Simone whistles and shakes his head.
“What? What does that whistle mean?”
“It is not possible, bella.”
What a difference a few hours and a few feet of water make. I was flattered when Simone called me bella on the way to Poggibonsi; now, I want to garrote him with the straps of my bike helmet.
“What am I going to do? I have to get back before the group or my cover will be blown.”
Simone frowns. “Cover? I do not understand what this is.”
“If I don’t make it back to the Agriturismo soon”—I enunciate each word as if I am talking to a slow-witted child—“the Frenchman will know I was putting the wool on top of him.”
“Perhaps you ride your bike back?”
“I would never be able to find my way back from here, besides, my”—I pause because I can’t very well tell the Italian my ass hurts from a sketchy tattoo—“my sense of loyalty would not allow me to leave you here by yourself.”
“I try her again, no?”
“Yes! Try her again.”
Simone turns the key in the ignition, the Chevy shudders before sparking to life.
We both cheer.
Simone slams it into gear. The Chevy sputters forward several feet and then dies again.
“Well, at least now only the rear tires are submerged,” I say, in an effort to be positive. “Maybe if we give it a few minutes and try again, we’ll get the rest of your truck out of the river.”
“Creek.”
“Whatever.”
We make small talk, fiddle with the radio, share a power bar from my bike pack, and skip stones into the river, before climbing back into the Chevy to give it another go.
Simone turns the ignition, but nothing happens.
It’s a no-go.
“She will work again,” Simone promises. “We give her a little more time.”
I look at my watch. It’s already been two hours since Simone picked me up. The group will have made it back to the Agriturismo by now. Eighteen miles is nothing for Tour de France Luc, Motivated Fanny, and the overachieving Byrons.
Another hour passes. Operation Shortcut is a big, fat bust. I am not going to pull off this deception.
“I go now,” Simone says, opening his door. “I walk to Poggibonsi and get help.”
“Are you sure? It’s at least two miles.”
“It is nothing.” He steps out of the truck and onto the muddy riverbank. “If I hurry, I will be back before it is dark.” He slams his door. “Will you be okay alone?”
“Of course,” I say, with far more bravado than I actually feel. “Go, I’ll be fine.”
As long as a serial killer doesn’t decide to drop his hogtied, eviscerated victim into the river.
Simone wades through the river, makes it to the other side, and begins the long walk back to Poggibonsi. As soon as he disappears around the bend, my nerves kick into overdrive. What if the truck gets swept downstream? What if the serial killer finds Simone walking alone in the dark? What if a pack of rabid, starving wolves comes out of the forest and tears me limb from limb, leaving only a pile of picked clean bones and a pair of black and pink cycling shoes to identify me by?
If I had a choice, I think I would choose the serial killer over the wolves. Remember Buffalo Bill in Silence of the Lambs? Sure, he skinned his victims, but only after he allowed them the opportunity to apply liberal amounts of lotion. If I am going to die, at least I will die with smooth well-hydrated skin.
What am I saying?
I slide over, pump the gas pedal, and turn the key in the ignition, but nothing. The Chevy doesn’t cough, sputter, shake, and it sure as hell doesn’t start.
It’s getting darker now. The forest is alive with the sounds of stirring night creatures, and I am really starting to freak out.
For the first time, like ever, I wish I would have taken automotive skills instead of creative writing in high school. Writing a clever haiku is a fairly useless skill when you’re facing certain death by drowning, dismemberment, or devouring.
When I was in college, I briefly dated a motorhead who worked at a Porsche dealership. He tried to teach me basic automotive maintenance and troubleshooting, but I didn’t really pay attention. I wonder, now, if any of those lessons filtered in and settled somewhere deep in my subconscious.
Maybe I have latent automotive repair knowledge and I don’t even know it! It would be cool if I had the truck running before Simone returned, the ultimate Girl Power moment.
I can do this! I can do this! I can do this!
Totally psyched, I reach down, pull the lever to pop the hood, open the door, and jump down, forgetting that the truck is parked on a muddy riverbank. My cycling shoes sink deep into the muck.
