Smitten with Ravioli

by Ellen Jacobson

  “Ginny.” I turn my head slightly so that he can plant his lips on my cheek, but instead he grabs my hand and kisses it passionately.

  “What do you Americans call the color of your hair?” he asks as he caresses one of my curls.

  I can’t speak. I move my lips and try to form words, but nothing comes out. I don’t know what kind of body spray Lorenzo is wearing, but it’s really intoxicating. Intoxicating in a good way.

  Isabelle pipes up. “Auburn.”

  “Auburn,” he slowly repeats, holding my gaze. “It is very pretty.” Then he breaks eye contact with me and turns to Isabelle. “The reservation was for only two, but I can arrange for an extra cot.”

  “Ginny isn’t staying with us,” Isabelle says. “She’s attending a cooking program.”

  Lorenzo smiles at me. “Ah, you’re a chef.”

  “No,” I say. “I’m a novice cook. The program is for beginners.”

  He rubs his hand across the stubble on his chin. “Where is this program?”

  “It’s being held at the Villa Romano-Ricci. Do you know it?”

  “Yes. It’s on the outskirts of Ravenna. They’ve converted it into a retreat center. They run programs during the summer months for American tourists.” He cocks his head to one side. “You don’t seem like their typical participant. They’re usually, how do you say…ma…ma…mature? Is that the right word?”

  I look down at my faded jeans and t-shirt, my typical type of outfit when I was a grad student. I guess a t-shirt with a slogan does look a little immature. Maybe I should have worn something dressier.

  “Come,” Lorenzo says, motioning us toward the table. He holds up the bottle of wine. “Let’s have a toast to your stay in Ravenna before I show you your apartment.”

  The cat stretches, then paws at the corkscrew lying on the table, trying to knock it to the ground. Lorenzo scoops up the cat and places him in my arms. “Bad cat,” he says as he scratches the top of his head.

  I hold out the cat at arm’s length from my body and scowl. “Can someone take this from me, please?”

  Lorenzo chuckles as he opens the bottle of wine. “You don’t like cats?”

  “No, it’s not that,” I say as the cat squirms in my arms. “They’re fine…at a distance.”

  He looks at me sympathetically. “Oh, I see. You’re allergic to them.”

  “No, it’s not that either.” I shudder. “They always drool on me. Cat drool freaks me out.”

  Mia and Isabelle break out into laughter.

  “You’re afraid of cat drool?” Mia asks. “That sounds like one of those phobias you’re always talking about.”

  “It’s not a phobia,” I say. “Phobias are irrational fears. Being afraid of cat drool is perfectly rational. It’s gross. Simple as that.”

  Isabelle takes pity on me and grabs the cat. He purrs loudly as she cuddles him against her neck.

  “Freaks out,” Lorenzo says. “This is a new expression for me.”

  He pours a glass of the sparkling red wine for each of us and explains that the Emilia-Romagna region, where Ravenna is located, is known for its Lambrusco. When I take a sip, the bubbles tickle my nose. Naturally that makes me think about how Preston’s breath tickled my neck when he leaned in to steady me on the train.

  What is wrong with me? Why am I thinking about that nerdy guy when I could be thinking about the hunky Italian standing in front of me?

  I take another sip of wine and listen as Lorenzo tells Mia and Isabelle about the West Byzantine mosaics that decorate the fifteen-hundred-year-old churches in Ravenna.

  Great, another history buff. Why are the cute ones always obsessed with history?

  “Are you a tour guide?” Isabelle asks. “Maybe we could hire you for a private tour of the city.”

  “No, I, uh, how do you say it…” He makes a hammering motion. “I make the houses.”

  “You’re a construction worker,” Mia says brightly.

  He beams at her. “Yes. I am a construction worker. It is the family business. My grandfather started it.”

  “So, not a historian?” I ask. He shakes his head. “You don’t like to read books about the Roman Empire or watch documentaries?”

  “No, not really,” he says.

  “Ooh. Do you like sci-fi?” Mia asks.

