Italian for Beginners

by Kristin Harmel

  “Wow,” Becky said. Then she smiled. “Well. Good for you.” She paused and added, “So, are you going to call that guy? What’s his name? Francisco?”

  I swallowed. “Francesco,” I corrected. “And yes. I mean, I’ve e-mailed him already.”

  For the second time that night, Becky’s jaw literally dropped. “You did? That’s so unlike you.”

  “Yeah, well, I’m trying to step out of my comfort zone a little more, you know?”

  “Well, wow,” Becky said. She shook her head. “I don’t know what to say.”

  “I do,” my father said firmly. “I’m proud of you, honey. You’re going to have a great time.” He raised his coffee mug. “To Cat!” he said.

  “To Cat,” Becky and Jay echoed as all four of us clinked mugs.

  By the next day at four, I was so excited I could hardly concentrate on my work. Kris kept assuring me that she’d be fine in my absence and that Puffer & Hamlin wouldn’t fall apart without me. I knew she was teasing me, but I still felt uneasy. I’d never left for more than a few days since I’d started working here. What if one of my clients needed me? What if some disaster happened when I was gone, and I wasn’t here to fix it?

  “We can always reach you by e-mail,” Kris soothed with an amused expression on her face. “And since you also have three hundred capable coworkers, I have the feeling that someone here will be able to solve any problem that comes up.”

  “ But—”

  “No buts,” Kris said firmly. “Seriously. Just go. Stop worrying. Have a good time for once in your life.”

  I avoided two more cell calls from Michael that day and deleted the messages he’d left without listening to them. There was a sliver of me that wanted to tell him that I was going to Italy, but I knew I shouldn’t even be thinking about him still. I called the cell phone company and asked them to up me to an international plan for the next thirty days. And I called my cable company and suspended service while I was gone.

  “Geez, is there anything you don’t think of?” Kris asked, shaking her head in amusement.

  “I like to be prepared,” I said.

  Just then, my cell phone rang. It was Becky’s cell number. She never called during the day unless something was wrong. I answered immediately.

  “Cat?” Her voice sounded small and far away. I could hear her whimpering a little.

  “Becky?” I asked. “Are you okay?” Kris shot me a worried look.

  Becky paused. “Not really,” she said. “I kind of messed up.”

  I closed my eyes for a moment. I’d heard those words from her more times than I could count. “What happened?”

  More sniffling. “I, um, borrowed Mrs. Cohen’s car.”

  I sighed. Mrs. Cohen was a sweet old lady whose miniature poodle Becky had been walking for years. “Becky, you don’t have a driver’s license.”

  “I know.”

  “And?”

  She paused. “Well, I just wanted to use it to take Mitzi up to Central Park for a walk. And you know, I couldn’t exactly take her on the subway, because they don’t allow dogs, and I didn’t have the money for a cab ride all the way uptown.”

  “A cab would have been cheaper than paying to park up there.” I couldn’t help interjecting a little logic into the story.

  “Cat, as if I couldn’t talk some young parking lot guy into letting me leave my car there for an hour while I walk the dog,” Becky scoffed.

  I considered this. It was true. Becky batted her eyes, and men lined up to do what they could to assist her. When I batted mine, people just thought I needed eyedrops.

  “True,” I said. “So what went wrong?”

  She heaved a big sigh. “Well, everything was fine, and I was just driving uptown when this total jerk cut me off, so I took a left to avoid him, and I wound up on Broadway, heading north.”

  “But Broadway is southbound,” I said.

  Becky paused. “Er, yeah,” she said. “That was the problem.”

  “You drove into oncoming traffic on Broadway?” I demanded. I glanced up to see Kris shaking her head. Typical, she mouthed.

  “ Uh-huh,” Becky whimpered.

  “And?” I asked.

  “I kind of got hit.”

  “Oh, my God! Are you okay?”

  “Just a little banged up,” she said. “I’ll be fine. Mitzi’s okay, too, thank goodness. But the car…”

  “Totaled?” I guessed.