Merde!
I try to take a step, but can’t lift my foot out of the sludge. It’s as thick as a bog. Oh my God! Maybe it is a bog! Maybe I will sink farther and farther each time I move, until the mud finally swallows me whole. One hundred years from now, some poor, unfortunate hiker will find my perfectly preserved leathery body. Archeologists will christen me The Bog Girl of Tuscany and put me on display in museums around the world.
Panic is setting in. I must get control.
Deep, cleansing breath.
I try to move my foot again. This time it lifts out of the sludge with a loud sucking noise. I take a step and fall flat on my face.
I’m rolling around in the mud, trying to get a handhold to hoist myself out of the sludge, but I just keep slipping down the bank and into the river. When I finally manage to pull myself out of the primordial muck, I’m soaking wet, my hair is hanging in clumps, and my precious Cartier tank watch is caked with mud. I wring the water out of my bicycle shorts, flick something slimy off my arm, and get to work.
I lift the hood and stare at the Chevy’s big engine. It all looks like a jumble of wires, metal parts, and hoses.
Think. Think.
I remember Motorhead telling me something about a seven point check, but I don’t remember what the seven points are. Tires, battery—spark plugs, maybe? Spark plugs. That sounds about right. Maybe the spark plugs just got really wet. Maybe if I dry them off, they’ll work again.
I lean over, searching for something that looks vaguely spark pluggish. I see some hoses attached to big screw like things and decide those must be spark plugs.
I climb onto the front bumper, pull one of the hoses off, and am blowing on the screwy thing when I hear a car approach. It’s coming from the opposite direction of Poggibonsi, so I know it’s not Simone. A second later, I hear a vehicle pull to a stop behind me.
My heart races. It’s finally happened. The serial killer has arrived, and he’s found me in a vulnerable position, too weak and wet to resist being hog-tied.
You know when you watch those true crime shows, like Dateline or Disappeared, and the survivors describe how their lives flashed before them in the moments before they were raped/kidnapped/bludgeoned/hogtied? I am having that same bio-pic moment. Hundreds of frames are flickering in my brain. And then, the flickering stops and one inspiring thought crystalizes in my mind: If I die tonight, I will never be able to eat Mr. Foo’s spicy chicken again. That’s an odd thing to be thinking about moments before death. Most people think of their loved ones or their Maker, but not me, no, I’m thinking of an elderly Asian man with a bad case of rickets.
I drop the hose and hop down off the bumper. If this freak thinks I am just going to curl up in the fetal position and let him hogtie me, he’s in for a brutal reality check. I turn around to look death in the face, but am blinded by headlights. Whatinthehell? The pervo hasn’t even gotten out of the car. He’s just sitting, watching me.
The driver’s side door opens.
Holy Hannibal Lecter, this is it!
“What are you doing, Vivia?”
Fanfreakingtastic! It’s not Hannibal Lecter, it’s Luc!
I am so busted.
The only thing that could’ve made this day worse is if Luc had arrived when I was rolling around in the mud like a redneck at the National Redneck Olymp-Hicks. Wouldn’t that have been a sexy image to leave him with?
“Luc?”
“You were expecting someone else?”
“Actually, I thought you were Hannibal Lecter.”
He reaches inside the car and jabs a button on the dashboard. The headlights turn off.
“Who?”
“Hannibal Lecter from Silence of the Lambs.” I get no response so I make the slurping sound Anthony Hopkins made in the movie and say, “‘Fava beans and a nice Chianti.’”
Luc says nothing. He doesn’t laugh or even smile. He stares at me as if I were the most repugnant creature he’s ever encountered. Maybe I went a little too far with the Lecter impersonation.
“What are you doing here, Luc?”
“I might ask you the same thing.”
“That’s a long story,” I laugh, knocking a clod of dried mud from my shoe. “I am not sure I know where to begin.”
Luc walks to the front of his car, crosses his arms, and sits on the hood. He’s wearing his linen suit, which makes me painfully aware of my sorry appearance. I’ve never felt more gauche than I do at this moment, bathed in mud, standing in front of a stylish European.