  Lorenzo pulls out his phone, presses the screen a few times and shows it to her. “This is what I like.”

  “Love the costumes,” she says before she hands the phone to me.

  I watch the video, then grin. “I can’t believe it. You’re into lucha libre. I used to watch this all the time in between Spanish-language soap operas.”

  “Lucha what?” Isabelle asks, grabbing the phone from me.

  “Mexican wrestling,” I say, sizing Lorenzo up with interest. A construction worker who spends his time watching wrestlers in outlandish costumes toss each other around a ring. You can’t get much further from a history professor than that.

  4

  Terms and Conditions Apply

  After enjoying another glass of wine in the picturesque courtyard, I say my goodbyes, giving Mia and Isabelle quick hugs and promising to catch up with them the following evening. “Ciao, bella,” Lorenzo says while kissing me on each cheek. Is it my imagination or do his kisses last longer than one would expect from a recent acquaintance? Maybe that’s just how it’s done in Italy.

  I make my way to the retreat center where my program is being held. As the taxi pulls up the long circular drive, I admire the large, imposing villa. The building is flanked by several smaller modern buildings, their wood cladding and large picture windows a stark contrast to the villa’s ornate brickwork and architectural detail.

  I walk up the marble steps, gulping as I approach the entrance to the villa.

  What was I thinking, enrolling in cooking school? Sure, I’ve watched a lot of cooking shows and I’ve eaten in a lot of restaurants, but the most complex recipe I’ve ever made involved marshmallows. I’m completely out of my depth. The minute they hand me a chef’s knife, they’re going to know I’m a fraud.

  I pause and take a deep breath. You can do this, Ginny. So what if you end up amputating your finger while you’re chopping something? I’m sure they have a well-stocked first aid kit.

  While I’m thinking about the merits of butterfly stitches versus traditional stitches, one of the heavy, intricately carved doors creaks open. Two silver-haired women walk out and pause on the top step. One of them looks just like my aunt, Sister Mary Margaret, right down to the exact placement of her chin hairs. She’s even wearing all black. The other woman is attired in a bright yellow tunic with a daisy pattern bedazzled on it. She grips the handrail tightly with one hand while clutching a cane with the other.

  “Lovely evening, isn’t it, dear?” the lady in need of some facial waxing says to me.

  Her friend pokes her in the rear with her cane. “Get a move on, Loretta,” she says. “I want to get back to our room before the sun goes down.”

  Loretta rolls her eyes. “Don’t mind Mabel,” she says to me. “It’s the jet lag. Makes her cranky.”

  “I am not cranky,” Mabel says, jabbing Loretta again, this time in her leg.

  “You are too.”

  “Am not.”

  “Are too.”

  “Am not.”

  While the two continue to bicker about whether Mabel is cranky or not, I slip past them into the foyer. My eyes are drawn to the mosaic floor with its pattern of Roman gods and goddesses. Even though I know that it’s relatively modern compared with the ancient mosaics you can find in the historic sites in Ravenna, it still takes my breath away.

  I look up and see a grand staircase leading to the second floor. Along the left side of the corridor are a series of paneled doors with marble statues set between them. To my right, I spot a sign that says “Silver Fox Registration,” its arrow pointing at an arched entryway. I peek my head inside and see a large reception room. An older couple sits on one of the leather c
ouches in front of the tiled fireplace. Despite it being the beginning of June, there’s a chill in the air.

  “Can I help you?”

  I turn and see a woman sitting at a large table at the back of the room.

  She beckons me to her. “The staff entrance is at the rear of the building,” she says as I approach her.

  “Staff?”

  “Correct.” She peers at me over her reading glasses. “Just go back out the front door, make a right, go around the building, and you’ll see a portico. The entrance is through there.”

  I shake my head. I knew I should have worn something dressier. With my t-shirt and jeans, she thinks I’m here to wash dishes or something. I stand up straight and say firmly, “I’m not staff.”

  “Of course, you’re not,” she says. “That’s just where the graduate students are meeting Professor Whitaker.”