  “Not exactly,” she said quickly. “But it’s pretty bad. I talked to the guy at the repair shop, and he said he could knock the price down, since I was so sweet to him and everything, but it will still be a lot to fix it.”

  “Doesn’t Mrs. Cohen have insurance?” I asked.

  “I haven’t exactly told her,” she said. “She doesn’t even drive the car anymore. I mean, it’s a waste, if you ask me. How can you just let a Porsche sit in a garage and rot?”

  “You wrecked a Porsche?” I asked in disbelief.

  “The guy can fix it,” Becky said in a small voice. “He says that when he’s done with it, Mrs. Cohen won’t even notice.”

  I took a deep breath and pinched the bridge of my nose, trying to channel calm. “What do you need?”

  “I don’t exactly have the money to pay for it,” she said. “We kind of spent everything on our honeymoon. My credit cards are maxed out.”

  “Can’t you just come clean with Mrs. Cohen?”

  “Well, the thing is, she’s friends with all the other ladies whose dogs I walk,” Becky said. “So if she gets mad at me, I know she’ll tell her friends, and I’ll lose, like, all the business I’ve built up over the last five years. It would be devastating.”

  “So you want to borrow money from me?” I guessed.

  “Only a little bit,” she said quickly. “And I’ll pay you back. I swear.”

  I paused for a moment. I knew I’d say yes. I always said yes. I’d bailed Becky out of messes at least a dozen times. But I’d always had a cushion in the past, too. Now, between buying my apartment last year, using my credit cards for a few months to scrape by while I made the initial mortgage payments, and putting the airline reservation and Rome hotel on my card, I was pretty much out of spending power. Because of my good credit, I’d been allowed to take out a higher loan amount than I should have, but that also meant that I couldn’t request a credit line increase anytime soon; I was already overextended.

  “How much do you need?” I asked. I held my breath, hardly wanting to know the answer.

  “Two thousand nine hundred fifty-one dollars and sixty-five cents,” she said quickly.

  “Three thousand dollars?” I repeated. Across the narrow hallway, Kris’s jaw dropped.

  “Now you’re exaggerating,” Becky said. “It’s not quite that much! And I’ll pay you back, Cat! You know I will!”

  “Becky,” I said slowly. “I can’t. I’m out of room on my cards.”

  She was silent for a moment. “You’re out of room?”

  “Hang on,” I said. I logged on to the Web sites for the three credit cards I owned and did the quick math. “Becky, I only have about fifteen hundred dollars between my three cards.”

  “But I need twice that,” she whimpered. “I’ll lose my jobs. And if I lose my jobs, we won’t be able to pay the rent. It’ll, like, ruin our lives.”

  I closed my eyes. “Becky, isn’t there anything else you can do?”

  “I can’t ask Dad.”

  We both knew our father didn’t have the money. He was barely scraping by as it was. In fact, Becky didn’t know it, but I’d had to loan him his rent money a few times this year when he didn’t have it. “I know,” I sighed.

  I thought for a moment. I glanced up at Kris, who was just shaking her head. I knew exactly what she was thinking. She would be furious with me if I bailed Becky out of yet another mess at my own expense. But Kris didn’t have sisters. She’d never been in this position. You had to help your family if you were capable of doing so.

  I clos
ed the credit card Web sites and opened the site for the hotel in Rome, which I had bookmarked. I gazed longingly at it for a moment. “Give me five minutes, and I’ll have the funds available, okay?” I said.

  “Thank you,” Becky said in a small voice. “You’re the best. I promise I’ll pay you back.”

  “I know,” I said.

  “You can just read me the numbers, and I can give them to the guy,” she said helpfully. “You don’t even need to come down here.”

  I told her I’d call her right back, then I slowly pushed END. I typed a few things in the computer and hit ENTER. Then I looked up to find Kris exactly where I’d expected her to be, standing over me, glaring down.

  “What did you just do?” she asked accusingly.

  “Becky got into a car accident and needed some money,” I mumbled.

  “You told her you were out of money,” she said.

  “I was,” I said. I paused. “But she needed me.”

