She saw some of the patrons asking for a taste of this and a taste of that. Each time they were handed a tiny plastic tasting spoon with a little gelato on it.
Not for her. If she was on vacation, she was going to take the plunge.
But where to begin? There wasn’t just Limone with its bright yellow color and—hint, hint—slices of lemon tucked in the corners of the tray. There was also Limone e Basilico and a pair of basil leaves atop the lemon slices told her that it wasn’t lemon with balsamic vinegar. There was pineapple, mango, and many fruits she recognized. Then there were ones for the wildly adventurous: “Pine Tree” and “Indian Cinnamon.”
There was a whole category of sorbettos but she hadn’t come all the way to Italy to have a sorbet when the siren call of gelato echoed through the shop.
“Pistachio,” she called out when a server looked her way.
The server held up a tasting spoon and she shook her head. “Cone,” she tried to make a pointed shape.
“Cono,” he responded as he pulled one out. “Uno, due, tre?”
Three! No way could she eat three scoops. She held up a single finger.
The man teased her back holding up two fingers.
“No! Uno.” She answered with one.
“Sì, due,” he had a nice smile. “Pistachio, sì?”
“Wow, pistachio,” Ridley whispered close beside her ear. “Such adventure.”
“Pistachio with Nutella,” she told the server.
When Ridley started to laugh, she managed to elbow him sharply enough to make him grunt. “Be silent, Fool. Or take your jokes to another court.”
“As my lady commands,” he whispered before turning to the server. “Cono. Due. Sorbetto Di Fra-go-lay?” He stumbled over the last.
“It’s strawberry to you, buddy,” the Italian server offered in perfect English and scooped him a double ball stacked atop the tiny cone. Erica noticed that her single scoop was only a tiny bit smaller. She paid while Ridley continued stumbling about the word until the server finally put him out of his misery. “Frag-o-la.”
“Fragola,” Ridley muttered to himself a few times as they wandered back onto the street. She was doing the same, but she kept it inside.
The first taste of her gelato exploded with cool flavor. First the heavy chocolate of the hazelnut Nutella. But close behind it ran the cheery zing of pistachio calling out, “Here I am. Here I am.” As if a mythical brownie had gotten brief control of her tongue. It was a merry flavor that made her want to laugh.
Far more than the cliff-top eyrie of Corniglia, Vernazza showed that this seaside resort knew the origin of the bulk of its income. Every storefront was open and filled. No three purses and a tied-up sandal here. The signs weren’t obtrusive like American shops, but they were there. The large windows showed a much greater stock. Attractive racks just outside the door made any signs irrelevant. Beach gear, postcards and knick-knacks, a cluster of umbrellaed tables to mark a restaurant and a chalkboard of what they actually served. The small tables outside made it easy to interpret the price without a menu: Small tables of well-painted wire mesh and tiny folding chairs—affordable. Similar tables but preset with napkins and silverware—moderately priced. Tablecloth—whoops! No need to look at those price tags. Only the largest enterprises took up two storefronts. Most would have tucked into her old apartment living room at Newbury and Exeter in Boston’s Back Bay.
Like Corniglia, Vernazza’s buildings were three to four stories of stone—most built separately by their stonework, but standing solidly against each other to create a unified front. There was less stone and more stucco, all done in classic Tuscan colors that seemed to soothe her eyes after so many years of dreaming about them. Soft golds abounded. Gentle blue blended. And everywhere were variations of terracotta red that just made her want to curl up here and never leave.
The unknown yet large number of steps to Corniglia did indeed keep the tourists at bay. They were ten times thicker here. They came in by ferry boats (which didn’t stop at Corniglia) and by tour buses (of which only the most suicidal attempted the town—as she’d discovered to her dismay among the olive trees). They didn’t jostle yet, apparently that came with the summer, but there were certainly bustling crowds of them everywhere she turned.
