“Ginny, are you okay?” Preston whispers, his breath hot against my neck.
“Yes. How about you?” I ask without moving.
“Fine.” He shifts slightly, wrapping his arms around my back. “Although I think I have egg in my ears.”
“Better than egg up your nose,” I say.
He laughs. “I think there’s some there too.”
“Maybe we should get up,” I say reluctantly.
“We probably should,” he says. “If we stay down here too long a herd of stampeding, drooling burros might run over us.”
I sit up and giggle. He looks like one of the Three Stooges after one of their food fights. But cuter. Way cuter. After getting to my feet, I extend my hand and help him up. He pulls me toward him.
“Good thing I wasn’t wearing my tweed jacket,” he says. “It would have been a nightmare to wash this out of that.”
* * *
“Look at the mess you made,” Mabel says as she points at the flour and eggs on the floor. She glares at me, then looks at Preston, her eyebrows drawn together. “Are you okay, dear? Did you hurt your head when you fell?” She puts her hand to the side of her mouth and stage whispers. “Do you want to see if we can find you a new cooking partner?”
“You know I can hear you, right?” I say as I pick eggshells out of my hair.
Preston smiles. “I’m very happy with my cooking partner. But I appreciate the concern.”
I realize the entire room is staring at us. Everyone seems amused, except Mabel.
Maria walks toward us, stepping over the mess on the floor. “There are cleaning supplies in the cupboard over there. I’ll get you some clean aprons while you mop this up.” She looks back and forth between Preston and me with a bemused expression. “Ogni vite vuole il suo palo,” she says before going to assist one of the Silver Foxes with their pasta machine.
Preston opens the cupboard and I grab a bucket and some rags. “Why do you think Maria was talking about driving a stake through a vampire’s heart?” I ask.
He bursts out laughing. “Well, at least you got one word right in that sentence—palo. It means stake, but the rest of the sentence didn’t have anything to do with vampires.”
“Are you sure? You might still have some egg clogging your ears. I’m sure she was talking about vampires,” I say.
Preston shakes his head as we carry the cleaning supplies back to our workstation. While he cleans the floor, I tackle the counter. After he rinses a rag in the sink, he looks at me, a serious expression on his face. “So you really don’t like historians—buffs, dweebs, nerds, or otherwise?”
“I try to avoid them at all costs.” I squeeze soap onto a sponge. After a beat, I add, “I was betrayed by one.”
“Do you think you have enough soap on that sponge?” he asks gently.
I look down. Thinking about how what’s-his-name ruined my life makes me so angry. I seem to have taken my anger out on the poor dish soap bottle, squeezing most of its contents out.
“He cheated on you, didn’t he?” Preston asks softly.
I shake my head. “No, worse.”
He furrows his brow. “What’s worse than cheating?”
I press my lips together. That gives me pause. Is plagiarism worse than cheating, worse than infidelity? Finally, I say, “I don’t want to talk about it.” What I leave unspoken is that I don’t want to talk about what’s-his-name with Preston.
He stands quietly at the sink, not saying a word.
“I’m guessing someone cheated on you,” I say after a moment.
He nods. “My ex. We had been together for three years. I thought we were happy and things were going great. Then I found her with another guy.”
“How long ago was that?”
“We broke up a few months ago,” he says, clenching the rag in his hands before letting it drop into the sink. “How about you? How long have you been single?”
“About the same.”
“Seems like we have a few things in common.”
“Single people with trust issues?”
He nods, then smiles faintly. “And we’re both smitten with ravioli.”
“Smitten? I love that word. It’s so cute.”
He frowns. “I’m not trying to be cute.”
“Well, you are.”
He arches his eyebrows. “You think I’m cute?”
“In an old-fashioned, nerdy sort of way.”
“I guess that’s a compliment.”
I shrug. “If you want to take it that way, sure.” Then I busy myself with wiping down the counter, trying to avoid eye contact with him.
Preston taps me on my shoulder. “I think you secretly like history.”