  “I’m not a student.” I dig my fingernails into the palms of my hands to keep from losing my cool. I’ve had enough reminders of graduate school and professors already today.

  “Sorry, my mistake,” she says, adjusting her glasses. “You must be here to see your grandparents.”

  “Huh?”

  She pulls a clipboard toward her and flips through the pages. “I saw a note about that somewhere. Oh, yes, here it is. Maggie MacDonald.” She looks back up at me. “Their room is in the Dante Annex. It’s the building to the right of the villa. They’re in room number six.”

  I flinch at the sound of the number six. The unlucky number six, a reminder of what’s-his-name.

  “But I’m not Maggie,” I say. “My name is Ginny.”

  The woman studies her clipboard. “I don’t see a Ginny listed. Why don’t we try this another way? What are your grandparents’ names?”

  “My grandparents? What do they have to do with anything?”

  She points at her clipboard as though that explains it.

  After a long pause, I tell her that they’ve passed away.

  She looks crestfallen. “I’m so sorry.” Her expression turns into one of puzzlement. “Then what are you doing here?”

  “I signed up for the cooking program.” I pull a paper out of my bag. “It says to register here on arrival.”

  “There must be some mistake. You can’t possibly be enrolled in the cooking school.”

  I place the paper in front of her and tap it with my finger. “It says right there—Ginny Morgan Maarschalkerweerd. Paid in full.”

  “But, um…” Her voice trails off. She removes her glasses and rubs her temples. Then she leans forward and stares at me intently. “Exactly how old are you?”

  I roll my eyes. Oh, come on. I know that sometimes I’ve been told that I look young for my age, but this is ridiculous. Clearly I’m over eighteen. I point at the form. “My date of birth is right here.”

  She puts her reading glasses back on and picks the paper up. “You’re seventy-eight?”

  “No, I’m twenty-five.”

  “But according to the birth date on this form, you’re seventy-one.” She chuckles. “You must have an amazing plastic surgeon.”

  “There must be some mistake.” I grab the paper out of her hands and examine it. “Oh, I see what I did. I transposed the numbers. Anyway, what does it matter? Can I just go ahead and register? It’s been a long day and I’m exhausted.”

  “I’m not sure that this program would be a good fit for you.”

  I raise my eyebrows. “This is a beginners’ course, right?”

  “It is, but—”

  “Then what’s the problem?”

  “Well, it’s just…” She flings her hands in the air. “The Silver Fox Summer Academy is for seniors. And you’re not a senior. Just look around you.”

  I turn and survey the reception area again. Every single person has white hair. At least those with hair do. “You have got to be kidding me. I signed up for an old folks’ class?”

  “Obviously, you can still participate in the program if you want. We don’t discriminate based on age, but wouldn’t you rather hang out with people your own age?”

  I put my face in my hands and try to figure out what to do. While I’m considering my options, the unmistakable scent of leather and pine fills the air.

  “Oh, hello Professor Whitaker,” the woman says. “Your graduate students are waiting for you.”

  I turn and find myself looking straight into Preston’s piercing blue eyes.

  * * *

  “What are you doing here?” I splutter.

  “I could ask you the same thing,” he says, a faint smile playing on his lips. “I thought you were staying in Bologna.”

  “I never said that.”

  “Yes, you did.”

  “No, I didn’t.”

  “Yes, you did.”

  I shake my head. We sound like Mabel and Loretta, the two ladies I met outside. If only I had my own cane—I’d jab Preston in the leg with it.

  “I said I was getting off in Bologna. Then I caught a train to Ravenna.” I tap my ear. “You have to listen more carefully. Maybe you have some wax buildup going on.”

  “I was probably too mesmerized by the dimples you get when you smile to have paid attention to what you were saying.”

  “My dimples?”

  “Uh-huh.” He turns to set his leather satchel on a chair, then looks back at me. “Yep, there they are. One on each cheek.”

  I bite my lower lip in an effort to stop smiling. He has no right to look at my dimples. I shouldn’t be showing him my dimples.

