.”
“It’s also the hardest trek though,” one of the women warned.
“Then we should do it while it’s cool out.”
The four of them were working out whether or not it was a good idea when I stepped forward and cut in.
“You can hike between the villages?”
Four pair of eyes sliced over to me.
“Of course!” one replied, seemingly shocked by my question.
“You must! It’s what Cinque Terre is known for!”
Really?
The man behind the counter chuckled as he slid four espressos across to the Americans.
“There are trails that connect all five villages,” one of the women continued.
“I thought you could only go by train.”
They shook their heads adamantly, nearly jumping over one another to correct me.
“No!”
“The trails are wonderful, and a few of them are really simple, just leisure walks along the coast.”
“You can take a boat between the villages too, like water taxis.”
Huh, crazy. Clearly, you were supposed to research a place before hopping on a plane, but things were working out for me. It was only my first morning and I was already learning.
“What’ll you have?” the man behind the counter asked, bringing my attention back to breakfast. The most important subject of all.
I ordered tea and an almond croissant, and the Americans suggested I join them outside. I didn’t hesitate. Sure, they were older than my gran, but they seemed to know what they were doing. I could gobble up my flaky croissant and learn more about where I planned on spending my summer.
We picked a spot out front on the small patio and they unloaded all these brilliant maps, flopping them on the table and pointing out which trails were best and which ones were better left for the real sporty types.
I was fit, but I didn’t really fancy a trek to Everest or anything. They suggested I start with a simple route and then they slid the maps toward me.
“Keep them. We have extra.”
I thanked them loads and stuffed the maps into my purse. They were standing, ready to set off for their hike, when I caught sight of a man in a ball cap walking up the main path toward the train station.
Gianluca.
He was alone, keeping his head down as he walked. My heart sped up, watching him approach. A part of me had assumed I’d never see him again, and now here he was, less than a day later!
He took long, confident strides up the road, keeping his hands stuffed in his pockets. I couldn’t see his face with his head down like that, and I willed him to glance up and see me so I wouldn’t have to call his name. What would I call him anyway? Luca was what his friends called him, and after our short meeting—where I’d acted like a nutter on her deathbed—I had no misconceptions that we were at that level.
I opened my mouth, prepared to call out to him, to say something, anything, when a man farther up on the road caught his attention first.
“Buongiorno Lu
ca!”
He whipped his head up and broke out into a devastating smile, all even white teeth and deep dimples. My heart sputtered to a stop. God, he was romantic looking, the sort of man who breathes passion into life without even trying.
“Good looking, huh?”
One of the American women nudged me with her elbow and nodded to Gianluca.
I nodded, trying to ignore how shaky I felt.
“He’s the kind of handsome you don’t see all that often,” her friend chimed in. “You’re safer staying away from Italian men like that, Georgie.”
Maybe she was right.
Maybe I should have kept my distance.
But I didn’t.
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