“Bless you,” Preston says. “Good thing my surprise was a bike ride, not horse riding.”
“For sure. If you think I looked bad in my passport photo, imagine what I look like when my eyes are bloodshot and swollen, and my nose is runny from allergies.”
“I never said you looked bad.” A faint smile plays on his lips. “I said you looked cute.”
“Cuter than an orangutan,” I remind him. “Hardly a glowing endorsement.”
His smile grows wider, then quickly fades. “Hey, why are you using the name Morgan in class if that isn’t your last name?”
“That must be a clerical mix-up,” I say evasively as I shove my passport into my purse. I need to distract Preston from continuing to focus on my last name. “What’s your middle name?” I ask him brightly.
“George. I’m named after my father.”
“Preston George,” I say. “That has a nice ring to it.”
He rubs his face with his hand. “I generally don’t tell people what my middle name is. It’s a reminder of how much I disappointed him by not taking over the family business. George was my grandfather’s name. My dad wanted my first name to be George, but my mom put her foot down, insisting on Preston instead. She thought it would be confusing to have more than one George in the house.”
“My father would be disappointed with me too,” I say.
“Because you’re a manicurist?”
I feel a lump forming in my throat as I think about all the lies I’ve told Preston. I remind myself that it will all be over at the end of next week and I’ll never see him again. “We better get going to this archaeological park of yours.”
“Okay.” He hands me my bike helmet, then straps his on. “So, do you think you would change your name when you get married?”
“It depends on the last name. If it’s easier to spell, then sure.” I laugh. I can’t imagine any last name harder to spell than mine.
“Ready?” Preston asks.
“Yep, I’ll follow you.”
As we head onto the bicycle path, I frown. Why was Preston asking if I’d change my name when I got married? Didn’t we just agree we were just two happily single people simply enjoying a holiday romance in Italy?
* * *
During the short ride to the archaeological park, I think about Preston’s mixed signals. One minute he’s going on about how he’s happily single. The next minute, he’s asking me if I’d change my last name if I get married.
Was he thinking about me when he mentioned marriage?
No, he couldn’t be.
Could he be?
I mean, sure, Whitaker is a lot easier to spell than Maarschalkerweerd. If we got married, I’d change my name in a heartbeat. Virginia Morgan Whitaker. That has a nice ring to it. Ginny Whitaker. That sounds good too.
Then I slam on the brakes. And not just the brakes on my bike because we’ve arrived at the park, but the brakes in my stupid head. Stop thinking about getting married. Especially to Preston.
This is just a summer fling. This is just a summer fling. This is just a summer fling.
I squeeze my eyes shut and repeat this mantra over and over silently to myself.
“What’s that, Ginny?”
I open my eyes and look sideways.
Preston is next to me, leaning over his handlebars. “I didn’t catch what you said.”
My eyes widen. I really need to learn not to say my thoughts out loud, especially any mantras about how Preston doesn’t mean anything to me. “You didn’t hear what I said?”
“No, you were mumbling.” He smiles. “It was kind of cute, with your eyes all scrunched up, and your hands clasped together, kind of like you were saying a prayer.”
I seize on what he says. “That’s exactly what I was doing, praying to the patron saint of bicyclists.”
“Oh? Who’s that?”
I dig deep into the recesses of my mind. My aunt, the nun, used to quiz me on patron saints when I was a child.
Saint Barbara? No, she’s the patron saint of fireworks. I definitely don’t need to pray to her. There’s enough fireworks when Preston kisses me as it is. Although, that’s probably not the kind of fireworks Saint Barbara is all about.
Saint Isidore of Seville? Nope, he’s the guy that looks out for users of the internet. I consider pulling out my phone and doing a quick Google search, but that would kind of give away that fact that I don’t have a clue about who bikers pray to.
After a few more moments, I ring my Princess Leia bell and shout out, “Madonna del Ghisallo! She’ll protect us on the rest of our bike ride.”