“Why don’t you start by telling me what you were doing under the hood of that truck?”
“The truck won’t start. I think we flooded the engine when we drove into the river. It was running fine, and then it just made this choking noise and stalled.” I pause in the middle of my anxiety-fuelled blathering to hop back up on the bumper and yank a hose off a spark plug. I turn back around, hose in hand. “I thought maybe the spark plugs got wet, so I pulled this hose thingy off and was blowing on it when you pulled up.”
I think maybe Luc is trying to not laugh because his lips are twitching and his eyes aren’t as flat as they were a few seconds ago.
“Who is we?”
“What?”
“You said, ‘I think we flooded the engine,” Luc says, narrowing his gaze. “Who is we, Vivia?”
Shitballs.
This is the moment I’ve been dreading. The moment when I tell Luc that I didn’t ride to Poggibonsi but hitched a ride with the handsy horseman.
“Who is we, Vivia?”
I open my mouth, but close it again when I hear a truck approaching from the other side of the river. A door opens, slams shut, and Simone calls my name.
Luc looks across the river and his face hardens. He doesn’t need to say a word; it’s written all over his face. Jealousy, anger, disappointment, disbelief. I know how this looks and it’s not good.
“So you decided to take Horse Boy up on his offer to give you a ride?” Luc moves closer to me and lowers his voice. “And here I thought…” He runs his hand through his hair. “I’ve been an idiot. When you didn’t come back, I imagined the worst. I’ve been driving all over Poggibonsi looking for you, praying you were safe. I never imagined—”
“It’s not what you think.”
“Really? What is it then?”
Simone wades across the river and joins us.
“It looks like your gig is up, bella,” Simone says, oblivious of the tension crackling around us. “So much for putting the wool on your Frenchman.”
“Jig, Simone.” My patience for the grammatically challenged Italian has reached the limit. “It looks like the jig is—never mind.”
Luc glares at me. “What does he mean, ‘putting the wool on your Frenchman?’”
“I find her on the side of the road,” Simone says, apparently happy to sell me down the river, no pun intended. “I give her ride to Poggibonsi so she gets there before you. She is a sneaky girl, no?”
Luc doesn’t answer Simone. He looks at me and shakes his head. His pained expression reminds me of the face Ricky Ricardo would make after discovering Lucy in another ridiculous situation. I’m half expecting him to say, “Lucy, you got some ’splainin’ to do.”
Instead, he says, “Where’s your bike?”
“In the back of the truck,” I say, feeling like a kid who’s been caught out after curfew. “I’ll go get it.”
“Stay, Vivia.”
Luc walks into the river heedless of his expensive loafers and suit, lifts my bike out of the flatbed, and stows it in the back of his van.
He returns, shrugs out of his suit coat, and wraps it around my shoulders.
“You’re shivering,” he says, rubbing my arms. “Why don’t you go wait in the van? I’m going to see if I can help your horseman.”
My horseman. The words are like two little daggers piercing my heart.
Luc says something to Simone in Italian. Simone responds. They walk to the truck.
I take my muddy shoes off and carry them to the van. My shoes feel as if they weigh a thousand pounds. So do my limbs…and my heart.
I hop into the van and watch Luc. His suit coat is still around my shoulders, warmed by the heat from his body. I pull it closer and inhale. The lingering scent of his warm, sultry cologne reminds me of our day together in Cannes, when he made love to me in the bright Mediterranean sunshine. Tears and a thick lump clog my throat.
What is wrong with me? Why do I keep making the same mistakes? I pretended to be a virgin with Nathan. I skirted around the truth like it was a land mine. When it finally, inevitably, detonated, it obliterated Nathan’s love for me. I climbed out of the wreckage, vowing to learn from my missteps, to be authentic. So why didn’t I just skip the ride and tell Luc the truth; that I hate everything about bike riding?
Luc pulls his head out from under the hood and motions for Simone to try the ignition. Simone turns the key. The engine sputters to life.
