by R.S. Grey
He offered a curt nod and continued to lead me across the square.
When it was clear he wasn’t going to offer up his name on his own, I asked.
“And what are you called?”
“Gianluca.”
The name slipped off his tongue so beautifully, I nearly asked him to say it once more, just so I could listen to his accent.
“But his friends call him Luca,” Massimo filled in, rushing forward to catch up to us.
Luca. I rolled the name around my head, testing it on his tall frame. It fit perfectly.
…
The door to my room was barely locked before I lunged for the twin bed and collapsed on top of the sheets. I’d meant to rest there for only a moment before getting up to wash, but my body had other plans. A short nap turned into the longest, deepest sleep of my life. I didn’t wake until the following morning, disoriented and so hungry I was nearly delirious. It’d been over twenty-four hours since I’d had a meal.
I blinked my eyes open, rolled to sit up, and waited for the dizziness to overtake me again.
It didn’t.
Which meant it was time to show Vernazza my good side—that is, the one not covered in vomit.
I threw off my soiled clothes from the day before and hopped into the shower. My room was barely more than a broom cupboard, but it was cheap. Plus, the woman who’d checked me in the day before had promised I could stay as long as I wanted, though I suspected she’d have said anything to elicit a smile from Gianluca. I toweled off and inspected my surroundings. There was the small bed, the sheets still mostly in place despite my having collapsed right on top of them, and a small wicker chair resting in the corner of the room. The plaster walls were painted a light blue and a small painting of the choppy sea hung on the wall over the bed.
I turned to the door, where Massimo and Gianluca had dropped my luggage the day before. They’d ensured I made it to my room all right and then they’d nearly sprinted away, no promise of meeting up or seeing me again. Oh god, who’d blame them. I’d accused them of kidnapping me! It was all a bit depressing. Gianluca was one of the most handsome men I’d ever met and I hadn’t even properly seen him, not with the cap on. In all likelihood, I probably wouldn’t get another chance. He’d seen me at my absolute worst, bits of dried throw-up and all.
I sighed and dragged my suitcase across the floor, deciding to forget about my embarrassing arrival. Sure, it would have been lovely if Gianluca had insisted on staying the night and nursing me back to health (with his mouth), but there would be other men in Italy, other deliciously handsome men—I was sure of it.
I propped my suitcase open on the wicker chair and started to flip through my clothes. It was early summer in Italy, chilly in the mornings and evenings but warm and sunny in the afternoons. I rummaged around for a simple white sundress and was about to drop my towel when a loud gothic bell rang out in the square behind me, reminding me where I was.
Vernazza.
I grinned and flew to the window, flinging it open with enough gusto that the shutters slapped against the plaster walls inside my room. It punched me right in the gut, the beauty of the place. The main square was surrounded on three sides by pastel buildings: small hotels, rooms, apartments, restaurants stacked up three or four stories high on the mountainside. They were all varying shades of pink and light red, yellow and green, cast in early morning light. The sun had barely begun to rise over the terraced hills surrounding the small village. The sea air swelled past the window, blooming goosebumps across my exposed shoulders. I clutched my towel around my middle and leaned out, glancing to the left and inhaling the harbor and sea that lined the village on the fourth side. It was just as spectacular as the view from the train: turquoise water and bright blue skies stretched out to infinity.
The church bells rang seven times in total, a beautiful sound that I mourned after they’d finished, but then I remembered that they’d only just begun. The day was young. I left the windows open, enjoying the cool breeze as I dressed for the day. I didn’t bother fixing myself up. After a day of suffering, I wanted to get out and explore. Besides, my stomach was grumbling so loud I feared I would wake up the other guests staying in the building.
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 Ital
ian 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 Luca!”
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.
THE NEXT MORNING, I woke up to the sound of the heavy church bells. They clanged merrily in the square as I lazed about in bed, in no hurry to leave my warm cocoon. I’d left the shutters open through the night and the sea air swelled into my room, fluttering the thin cream drape up and away from the window. I’d only been there for a day and a half and I’d already learned that the scents of Vernazza changed based on the hour. In the early morning, when the restaurants were closed, the air was fresh, crisp. By the afternoon, as the sun blazed overhead, rich Italian aromas wafted up from the restaurants, luring me down to their doorsteps.
