Path of Love

by M. L. Buchman

  Ridley felt an itch between his shoulders, but a glance back revealed no one behind him.

  But the itch hung on. It told him that perhaps that hadn’t been his best day’s work.

  Chapter 8

  Ridley had been so gentle last night that Erica almost wanted to cry. Her lovers tended to think about themselves; the good ones making sure she enjoyed herself as well.

  He’d made last night all about her. It had started with a massage for a leg cramp—she really had to get out on these trails more. Boston wasn’t known for its rough and steep trails any more than Oakland had been. Stair-stepper conditioning was not the same as the real world.

  But Ridley hadn’t stopped when the cramp finally let go. Slowly, using those powerful hands of his, he turned her into an Erica puddle.

  When she’d asked, he’d admitted to dating a masseuse or two. She’d smiled into the pillow she was facedown in. Was there any type of woman Ridley hadn’t dated?

  “They seemed to enjoy my amateur efforts to return the favor. So I took the classes. Never got certified, which ticked off the instructor, but I’ve since found it useful. Uh…” And that was her Ridley—sometimes thinking just a little too late about what he was saying. “Like for your leg cramps,” he’d attempted to recover. She’d been on the verge of teasing him about it, but then he’d progressed to moves he’d never learned in any massage class but she’d like to personally thank the masseuse who’d taught him those. If she ever recovered.

  Erica puddle had become happy Erica puddle of joy. When he’d finally let her stop, finally let her come down from the unimagined peaks he sent her to, she was helpless to do more than curl up in his arms and be held.

  “Later,” she’d promised. She’d try to do the same for him…later.

  This morning, she woke to an evil smile.

  “Uh-oh.” It seemed that later had just caught up with her.

  “Do you have a leather jacket?”

  She nodded carefully.

  “Boots, jeans, leather jacket, and sunglasses. Let’s go.”

  Her head was still spinning too much from last night to do more than agree and hurry from his bed. She’d showered, changed, and met him downstairs while her body seemed to be continuing along just a few steps behind her, still off in some dreamy place.

  Bridget served a too bright and too knowing smile along with her cocoa. She kissed Erica atop the head.

  “He is so very good for you, mia amica. It makes my heart smile,” she whispered before moving to the next table.

  “What are you up to, Ridley?” Erica didn’t want to ponder Bridget’s comment too deeply.

  “Heard about a place that I thought you might like. It’s a bit of a ride.”

  “A,” she swallowed hard, “ride?” Then she turned to face the big motorcycle that had spent the week parked against the side of the B&B. Unmoving until it had become a fixture she no longer noticed. Now it loomed large, its headlight glowering down at her. “I’ve never…” Her throat went dry despite the hot cocoa she’d been sipping.

  “Never been on a motorcycle?” Ridley’s evil grin shifted to maniacal delight. “You are in for such a treat. Been a while since I’ve met a motorcycle virgin.”

  “Can’t we take a train?”

  “Doesn’t go there.”

  “Maybe you could borrow Bridget’s Ferrari.”

  “Bridget has a Ferrari?”

  “I do,” Bridget answered as she delivered the morning pastries. “I liberated it from someone who didn’t deserve or appreciate it and I’m not giving it back. And no, Mr. Claremont, I’m not entrusting my beautiful car to the likes of you.”

  “I suppose not…it is bright pink after all.” Erica couldn’t resist the next line. “We can’t have such a smirch on your manliness.”

  Ridley groaned most satisfyingly. But it still wasn’t much payback for getting her on his motorcycle. Had that been why he’d made such love to her last night? No, there’d been no mistaking his intentions. He’d been so “manly” that the sex hadn’t needed to be about him. But he had her trapped anyway and she knew it. Giving in to the inevitable after they’d eaten, she listened carefully as he told her the dos and don’ts of motorcycle riding.

  “These pipes don’t get particularly hot, but it’s still a good habit to never touch them. On some bikes, the slightest touch will cook you good. Your feet rest on these. Always lean with me, even if your instincts say not to. You’ll get the feel of it fairly quickly.” He dug a helmet out of one of the saddlebags and plopped it on her head. “Oh good, a better fit that I expected.”

  “Do you carry one in all the women’s sizes? No, don’t answer that. I don’t want to know who else has worn this.” Erica shrugged off the shades of prior women. “Thank you, Ridley, for buying this nice, brand-new, never-before-used helmet, just for me.”

  He was smart enough to say, “You’re welcome,” and leave well enough alone.

  Rather than thundering to life, the engine gave a small squeak and turned over to a soft rumble.