“That’s good. Given how often you fall down when you’re simply walking, the last thing we need is for you to have a bike accident.” He taps the side of my helmet. “Maybe you should wear this at all times, not just on your bike.”
I quickly remove my helmet and fluff up my hair with my fingers. “Hah. Very funny.”
We stow our bikes, then Preston grabs my hand and we walk into the visitor center. As I take in my surroundings, a stocky man with a goatee bounds over to us. After shaking his hand, Preston introduces us. “This is Matteo—”
“Call me Matt,” he says as he extends his hand to me. “It’s easier for English speakers to pronounce.”
Preston nudges me. “Ginny is fluent in Italian.”
“I never said I was fluent,” I protest.
“That’s fine,” Matteo says. “I will be conducting the tour in English, in any case. It is good practice for me.” He checks his phone and frowns. “Apologies, the other person joining us is running late. We wait inside the park for him, okay?”
We exit the visitor center onto a raised, glassed-in platform that overlooks the archaeological park. Matteo points out the ruins of the original warehouses, briefly explaining how they were constructed and how they housed goods to support the ancient Roman naval port located at Classe. After he informs us that the cobbled streets are called basolata, he asks us if we know why archaeologists go bankrupt.
“Because it’s not a very high-paying job,” I venture.
Matteo nods. “Yes, that is true. But the correct answer is because their careers are in ruins.”
“Ba dum,” Preston says, mimicking someone playing the drums.
“See if you know the answer to this one,” Matteo says with a grin. “Why did the archaeologist’s wife divorce him?”
Preston and I both shrug.
“Because he was carbon dating behind her back.” Matteo slaps his hands on his thighs and guffaws. “Okay, one more. A Roman goes into a bar and holds up two fingers. ‘Give me five beers,’ he says.” Matteo holds up his right hand, his index and middle finger making a V-shape. “Get it? The letter V stands for the number five in Roman numerals.”
I put my head in my hands and groan. “Just when I think they couldn’t get any worse.”
“Hey, I’ve got one,” Preston says. “A historian joke.”
“Oh, good. I am always looking for new jokes for my children.” Matteo pulls up a photo on his phone and shows it to me. “Lucia is seven and Leonardo is five.”
“They’re adorable,” I say before handing the phone to Preston.
“They are cute,” he says, putting his arm around my shoulder and giving it a squeeze.
“Your joke,” Matteo reminds Preston.
“Right. If your name is Victor, you would have to become a historian. Why? Because history is written by the victors.”
I roll my eyes. “These are the worst bad dad jokes ever.”
“My kids love them,” Matteo says.
“I think they’re just humoring you,” Preston says.
Matteo smiles. “Wait until it is your turn, my friend. You will be telling plenty of bad jokes. Hopefully, your children take after the bellissima Ginny instead of you.”
My eyes widen, and I take a step back from Preston. “We, uh, we’re not, um—”
“But, you two are engaged, no?” Matteo says to Preston. “Surely, you will h
ave children after you are married.”
Preston clears his throat. “Ginny isn’t my fiancée.”
I hold up my left hand, highlighting the absence of an engagement ring.
There’s a long, uncomfortable silence. I even think about sharing a bad dad joke to break the tension, but I can’t think of any. Matteo’s phone buzzes. He glances at it. “Ah, the other member of our party is here.”
He waves at someone standing behind me. I turn, and my jaw drops. It’s Professor Ratcliffe, my father’s friend. What are the chances that he would be the person we were waiting for? My stomach clenches—how am I going to get out of this jam?
The professor walks toward us, surprise on his face. “Ginny? Ginny Maarschalkerweerd? Is that you? What are the chances that I would run into you here? At an archaeological park in Ravenna?”
My question exactly. What are the odds? Apparently, they are very good ones.
“I just came from the basilica. The mosaics there are stunning. Have you seen them yet?” he asks me. After I nod, his expression softens. “They made me think of your father.”