Yet she and Ridley, walking arm-in-arm, didn’t cause problems or logjams as they would have on any American sidewalk. Perhaps it was because they were being so Italian in their passeggiata—their leisurely walk. Tourists certainly hustled by them, not wishing to miss a thing. And though the Italian couples moved even slower the she and Ridley, they were more in tune with the Italians than the foreigners.
“I think we’re doing pretty good for our second day.” And she was glad Ridley was along. Partly for kicking her butt about the past, but partly because it was more fun to explore with two than one.
“Depends. How’s your gelato?”
“Luscious. How’s yours?”
Instead of answering, he held it out for her to taste. Such a simple gesture, but it took her a moment to figure out what to do with it. It was one of what Dwayne had called her “crazy buttons” though he’d learned to respect it. If he reached out to taste her meal at a restaurant, she’d just shove the whole plate over and be done with it, her stomach winding in knots. She’d never starved or even been unable to afford a meal, so that wasn’t it. But she remembered the first time she’d bought her own meal in a diner at thirteen with her own money—she’d earned it and it was hers, by god.
Yet Ridley was simply offering her a taste, with no agenda that she could see. Steeling herself (against what she had no idea) she leaned over and took a tiny taste. The sorbet was icier than her gelato, grainier. But the strawberry bloomed to life in her mouth.
“It’s like bottled springtime.”
His laugh was easy, “Guess it is. May I?” He nodded toward her own pistachio-Nutella.
It would be rude to not reciprocate. Another breath, and she held it out.
He took a bite and considered, almost as if he was tasting a wine. “The chocolate is a little far forward for my taste. It sort of overwhelms the pistachio. No. No…the nut is there in the finish. Maybe the hazelnut is conflicting with the pistachio. I’ll have to try a pure pistachio one next and compare.”
He continued leading them forward among the shops.
Erica looked down at her cone and the neat divot that his teeth had cut into the gelato.
No big deal. The world hadn’t ended. And he did ask first. She wondered what he would have said if she’d told him no. He’d probably have given one of his easy laughs and asked, “Perch?”
Maybe she’d simply disliked sharing with Dwayne.
“And what does that tell you, girl?”
“Hmm?” Ridley looked over at her.
In answer she took a big bite right on top of his. Within seconds she had to clap a hand over the right side of her face while making “Ow!” noises with a full mouth.
* * *
“Brain freeze! Brain freeze!” Ridley couldn’t help laughing as Erica alternated between scowling at him with one eye squinched up, then again slapping a hand across half her face and going “Oo! Oo! Oo!”
He’d nearly done it to himself on his first bite, only narrowly dodging the bullet.
“Oh my god!” She gasped out and he looked at where she was pointing, her pain apparently forgotten. “I’m here.”
“We certainly are.”
The street had ended with a bend and an abruptness as sudden as a train tunnel. They stood on the threshold of a broad piazza. Up to the right, the town climbed a narrow ravine in tightly packed buildings painted in a myriad of soft tones. Across the way, a tall church with an even taller steeple dominated the scene. To the left, their side of the town trailed along the side of a promontory. And before them, down a wide ramp, lay one of the prettiest little harbors he’d ever scene.
The piazza might be covered with groups of Crayola-brilliant umbrellas but it was clear that,
during the hard winters, it was where the fishing boats had been pulled up the ramp to keep them out of harm’s way. A great fleet of small boats must have once fished from this port. Now a dozen craft—perhaps fifteen feet long and most painted a cheery blue—bobbed on the gentle waves. The harbor itself was broad but didn’t have any of the larger craft. The massive tourist yachts that completely overshadowed nearby Portofino’s wooded harbor were nowhere to be seen. Only smaller craft for Vernazza.
“Never been a boat guy myself, but this place makes it easy to imagine becoming one.” No sailboats. Skiffs with oars and motors. Working craft. It was like the actual guts of the winery, not the long rows of aging barrels and posh tasting rooms that were shown to the tourists. Instead, it was the vintner’s cluttered desk, the log book, and a tasting glass. That was the true core of a winery. That was the bones. The bones of the town here might be old, but they were laid bare for all to see.