  “Indian Chieftains are very well-behaved bikes.” He swung a leg over, kicked up the kickstand, then let the bike roll backward a few feet. With an expert twist he aimed it toward the road rather than the carruggio. “Your turn.” His voice sounded inside her helmet.

  “There’s a radio?”

  “Sure, let’s us talk easily while we ride. Bought nothing but the best…just for you.” He hesitated a little too long before completing that sentence, which she was going to ignore.

  A tiny seat no bigger than her butt was perched on the rear fender. To sit on it, she’d have to wrap her arms around Ridley. That was fine—she expected to be hanging on for dear life the whole way. And by the look of it, her entire field of view would be of his shoulders. How exciting. Actually, since she also planned to bury her face against his back and not look up once, that was fine as well.

  She managed to raise a leg high enough to get onto the seat with an awkward sideways slide.

  “Next time,” Ridley pointed at the tiny footrest, “Step there and swing your other leg over the back.”

  She managed to get her feet placed and not touch the Chrome Pipes of Death. So that was good. She made sure she had a good fistful of Ridley’s jacket clenched in either hand.

  “No tickling,” he called back over the radio-intercom thing.

  No, but pounding him senseless for doing this to her was definitely an option, if she dared let go.

  Then she looked up and realized that her seat sat several inches higher than Ridley’s. Except for the very top of his helmet, she had a clear view ahead and to all sides—with no windshield, door struts, side windows, or roof to protect her.

  “This feels awfully ex-posed!” The last came out as a high squeak as Ridley stepped on the gas or whatever motorcycles did. “Yipes!” She held on for all she was worth, wrapping her arms around his waist.

  “Ouch. Go easy on the ears, Erica. I can hear you just fine. And we’re going about five miles an hour.”

  “That’s like eight kilometers an hour. It sounds too fast!” But he was right, he was easing past the tourists just climbing out of the small bus from the train. No garbage truck this time, but it looked as if the bus driver had parked completely in his way on purpose, rather than where the truck driver had said he should.

  The motorcycle was very smooth as they went through the dip in the road by the tiny café they’d had lunch in two days ago. Off to the left was a vast hillside of grapevines and to the right the little trail that led through the high side of town past the church. It was friendly, cozy. She’d been here little more than a week and it felt familiar. She knew the whole town. There were many unexplored trails, but she’d walked every bit of the main paths and cobbled streets.

  In Boston and San Francisco it was impossible to know more than a few blocks well. Here there was a familiarity. She knew the shops and was starting to know the people. Giuseppe who would rather sit outside his shop and chat than be
inside with his groceries. Claire who so loved having people in her shop that it was hard to pass by without being invited in for a cup of tea “while i turisti busy with the fingering my wares.” Erica suspected that she was also still hoping to sell her the little hand-tooled leather purse she’d admired that first day. Marianne and her son Max definitely knew her at the gelato shop, and kept track of which flavors she’d tried—and always pretended to be offended when they discovered she’d already tasted a flavor at another gelato shop.

  It wasn’t the dense pack of cozy stores lining the streets that made Corniglia a town; it was the people who gave it richness and texture.

  Finally clear of the town, Ridley sped up. The engine stayed quiet, taking on a contented thrum as it began working up the hill. It didn’t vibrate or shake the bike; instead it offer a smooth ride as if she was floating.

  At the first turn, Ridley spoke up. “Lean with me.”

  “Oh god.” But she did, even though the pavement was right there, seemingly inches beyond their knees as the bike nearly laid on its side. She survived the turn and was able to pay more attention at the next. They actually didn’t tip far at all, it only felt as if they were going to.

  Somewhere up the hill, a turn looked eerily familiar. She twisted to look back at it. Seen from that direction, it was far too familiar. It’s where her car had plunged into the uliveto—she’d looked it up. It did sound pretty and Italian. Way better than grovochordinoria.

  Ridley started laughing.

  “What?”

  “I might have seen a tow truck here on the first day.”

  She freed a hand long enough to punch him lightly in the ribs.

  He only laughed more.

  What had been a tortuous, creeping descent for her was now an effortlessly smooth glide up the winding road. Olive trees swept by. A truck that would have scared her completely off the road barely caused Ridley to slow.

  “Okay back there?”

  “Uh, yes. It seems I am.” She felt a little like a princess riding behind her knight-errant. Ridley definitely didn’t fit the role of court fool—at least not very often. But to think of him as a shining knight was perhaps even more wrong. And more dangerous. He was hers…for now. For this insane moment of time. And when the knight left, it would be time for the princess to hang up her tiara and get back to life.

  Not yet though.