  The woman at the registration desk coughs. “Ahem, Professor. Your students are meeting you by the staff entrance.”

  “Thank you, Evelyn,” he says with a smile.

  “I can’t believe you’re a professor,” I mutter.

  “Did you think I was lugging all those history books around on the train for fun?” he asks.

  “They make nice paperweights.”

  “That’s true.” He grins. “I could have been carrying my collection of paperweights, cleverly disguised as books, around with me.”

  Evelyn stands and pats Preston’s hand. “Professor Whitaker is leading the history program here in August. We’re honored that he agreed to be part of the Silver Fox Summer Academy.”

  “Not at all. It’s my honor to be here, Evelyn,” he says, glancing at her. Then he looks back at me and scratches his head. “So what exactly are you doing here?”

  “It’s a terrible mix-up,” Evelyn says. “She signed up for the cooking program, but didn’t realize it was for seniors.”

  He furrows his brow. “Cooking? But you told me you were a chef.”

  I clear my throat. “I’m sure I said that I want to become a chef, not that I am one.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  I put my hands on my hips. “Are you saying you don’t believe me?”

  Preston’s phone beeps. “I’m running late.” He looks at Evelyn. “Did you say they’re out back?”

  “Yes, by the staff entrance.”

  He thanks her, then shakes my hand like he did at the train station. A long handshake that’s more like a caress. It sends shivers down my spine. “Well, I guess this is goodbye again.”

  I nod slowly, not trusting myself to speak.

  As he walks out of the reception room, he looks back at me and adds, “For now.”

  For now?

  What does that mean?

  Evelyn taps her pen on the table, interrupting my thoughts. “So, what did you decide? Do you want to stay in the program?”

  I shrug. “Sure. It’s not like I have a better plan.”

  She prints off a stack of forms, staples them together, then places them in front of me. She points at the bottom of the first page. “Sign here.” Then she flips through the other pages. “Initial here, here, and here. While you’re doing that, I’ll get your name badge, room key, and program materials together.”

  My father always told me to read the fine print before I sign anything, but it’s late and I’m ex
hausted. So I quickly scrawl my signature and initials, then pass the forms back to Evelyn.

  “Great,” she says, handing me a key card. “Your room is in the Pavarotti Annex. Go back out front and turn left. Walk down the path and you’ll see the building.” Then she points at a thick folder on the table. “Here are the course materials. Be sure to familiarize yourself with the orientation sheet before tomorrow. Class starts promptly at nine.”

  As I gather everything up, the key card falls on the floor. I bend down to grab it and spot Preston’s leather satchel.

  When I show it to Evelyn, she says, “Oh, dear. He forgot it. You know what they say about absent-minded professors.”

  “I can take it to him if you want,” I offer before I realize what I’ve done. Hopefully, she refuses my offer so that I don’t have to see that pompous man again.

  “Would you? That would be great. I’m not really supposed to leave the registration desk. He’ll be at the staff entrance.”

  Great. Guess I’m stuck with delivery duty.

  My phone rings as I walk toward the rear of the villa. “Hey, Mia. How’s the new place?”

  “It’s fabulous. You should ditch cooking school and come hang out with us.”

  “You’d be surprised how tempting that sounds right now.”

  “Does that have anything to do with Lorenzo?”

  “Lorenzo? The guy renting the apartment to you? No.”

  “Come on, I saw the way he looked at you and the way you looked back.”

  “Sure, he’s cute, but…hey, wait a minute, you’re the one with the ‘no talking about guys’ rule. Why are you bringing up Lorenzo?”

  “That rule is for me, not you. Maybe you need a holiday romance to get over Jo—”

  “Mia,” I say in a warning tone. “We don’t say that jerk’s name out loud.”

  “Sorry, I mean what’s-his-name.”

  “The last thing I need is any guy,” I say. “Whether it’s Lorenzo or Preston.”

  “Preston? The guy from the train?”

  I look at the satchel in my hand. “I just ran into him.”

  “You did?”

  “Yeah. He’s teaching the history program in August. Just my luck that he’s meeting some grad students here today.”