During his moment of inattention, Erica was gone from his side.
He caught sight of her easily—she stood out in any crowd despite being short. She was hurrying down along the wharf. Practically bouncing off other tourists as she kept looking over her shoulder like all the demons of hell were after her.
It reminded him of the first night…Christ! The one before last, was that all? When she’d sprinted into the night. Well, this time he was going to follow her and find out what the hell was wrong.
He gulped down the last of the gelato and rather than detouring for the broad ramp, jumped down over the low balustrade almost landing in some poor sucker’s impromptu picnic.
He tried to mutter out an apology, but that’s when the brain freeze hit him square in the eye.
Screw it!
He blundered ahead, not even bothering to mutter apologies. Made it to the edge of the ramp. Squinted his wincing eye open long enough to estimate the height, and jumped again. Thankfully that got him to the bottom level, only a few feet above the harbor. It was wide and he broke into a lopsided run, still barely closing the distance.
Damn she was fast.
She finally slowed, which was good as she was almost out of pier.
A few hesitant steps. Hanging her head forward over her hands as he rushed up behind her.
“There!” Erica spun back toward him, raising her hand as she did so, smacking him hard enough in the nose to make him cry out in pain.
“Are you all right?” They shouted in unison as he now held one hand over his frozen eye (which was thankfully easing off) and the other testing his nose (which he suspected had only just begun to throb).
“Ridley? Are you okay? I’m so sorry.”
“Forged aboud be!” Okay, no blood. Maybe his nose wasn’t so bad. “Whad aboud doo?” Or maybe it was. It hurt to even talk.
“What about me?”
He nodded and wished he hadn’t.
“I found it.”
“Whad?”
“This,” she held her phone up in front of his face.
He had to struggle to focus his one functioning eye. It was a photo. A photo of… He turned and looked over his shoulder. And he recognized it as exactly the same gesture Erica had been doing—looking back over her shoulder at the town of Vernazza.
It was the same perspective, but there hadn’t been time for her to take the photo. Then he saw that while the photo had a single little blue boat anchored in the foreground, there was now a pair of them.
“I donn ged id.” He wiggled his nose again. It was definitely still attached, but ow!
“Years ago I told my stepdad that I wanted to go to Italy someday. He was broke, but I was too little to know that and I asked him to take us all there. For Christmas he bought me a little poster, this poster,” she held the photo on her phone up to his face again. “And now….” She aimed the phone carefully and he heard the bright snick of the shutter. And another.
Her hands fell to her side and he plucked the phone from her nerveless fingers so that she didn’t drop it overboard into the harbor. He waved her a step or two into the picture and tried to line it up the same way.
“No. I—”
“You can always delete it later, but you shouldn’t. You get to be in the picture.” But she didn’t look happy about it.
“I thought somebody had tried to knife you or something.”
It earned him a hint of a smile.
“You know you gave me a total brain freeze when I panicked and raced after you.”
“Ate your sorbet before coming to the rescue of a damsel in distress? Doesn’t sound very knightly.”
“I’m not a knight. I’m the court fool per your ladyship’s command. Besides, for something as important as sorbet, I can multitask.”
He caught the edge of her laugh. It wasn’t a big one, but it was enough to light her up as brightly as the town wrapped around behind her.
* * *
Erica flicked through the photos to make sure she’d captured the place, the moment. There it was.
Vernazza. Brightly painted little boats bobbing on the quiet water—except at long last it was her photo, not some nameless photographer’s. Then the startling image of her standing there. Standing there and laughing.
She had never pictured herself in the image.
But she looked up. There was the real town. She looked down at herself. And here she was. It was so weird that it was almost surreal.
It was as if she had finally come into focus. She could see the twists and turns like the carruggio of her life. The youngster’s dreams. The teen’s hopes. And the mixture of everything since. She loved business and had become damn good at it. Even during the personal-life aberration of the last two years, she was proud of what she’d achieved.