I rolled onto my side, stared out at the mountains past my window, and thought back on my first full day in Vernazza. I’d mostly kept to myself, dipping in and out of shops, sampling two gelatarias, and eating lunch outside a small pizza shop, inhaling two slices like a greedy chipmunk. I’d hoped to run into Gianluca again, but by late morning the square was crowded with tourists. The chances of finding anyone in particular were slim to none.
In the afternoon, I’d propped the wicker chair in my room right in front of the open window and sat down to read. My paperback mostly went untouched as I people-watched through the window. I had a perfect vantage point. My window faced the square and if I dipped my head out just a bit, I could watch the kids splashing in the water.
In the late afternoon, I’d watched a group of older Italian men convene in a corner of the square under crisp, white umbrellas. They pulled out a few decks of cards, and for the next two hours, their conversations and card-playing drifted up to my window like a soft hum.
It was all so different than England. The smallness of it, the lack of pretension. I wanted more.
I flung off my sheets, showered, and hurried to get dressed in jean shorts and a white tank top. I took a few extra minutes to apply a thin layer of makeup, just in case I ran into Gianluca outside The Blue Marlin. This time, I would call out to him and strike up a witty conversation. I’d thank him for helping me and I’d offer up a drink or dinner as repayment.
I was positively humming with the idea of seeing him as I locked up and skipped down the stairs of the hotel.
The front desk was empty and I nearly breezed past it before I heard my name behind me. I spun around and saw Chiara pop out of a broom cupboard in the back of the building.
“You’re in a hurry,” she said with a little smile.
I laughed. “Oh, yeah, just off to have breakfast.”
She smiled and drummed her fingers on the doorframe, clearly wanting to chat. I tilted my head. “How are you?”
Her smile widened at my question. “I’m good. Just…wishing I didn’t have to work today.”
Her English was easy to understand, though she spoke slowly, thinking over each word before she spoke.
“It’s supposed to be a beautiful day,” she continued.
I nodded. “I might test the water, try to tan my pale English arse a bit.”
She giggled and stepped closer, rounding behind the front desk and propping her elbows up on top of it. “I mean to ask you…” She glanced out the door and the
n back to me, working up the courage to continue. “The first day, you were with the two guys…”
“Massimo and Gianluca?”
Her eyes lit up. “Yes! I was wondering, um, how you became to know them?”
“How I met them?” I asked, making sure I’d understood her.
She nodded.
I explained to her how they’d helped me when I’d passed out in the square, how they’d carried me into the abandoned bed and breakfast across the square and then suggested I get a room here.
“I didn’t know them or anything, but they were very nice to help me out.”
“And Gianluca? He helped too?”
I frowned, a bit confused. “Yes. Why?”
She smiled. “Many girls in the village…lo amano.”
The way she spoke about him, the slight glow on her cheeks proved that Chiara was likely one of these girls.
“Love,” she continued, as if I hadn’t understood her point already.
“Does he date any of them?” I asked before I could stop myself.
She shook her head vehemently. “He’s, umm…” Her cheeks went red as cherries. “He sometimes goes just for one night or so. Nothing serious.”
Interesting.
Footsteps sounded on the stairs behind us and Chiara straightened up to greet the guests trickling down. I offered her a wave and promised to chat soon, enticed by the possibility of her continuing to spill info about Gianluca.
Like the day before, the square was quiet in the early morning hours. Shutters were locked tight, restaurants were closed, umbrellas and chairs were stacked out of the way. I scratched the sleepy cat on the boat cover again (lazy bugger) and reminded myself to bring him back a bit of meat from my breakfast.
Small trucks and carts were driving up and down the road for their early morning deliveries and midway to The Blue Marlin, I glimpsed the beginnings of an open-air market. Trucks and stalls, small tables, and umbrellas were popping up. None of them were ready for customers yet, but I surveyed their goods as I passed. A few of them were selling fresh produce from around the region, fruits and vegetables in every color. There was salami and cheese, pesto and olive oil, lemons the size of my head! A woman at a flower stand rearranged buckets of fresh blooms and I longed to buy some, but I had nothing to store them in back in my small room.