“Nope. I’m one hundred percent sci-fi geek.”
After a few minutes, we finish cleaning up and walk back to the cupboard to return the cleaning supplies. Preston sets the pail on the shelf, then looks at me sideways. “You know how Maria said, ‘Ogni vite vuole il suo palo?’”
“Uh-huh.”
“Well, it’s not a phrase you hear all the time. It’s kind of—”
“Old-fashioned?”
“Nothing wrong with old-fashioned,” he says with a smile. “Do you want to know what it means?”
“Sure.”
“It means that every vine needs its stake.”
“I don’t get it. Does that mean we should drink wine? I sure can get on board with that.”
“Not exactly,” he says. “Vines need a support system, just like people.”
“That involves trust,” I say.
“It does.” When I don’t respond, he says. “Maybe I got the translation wrong. Maybe it’s just about drinking wine.”
“Maybe.”
“So let’s grab some wine one night next week.”
“Okay,” I say. A glass of wine with Preston won’t be a problem, right?
7
Blue vs. Green Milk
We never did get that glass of wine. Preston ended up having to work on a grant application. Every night after class, he made a quick exit and headed to Bologna to confer with colleagues at the university. At least that’s what he said he was doing. Who knows what he was really getting up to. Most likely he regretted the conversation we had after the food fight. Some things are probably better left unsaid, like talking about your exes and how they betrayed you.
On Friday morning, Maria claps her hands together to get our attention. “I have a special treat for you today. As you know, Ravenna is home to eight UNESCO World Heritage sites. Professor Whitaker has kindly agreed to give us a guided tour of two of them this afternoon—the Basilica of San Vitale and the Mausoleum of Gallo Placida.”
As the room bursts into applause, Mabel turns and beams at Preston. “We’re so lucky to have such a distinguished professor in our class.”
“I can’t wait to tell the gals in my bridge group that a famous historian is giving us a personal tour,” Loretta adds.
Some of the other Silver Foxes approach our workstation to express their gratitude that the professor would deign to share his precious knowledge with us commoners. Okay, that isn’t exactly how they put it, but you get what I mean. A couple of the ladies even take selfies with Preston, pushing me aside to get a better angle. I wouldn’t be surprised if they use the pictures on their annual holiday cards.
Preston soaks it up. He reminds me of you-know-who, cocky, with a know-it-all attitude. Another reminder of why I took a vow not to date historians and why I’m glad we never had that glass of wine together.
“If everyone could take their seats, please,” Maria says over the din. “I have a few more announcements.” Once everyone settles back at their workstations, she continues, “Before Professor Whitaker’s tour, we’re going to visit the mercato coperto. It’s a historic covered market on the Piazza Andrea Costa. They sell all sorts of fresh produce—juicy tomatoes, beautiful fruits, gorgeous salamis, and best of all, the finest cheeses. My nephew has a stall there. He’s going to do a
cheese tasting for us. After that, we’ll go to the Piazza del Popolo in the center of town. I think some of you have been there already?” A few people nod. “It’s very popular with tourists. There are all sorts of shops, cafes, bars—”
“What about gelato?” one of the men in the front asks. “Can we get some of that there? My guidebook says that we can’t leave Italy without trying some of that Italian ice cream of yours.”
She nods. “Yes, there are several gelato shops there.”
Finally, after several more questions (are there bathrooms available, will Professor Whitaker sign autographs, what’s the best flavor of gelato), we finally get underway. Maria has organized a small tour bus to drive us to our first stop—the covered market.
As we walk through the arched entryway, Maria informs us that the building was recently renovated. “This spot has been a market area since the Middle Ages. The old indoor market first opened in 1922.” We walk through the bustling food hall, past stalls with tempting treats, and take the escalator up to the second floor.
“Ah, there he is,” she says, pointing at a man standing behind a long table overflowing with cheeses. “That is my nephew, Giorgio.”