And who she’d become. By whatever convoluted path, that dreamer of a little girl was now standing square in the piazza of her life. Maybe the past had included trolls, even dragons. And the future might include more. And while she wasn’t exactly a white-knight-on-a-charger sort of gal, she could see that she wasn’t the lonely handmaiden either. Others had made her feel that way.
No, take responsibility, Erica.
She’d let others make her feel that way.
So done with that. So completely, absolutely—she’d have to solicit another appropriate curse word from Ridley—done with that!
Then she flicked to the last pair of photos.
A passing tourist had offered to take their picture together and Ridley had handed him her phone before stepping over beside her.
He’d silently raised his arm in question.
She had, of course, never hugged Dwayne anywhere in public…which was another stupid, stupid clue. It wasn’t that he didn’t like to hug; it was that he didn’t want to get caught with his mistress. She got it now… Little bit late, Erica.
She had slid under Ridley’s arm and clasped him around the waist—hard. The tourist had snapped two photos, the first with her looking fierce and him looking shocked.
The second one though… In that one they’d both been smiling. She could still see the fierceness—and his surprise—but it didn’t make the truth of the moment—the joy of it—any less real.
It had felt good. Really good. And she wasn’t ready for that. Maybe she wasn’t a knight-errant, but she was done with being cowed.
She held up her phone to Ridley, who looked at the photo for a long moment.
“It’s a good photo,” his voice was carefully neutral.
“It is.” She blanked her phone and tucked it in her pocket.
But that wasn’t the problem. She dropped onto a stone bench.
“You’ve got to get away from me, Ridley.”
“Why’s that?” And he sat right next to her as if he couldn’t see the red warning triangles springing to life all around her. “Other than you punching me in the nose?”
“I didn’t— I wasn’t— Never mind.”
“Not getting off that easy, lady. So, Perch?”
“Perch? Oh, perché. See? I’m so bad I c
an’t even remember a joke for ten minutes. Why? Because I’m a total mess. I’m such a mess that I don’t even know which parts of me are me.”
“Well we know one thing, you’re an incredibly lovely mess.”
“Don’t!” And then she buried her face in her hands.
“Don’t what?”
“See? I can’t even let you pay me a compliment because I don’t know if it’s me or—” she was not going to say his name “—some rat’s ass trying to manipulate me. You need to just go. Look, Ridley. You’re a nice man.”
“No I’m not.” He said it as enough of a growl that she almost looked up at him.
“You just need to get away from me while you still can.”
“Before what? Before you turn me into a not nice man? Good luck with that. Already did that myself.”
Maybe if she never looked up again, he’d retreat while he still could.
The silence stretched. Unable to hold her hands to her face any longer—when did hands become so impossibly heavy?—she let them drop into her lap. By her view of his boots, she could see that Ridley was still there.
“I just…” But she didn’t know what.
“Erica—”
She could only shake her head to silence him.
Again it stretched thin. They were in their own little sonic bubble. Tourists’ feet passed by, but made no sound. A nearby fisherman started his boat engine and motored slowly away, but she couldn’t hear a thing.
She was in the place she’d always dreamed of coming and it was as if she’d come full circle…on nothing.
“In a goddamn pig’s eye!” Ridley sounded furious.
He grabbed her shoulders hard enough to make her yelp in surprise. His hands were big, powerful. They clamped on and she was helpless to resist as he forced her to turn to him.
“I’m not a nice guy, Erica. Trust me on that. You make me want to be, and that’s giving me some major issues. But to hell with that for the moment. I’m not nice. I’m the guy who comes along, woos you blind, beds you but good, buys you some goddamn trinkets to remember him by, and rides off well before sunrise. I’m the total shit they always warned you about. By the way, the phone number I’d leave on your dresser? It connects to a Chinese take-out place in Sausalito. I’m just a rich asshole of a guy with a few manners plastered over the surface for me to get what I want.”
Path of Love Page 7