“You knew Ginny’s father?” Preston asks.
“Yes, we worked together on—”
I quickly jump in before he reveals too much about my father. “Yes, my dad helped Professor Ratcliffe with his cat. It was a tricky situation.” I put my hand on the professor’s arm, hoping he’ll get the hint. “What was her name again?”
“My cat? Esmeralda, but your father didn’t—”
Before he can say any more, I do what anyone would do in my situation. I pretend to stumble, fall into the professor’s arms, and whisper in his ear. “Just play along and I’ll explain later.”
11
Happy Birthday!
When I wake the next morning, I ignore my hunger pains. There’s no way that I’m going to go down to the breakfast buffet and risk running into Preston after yesterday’s debacle.
After my fake stumble into Professor Ratcliffe the day before, I managed to convince him to go along with my story that his wife had been a regular customer at my fictitious nail salon. I told Preston and Matteo that she and I had become friendly, bonding over a shared love of acrylic nails. That had led me to inviting her and the professor to a barbecue at my house one weekend, which was where they met my father.
Over a couple of beers, the professor and his wife told my father about the problems they had been having getting their cat, Esmerelda, to stop sharpening her claws on their furniture. My father offered his cat training services and in no time Esmerelda was happily restricting her claw-sharpening activity to the designated cat scratching post.
It was a pretty elaborate story. I even described in great detail the correct way to file your nails—only go in one direction and never file your nails when they’re wet. The guys’ eyes started to glaze over, which was exactly the reaction I was looking for. I went in for the kill, explaining the differences between acrylic and gel nails. My reasoning was that they’d want to change the subject and talk about anything other than how I knew Professor Ratcliffe and the condition of his fake wife’s cuticles.
No such luck. For some reason, Matteo wanted to know more about the professor’s wife. You’d think that wouldn’t be a problem, but it was a huge problem. You see, Professor Ratcliffe isn’t married. Never has been. So when pressed for details about his non-existent wife, he froze. Naturally, I jumped in to fill the silence. Ten minutes later, even I was starting to believe that Mrs. Ratcliffe was real. Once I finished describing their twenty-fifth wedding anniversary celebration, we finally started our tour of the archaeological park.
Normally, I would have been fascinated to have the opportunity to explore the historic site, but my nerves were frayed by this point. I managed to make it through the rest of the afternoon, and when Preston and I finally got back to the retreat center, I feigned a migraine. Before rushing off to my room, I explained that my migraines usually last for a good twenty-four hours, then wipe me out afterward so he shouldn’t expect to see me until Monday. After a gentle kiss on my forehead and making me promise to call him if I needed anything, Preston said goodbye, and I began my self-enforced isolation in my room.
The previous night was fine—I hadn’t been hungry, but this morning is a whole different story. I remind myself that besides avoiding Preston, there are other benefits to missing a meal or two. Lately, the only thing that has been comfortable to wear are my yoga pants. With all the delicious food we prepare and eat during class, the pounds have been piling on. I dread having to put on regular clothes every morning.
I remind myself that I have a clear plan that needs to be followed—stay in bed all day, snuggled up with Giuseppe, reading, and ignore my growling stomach.
By noon, I’m starving and I can’t stand what I’m reading. It’s a Star Wars book that Loretta lent me because she thinks I’m a huge fan of the franchise. Now I have to read it because she’s sure to want to discuss it with me. But the plot is so ridiculous. Seriously, shaggy seven-foot creatures called Wookies who fly around in spaceships?
My phone buzzes, giving me an excuse to put my book down. After checking to make sure it isn’t Preston calling me, I grin. It’s Mia and Isabelle wanting to video chat.
“Hey, guys,” I say, propping my phone up against the pillow and turning on my side.
“Are you still in bed?” Mia asks.
“Uh-huh.”
Isabelle pops into view. “Are you sick?” she asks with concern.
“Only as far as Preston knows. I told him I have a migraine.”