  “And?” Kris asked impatiently.

  “And I canceled the hotel in Rome,” I said in a small voice.

  “What?” Kris demanded. “Cat, are you insane? Where are you going to stay?”

  “I don’t really need to go,” I said. “I mean, maybe this is a sign. I’m just not meant to go over there. And what’s more important? Some frivolous trip? Or my sister?”

  “That’s a ridiculous question,” Kris snapped. “In this case, the trip was more important. Your sister has asked you for money and favors more times than I can even count!”

  “But that’s what you do for family,” I said.

  “That is not what you do for irresponsible, selfish family members who always take advantage of you,” Kris said. “And besides, your airline ticket is nonrefundable.”

  “So I lose nine hundred dollars,” I said. “The world won’t end.”

  Kris took a deep breath. “How much do you have left between your cards?”

  “Not enough for a hotel,” I said. “I guess it just wasn’t meant to be.”

  She stared at me for a moment. “The hell it’s not,” she muttered. She bent down next to me and pushed me aside. She opened up my AOL in-box, which I was already logged in to, and she scrolled down my incoming messages until she got the last note from Francesco. She opened it, hit REPLY, and typed something quickly. She hit SEND before I could see what she’d written.

  “What did you just write?” I demanded.

  She crossed her arms defiantly. “None of your concern,” she said.

  I pushed her back aside and opened the sent mailbox. My jaw dropped as I scanned her message.

  Hi, Francesco, she had written. I made a really, really stupid mistake and decided to loan my sister some money. Now I won’t be able to pay for a hotel in Rome. Do you think it would be possible for me to stay with you?

  “Kris!” I exclaimed. “I can’t believe you just did that!”

  She shrugged and narrowed her eyes. “Someone had to. You are way too ready to keep living on the safe side.”

  We both stared at the computer for a moment. I knew Francesco had just been scared away, that he wouldn’t reply, and that I’d feel even more foolish than I had when this whole fiasco had begun. After all, he hadn’t seen me in years. Surely he wouldn’t want me to be his random houseguest.

  And then a new e-mail popped up in my in-box.

  “Told you he’d write back,” Kris said as she clicked to open the message. We both stared at the words on the screen.

  You with me would be perfect, he had written. I am counting the moments until I see you. Love, Francesco.

  “Oh, my goodness,” I said.

  “Cat Connelly,” Kris said, grinning triumphantly, “you’re out of excuses. You’re going to Rome.”

  Chapter Six

  Twenty-four hours later, I was sitting in a middle seat of an Alitalia flight from New York to Rome, still in disbelief.

  Even after Francesco had said I could stay with him, I had fully expected something to go wrong. Perhaps, I told myself, my boss will tell me I can’t possibly leave on such short notice. But in fact, my boss was so pleased that I was taking vacation time that he even ordered me a going-away bouquet from the florist in our lobby.

  As I sat on the plane, unable to sleep thanks to my racing mind and the full fleet of butterflies flapping around in my stomach, I tried to conjure what it would be like when Francesco and I saw each other for the first time again.

  I knew I’d recognize him, of course. But how would he look after thirteen years? Would he have gained weight? Would he have lost some of his muscular physique? Would the laugh lines around his eyes have grown much deeper?

  Of course he was older than me, I had to remind myself. A good seven years older. So he was already into his forties. It was a strange thought; the last time I’d seen him, he’d been twenty-eight. It seemed as though nearly a lifetime had passed.

  Could he have married and divorced since I’d last seen him? Could he have had a child? I wondered if he frequented the same bars, rode the same moped, still liked to twirl his spaghetti twice and then suck the strands messily in through his front teeth. I wondered if he still smoked when he drank or whether he’d outgrown that. Had he started shaving every day instead of letting his sexy stubble accumulate? Did he get haircuts more regularly instead of letting his curls grow a little wild? Did he wear business suits now, or was he still wearing collared shirts and jeans to work? Would he still laugh at my jokes and smile at me as though we shared a special secret?