Whereas Maria resembles Sofia Loren, Giorgio doesn’t share in her movie-star looks. He’s short, has a potbelly, and is sporting a comb-over ‘do that you don’t often see on a guy in his twenties. But his warm smile and enthusiastic greeting makes you forget all about how he looks. This is the type of guy I should be attracted to—he spends his days making and selling cheese, not giving history lectures. People need cheese. It’s practical and useful, not to mention delicious.
Maria’s nephew explains the different types of popular Italian cheeses, then passes around samples for each of us to try. I can’t decide if my favorite is the fontina or the pecorino romano. The fontina has an earthy, mushroomy taste that makes me want to rush out and buy a fondue pot, but the sharp and salty flavor of the pecorino has my taste buds dancing with joy.
As I grab another morsel of the fontina, Giorgio holds up a glass bowl filled with a white creamy cheese. “This is squacquerone,” he says. He repeats the name of the cheese, then asks us all to try to say it after him.
Everyone giggles as we try to imitate Giorgio’s pronunciation. It doesn’t come easily to us English speakers. Preston, of course, says it nearly perfectly, then winks at me.
“Given your fluent Italian,” he says, making air quotes around the word ‘fluent,’ “I bet you think squacquerone is the Italian word for Sasquatch.”
“Sasquatch?”
“You know, the large, hairy, humanlike creature that walks upright.”
I furrow my brow.
“Sasquatch. Come on, you have to know what I’m talking about. This is the kind of thing that is right up your sci-fi alley.” He rubs his chin. “Bigfoot? That ring a bell?”
“Oh, Bigfoot. Sure, I know what you’re talking about. But the man is holding a bowl of cheese, not an imaginary creature wandering around the forests in North America. Clearly, he’s talking about cheese.”
He smirks. “Clearly.”
“Pipe down. I want to hear what he has to say about squa…swa…sac—”
“You mean squacquerone,” Preston says effortlessly.
I put my fingers to his lips to shush him, then turn my attention to Giorgio.
“This cheese is a specialty of the region,” he says. “It’s made from cow’s milk. It is a soft cheese with the consistency of yogurt. We like to spread it on piadina—a flatbread that you’ll also find in this region. It is delicious.”
“We’ll be making piadina next week,” Maria interjects.
“There are claims that this cheese goes back to Roman times,” Preston says quietly.
I elbow him. “For a professor, you’d think you’d know how to be quiet when someone is speaking.”
He smiles, then bends down and whispers in my ear. His breath tickles my neck. “During the papal conclave of 1799, Cardinal Carlo Bellisomi was going through withdrawal for squacquerone. He wrote a letter complaining about how much he missed it. His secretary sent him some, but it came two days before Lent, when he wouldn’t have been able to eat it. Do you think he cheated and ate it during Lent or do you think he finished it all up beforehand?”
When I don’t respond, he adds, “Anyway, that letter is the first proof of the cheese. Historians love that kind of thing.”
“I’ll tell you what historians like,” I say, turning and jabbing my finger in his chest. “They like…” My voice trails off. Touching him like this is reminding me of what it felt like to be laying on top of him after our food fight, my head pressed on his chest, listening to his heartbeat. I step back and shake my head.
“What do historians like?” Preston asks.
“Never mind,” I mutter. “It’s not important.” Then I grab another hunk of fontina and shove it in my mouth before I say anything stupid.
* * *
After we finish our cheese tasting and have some free time to explore the market, we walk to the first historical site—the Basilica di San Vitale. It’s an octagonal-shaped building that combines Roman features such as a dome and stepped towers with Byzantine ones such as narrow bricks, flying buttresses, and a polygonal apse, Preston tells the group as we gather by the entrance. It’s something I knew already, but I act like it’s the first time I’ve heard it. Gotta keep up my pretense that I’m just a sci-fi loving manicurist who couldn’t care less about history.