“You’re faking it?” Mia asks. “Why?”
I groan—partly from the agony of having to tell them how deep in doo-doo I’ve gotten myself with my fake manicurist backstory and partly because of hunger pains. After I explain about running into Professor Ratcliffe and inventing a wife for him, Mia surprises me. “You should tell Preston the truth. You two so belong together.”
“What? I thought you were the one who didn’t think we should get serious about guys.”
Isabelle laughs. “That was until she met Pierre.”
“Pierre. That’s a French name. Aren’t you guys in Germany?”
“We are,” Mia says, turning the phone so that I can see a classic Bavarian town in the background. “You remember Pierre from the cruise ship, don’t you?”
“Pierre?” The only men we really spoke with on our transatlantic crossing were Celeste’s suitors—there hadn’t been many guys our age. I furrow my brow. “Oh, wait a minute. Is he that waiter?”
Isabelle says, “Bingo. The two of them have been in constant contact since we disembarked.”
“He’s calling you from the cruise ship? Isn’t that expensive?”
“No, he’s in Paris,” Mia says. “He finished up his contract. I’m going to meet up with him when I get there. He said he’ll help me find a job at an art gallery through his connections.”
“She’s in love,” Isabelle coos.
“No, I’m not,” Mia says. “But he is cute, and nice, and—”
Isabelle interrupts. “Enough about Pierre. That’s all I hear about these days. Tell us more about Preston.”
“There’s nothing to report,” I say.
“Liar,” Mia says. “You’re turning bright red. Something’s going on.”
“It is not.” I put my hand on my cheek and remember how Preston caressed it at the basilica on Saturday.
“Oh, that’s right,” Mia says. “You’re not in love with him, you’re smitten with him. That’s what he always says, right? Smitten?”
“Uh-huh.” I roll over on my back and hold the phone in front of me. “He does have some old-fashioned quirks.”
“Just tell him how you feel and why you thought you had to hide who you really are from him,” Mia urges. “He’ll understand.”
“But what if he doesn’t? He’s a bigwig in the ancient history community. Once he finds out I’ve been accused of plagiarism, he won’t want anything to do with m
e.”
“He won’t believe that you’re actually guilty,” Mia says.
“That’s exactly what he’ll believe. I dropped out of graduate school. It’s like an admission of guilt.”
Isabelle’s face fills the screen. “Or he might just think you’re not a fighter. That you gave up without a fight.”
“I couldn’t fight it,” I say. “I didn’t want to ruin my father’s reputation.”
“You’ll regret that for the rest of your life,” Isabelle says bitterly. “Trust me. I know from my own experience.” Then she shakes her head. “Sorry. That’s my baggage, not yours. Let’s look at this logically—”
“Love isn’t logical,” Mia says, pulling the phone back so that she’s on screen.
Isabelle ignores her. “You have two options, really—continue with your story and enjoy the last of this holiday fling, or come clean and see if there’s something more. Something long-term. It really comes down to how you feel about him. Do you want him enough to fight for him? To fight for your relationship?”
“It’s not worth it,” I say. “He won’t believe me, and I’ll have to show for it is more humiliation. I can’t go through that again. I’ve already cut off everyone I know from the academic world. People told me they believe me, but I could see in their eyes that they had doubts. I don’t want to go through that with Preston too. And then when you add in the fact that I’ve lied about pretty much everything to him, there’s no way things will ever work out with him.”
“Well, there’s your answer then,” Isabelle says. “You don’t feel strongly enough about him to risk telling him the truth.”
I take a deep breath, then let it out slowly. “You’re right. I have to accept that this is just a holiday fling. Now all I have to do is survive the last week of cooking school without him making the connection between my last name and my father.”
* * *
When I wake on Monday morning, I have a headache. I’m not sure if it’s some sort of cosmic payback for faking a migraine to get out of seeing Preston or if it’s due to the fact that I haven’t eaten since Saturday night.
Smitten with Ravioli Page 11