  It was just past 2 p.m. Italian time when I finally cleared customs and began walking toward the international arrivals exit of Rome’s Fiumicino Airport, a sprawling, old-fashioned place that hadn’t changed since I’d seen it last. My heart was pounding as I dragged my suitcase behind me, moving as fast as I could. I knew that Francesco was just yards away. The dark-tinted automatic doors loomed up ahead like the entrance to another world. Taking a deep breath, I quickened my pace and strode through, my eyes scanning the waiting crowd.

  And then, there he was. It was like something out of a dream.

  I recognized him right away. Thirteen years had done little to dull his sharp-edged good looks. In fact, as he moved toward middle age, he looked even better. His hair was still thick and jet-black; his smile lines were few but looked deliciously sexy; his darkly tanned skin was still taut across his strong-featured face. He was wearing dark jeans and a gray designer T-shirt that clung to him in all the right places, showing me that he’d lost none of the muscular structure to his arms and shoulders that I’d found so attractive long ago.

  He was scanning the crowd, too, and I lifted a hand to wave as he glanced in my direction, but he seemed to look right at me and look away, as if he hadn’t seen me. My heart sank a little, but that was silly. He continued scanning, slowly, leisurely, while I hurried toward him, my heart hammering.

  “Francesco!” I said loudly, once I was in shouting distance. “Over here!” I raised my right arm above my head and waved it madly, trying to get his attention.

  Finally, his eyes focused on me, and I saw the spark of recognition in his face. He blinked a few times, seeming to take me in, then he smiled as I rushed forward.

  “Bella!” he exclaimed. “Che sorpresa!”

  I let go of my suitcase just a few feet from him and rushed into his arms. It felt a bit like being enveloped in the past as he kissed me on both cheeks and pulled me into a hug. It felt amazing. It was the way Francesco had always held me, every time we embraced, and it felt so familiar now that I almost wanted to cry.

  “What are you doing here?” Francesco exclaimed, pulling away from me finally and studying me.

  “I know!” I said. I couldn’t wipe the grin from my face. “It’s the most spontaneous thing I’ve ever done, just e-mailing you like that and hopping on a plane.”

  His brow creased and he stared at me. “But why?” he asked after a moment. “Why did you come all this way?”

  “I never… I never forgave m
yself for leaving the way I did. For not following up on what could have happened between us. I’m sorry.”

  “Ah,” Francesco said, his lovely green eyes boring into mine and making me tingle. “È bel niente. It’s nothing. Non ti preoccupi.”

  Francesco spoke proficient English, but he had an endearing habit of peppering his words with Italian phrases. It had always seemed to me to be very charming, very cosmopolitan. The fact that he was releasing me from blame as he stood there gazing down at me made my insides do backflips.

  “I’ve missed you,” I said softly.

  He paused and then smiled. “E tu.” He glanced down at my suitcase. “So. Shall we go?”

  I nodded, and as Francesco grasped my hand tightly with his right hand and began effortlessly dragging my suitcase with his left, my heart swelled. I felt like part of a couple, part of a pair again. But as we exited into the bright afternoon sunshine outside the terminal and made our way toward Francesco’s little Fiat, it occurred to me that I had no idea where we were going or what his life was like now.

  We made small talk as we sped toward the city. Francesco drove the way I remembered, quickly and aggressively, cutting off other drivers, cursing under his breath when someone got in his way. I supposed I’d expected that he would have grown out of this form of Italian-specific road rage. But strangely, it wasn’t a turnoff to me that he was still like this. It made me feel closer to him, as though less time had passed and fewer changes had transpired. Maybe I did still know this man. Maybe he still knew me, too.

  “So, you were able to just leave your job, like that?” Francesco asked as he cut off an old woman in a coupe and wove deftly between two helmetless moped riders.

  “I haven’t taken much vacation time,” I said, trying not to feel paralyzed with the fear of dying in a fiery car crash on the A91.

  Francesco glanced at me and smiled slyly. “You must have a good job, no? Very good?”

  I laughed. “It’s all right,” I said. “Same thing I’ve always done. I work in accounting.”