When we walk inside, Preston ushers us toward the center of the basilica. Light streaming in through the arched windows illuminates the labyrinth mosaic pattern laid out on the marble floor. The three hundred and eighty-four marble triangles lead walkers from the center of the labyrinth to the exit on the west side. I have to admit I didn’t know about the labyrinth until Preston mentioned it, so I’ll give him points for that one.
However, when it comes to the mosaics that adorn the walls and ceiling, I could have repeated Preston’s lecture word for word. While he drones on about how the mosaics in the altar area illustrate events and people from the Old Testament, I walk over to examine the mosaic on the southern side of the apse more closely. It depicts Teodora, one of the most powerful women in the Roman era, wearing Byzantine court clothes and adorned in jewels.
I feel my eyes start to well up as I think about how much my father would have enjoyed touring the basilica and how much fun it would have been to experience it together.
“Did you hear what Professor Whitaker said about these mosaics being the largest and best-preserved Byzantine mosaics outside of Istanbul?” Loretta asks.
I surreptitiously wipe my eyes. Then, once I’m sure I can speak without my voice cracking, I respond, “They are incredible, aren’t they?”
“They are,” she says, looking around the basilica, her eyes wide with wonder.
Preston walks up to us. He tilts his head and looks at me intently. “Are you bored?”
“Bored? How could anyone be bored here?” Loretta asks.
“Ginny doesn’t like history,” he says to her. “She’s into sci-fi. She’d probably rather be at the Galaxy’s Edge at Disney World. Didn’t you say you’ve been there four times?”
Loretta puts her hand to her chest and gasps. “Four times? You’re so lucky. The grandkids keep begging me to take them there.” She smiles. “They know grandma is a sucker for Star Wars.”
“You like Star Wars?” I ask in astonishment.
“Sure, I do. Doesn’t everyone?” She puts her hand on my arm and leans forward. “Now tell me, what was your favorite part?” Before I can answer, she adds, “Did you drink green milk while you were there?”
“Green milk?” I splutter.
“You know, like Luke drank in The Last Jedi.”
I’m not entirely sure if this is a trick question, but I nod slowly and take a stab at the right answer. “Sure, green milk. Yep, did it.”
“Oh, my gosh, you’re so lucky.” She squeezes my arm
and asks earnestly, “Did you try any of the blue milk? You know to compare?”
I raise my eyebrows. “Blue?”
“Of course, blue. Don’t you remember when Luke had it in A New Hope?”
“Of course,” I say in my most convincing voice. “Who could forget that scene when Mike chugged down a gallon of blue milk.”
Preston frowns. “Mike? You mean Luke, right?”
“Luke. That’s what I said.” I point at his ear. “You might still have some egg stuck in there. Or maybe it’s that earwax problem you’ve been having. Whatever it is, it’s interfering with your hearing.” Then I smile at Loretta. “Would you excuse me for a minute?”
Good thing I have Mia on speed dial. I send her a text.
Quick. What do you know about the Galaxy’s Edge?
OMG. I’d love to go there!
I need facts. I’m getting grilled about it. I don’t want Preston to find out I don’t have a clue.
Don’t you think you should fess up?
No!
Okay, fine. Tell him how much you loved the Millennium Falcon Smuggler’s Run ride.
Millennium Falcon?
It’s a ship.
Got it. Thanks.
Loretta taps me on my shoulder. “Ginny, are you ready to go? We’re going to walk over to the Mausoleum of Gallo Placida now. Professor Whitaker says that it’s the earliest and best-preserved mosaic monument. I can’t wait to see it.”
I tuck my phone in my purse. “Sure thing.”
As we walk to join the rest of the group, I casually toss out, “Be careful if you go on the Millennium Falcon ride, Loretta. I got so seasick on it.”
“You got seasick?” She blinks rapidly. “That’s odd. I can’t see how that could happen.”
“Well, it’s a ship, right?”
“Yes, a spaceship. You’d get space sickness on the Millennium Falcon, not seasickness.”
“Oh, a spaceship.” I frown. Mia could have been a little more precise in her texts. I was imagining some sort of pirate ship with her mention of smugglers.
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