Simone hops out of his truck, wades through the river, and shakes Luc’s hand. Luc slaps Simone on the shoulder and they laugh.
Luc wasn’t happy to find me with Simone, but he still helped the Italian fix his truck. Most guys would have driven off without a glance in the rearview mirror. Not Luc. He’s too decent a guy to leave someone stranded in the middle of serial killer land. He rolled up his sleeves and fixed it.
That’s it. Luc is a fix-it guy. I really dig that about him. Nathan wasn’t a fix-it guy. He was a pay someone to fix it kind of guy.
Luc gets into the van, starts the engine, and begins driving down the dark dirt road without saying a word. The silence is killing me, but I don’t know how to break it. What do I say? I know your last girlfriend lied to you, but please believe me, a virtual stranger who has already had crazy monkey sex with you, when I tell you nothing happened between me and Horse Boy.
We come to the four way stop, but instead of going straight to the Agriturismo, Luc takes a left.
“Aren’t we going back to the Agriturismo?”
“No,” Luc says, keeping his eyes on the road. “We need to talk and I want to do it before we go back to the Agriturisimo.”
Did you hear that sickening thud? It was just my heart dropping to my bare feet. This is it. Luc’s about to tell me he thinks I’m cuckoo for Cocoa Puffs. He won’t use that slang, of course. He’ll probably say it in some mature, sophisticated way.
Adieu Sexy Frenchman. Bonjour Sad Spinsterhood.
Chapter 28
To The Curb
Luc parks on a hill facing San Gimignano. He turns the engine off, and we stare at the full, gigantic moon suspended over the medieval city. Moonlight is spilling over the towers and walls like liquid gold, splashing its shimmery brilliance over the hills and valleys. It’s a scene straight out of a fairy tale.
Luc’s silence is the spoiler. I know how this story is going to end, and it’s not going to be happily ever after.
Luc clears his throat.
I turn to look at him, and my heart doesn’t flip. It lurches. Goodbye is written all over his handsome face.
“Just one question, Vivia.” He smiles sadly. “Why?�
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I remember what Chantal told me about Celine, how she lied to Luc about many, many things, how she broke his heart. She was false and faithless. Luc thinks I have been false and faithless with Simone.
“Luc, Simone gave me a ride in his truck, nothing more. I promise.”
“You think I am jealous? Is that what you think?”
I nod.
“I’m not jealous, Vivia. I don’t think anything happened between you and the Italian.”
“Then what is it?”
Luc looks back at the moon. I study his profile, memorizing every angle and shadow, collecting one last snapshot of him. When he looks back at me, I brace myself for the blow.
“I’m disappointed.”
Ouch! His words are like an uppercut to the heart.
“I’m sorry.”
“You could have told me you didn't want to ride. Why didn't you just tell me the truth?”
I didn't want you to stop liking me. It sounds so pre-teen, but I can’t think of any other way to say it.
“I didn’t want you to stop liking me,” I whisper, staring at my lap. “I’ve finished every ride dead last. I didn’t want you to think I was completely hopeless.”
“Isn't that what you did with your ex-fiancé?”
I look at Luc in confusion.
“You pretended to be something you weren’t, didn’t you?”
“Yes.”
“How did that work for you?”
Ouch. Again. First the uppercut to my heart and now a sucker punch. I’m too stunned, too ashamed to speak, so I just stare at him with tear filled eyes.
Luc shakes his head.
“Honestly, I expected more from you. I thought what happened with Edwards would have taught you the importance of being genuine. I thought you were confident enough to be yourself, but I guess I was wrong. Who are you? Really?”
He’s killing me. Kill. Ling. Me.
“Who am I?” I say, tears spilling onto my cheeks. “I’m Vivia Perpetua Grant, unemployed, homeless, frightened, insecure. I’m not as perfect as you. I can’t speak multiple languages, or sail a boat, or conduct basic automotive repairs, or cycle long distances.”
There’s a long, painful pause while Luc stares at me like he’s never seen me before. Tears are dripping off my nose, but the last vestiges of my pride won’t let me wipe them away.
Faking It Page 22