  He was right. Ridley was an expert on vacationing. She was along for the ride. She hadn’t even asked how far they were going—and some foreign part of her was okay with that.

  Or maybe not totally foreign.

  She freed a hand to rest it briefly on her sea glass necklace where it lay beneath the leather of her jacket—her chic Italian leather jacket that they’d found in a little shop in Monterosso. New-girl Erica was okay with not knowing, so she fought back Good-girl Erica and didn’t ask. She simply hung on to her lover and gave herself over to the ride.

  * * *

  Ridley had forgotten quite how far back along the coast the town of Bardino Nuovo lay. But the autostrada had let him open up the Chieftain’s big engine and really cover some ground. The narrow highway slashed through olive groves and punched through tunnels—sometimes so close together that it seemed like flashing lights: blazing sunlight, dark tunnel, blazing sunlight, another tunnel. And beyond it all lay the shining Mediterranean.

  He’d felt Erica ease into the ride quickly, but she spoke little, answering his questions but little more. Unable to see her face and read her emotions there, he could only lean into the throttle and hope for the best. Portofino had passed by early on, somewhere on the coast far below the autostrada that ran high in the mountains. They soared past Rapallo and weaved their way through the dozen or so highways that fed the big port town of Genoa.

  There’d been women in those towns, and normally he’d remember their names. But every time he tried to picture one of them, he recalled Erica instead. And not just as she arched over him in ecstasy or shuddered beneath him in release. But also as she laughed over gelato or her eyebrows knit as she concentrated on his hints about the flavor of a new wine.

  It was the longest he’d been with anyone since he’d hit Europe. Which wasn’t saying all that much. He’d stayed on the move. The new North Coast 500 route around Scotland had filled just three days. England and Wales had passed quickly as well. The Chieftain wasn’t a race bike, but he’d run it over to the Isle of Man where speed limits didn’t exist because they were deemed as some other country’s idea of what was important. The stark, treeless expanses had been perfect for showing what the machine was really capable of. Once he had rented a couple hours on a racetrack with his grandfather’s bike, but it wasn’t the same. The open road had rolled by as effortlessly as the women.

  But Bardino Nuovo he’d stumbled on by himself. And he knew it was something right up Erica’s alley.

  Off the autostrada, they climbed farther up into the hills along winding roads no bigger than the one into Corniglia. Less vertical than the Cinque Terre towns, but still dramatic by any standard outside Colorado. The big engine gave him the power, but the twists kept him in a low gear easing upward. Towns here weren’t the busy tourist centers of the coast. They were small, sleepy hamlets of twenty or so houses.

  The entrance to Bardino passed by a house covered in massive gears and lever arms rusting in the sun.

  “It’s like a crazy disconnected clockwork,” Erica whispered over the radio.

  He kept his mouth shut and slowed even more.

  They climbed through an orchard that was practically a catalog of what grew here. Lemon, cherry, and plum for the fruit trees. Eucalyptus and olive standing tall. On the ground were grape, artichoke, and who knew what all. It was a town of one: one restaurant, one market, and, most importantly, one museum.

  He rolled into the parking lot and shut the bike down. Large planters of nasturtium and petunia graced the boundaries of the small lot.

  Erica didn’t climb down. Instead she sat there for a long moment before whispering, “It’s so quiet.”

  “Try taking off your helmet.”

  She climbed down and did, but she was right. Corniglia had layers of sound: chatting Italians, bustling tourists, the sea always crashing away somewhere in the background. Scooters and buses along the roads. Tourist and wheeled delivery carts bumping along the carruggio.

  Bardino Nuovo had a soft breath of wind.

  “It almost makes my ears hurt.”

  On cue, the town chimes rang out. Eleven strikes rang over the land and seemed to fill it and make it brighter.

  “Oh, now it makes my heart hurt. That was beautiful.” She rubbed her palm over her heart as if it really did.

  “Then you’re going to love this.” He stepped to her and turned her around.

  “Bergallo Museo dell’Orologio. What’s it mean?”

  “It’s a clock museum. For something like a hundred years, most of the town clocks in Italy were built in that house at the edge of town. When the last clockmaker died about a decade back, he left it all to the town.”

  “The Corniglia chimes came from here?”

  “I don’t know. We can ask.”

  “No, don’t.” Erica grabbed onto his arm. “I don’t want to know. We’ll just pretend that they did. This is wonderful, Ridley.”

  And right there was what he’d been hoping for. The happy glow in Erica’s eyes could have outshone the Italian sun as they entered the museum.

  * * *

  “I don’t know what part I liked best,” Erica knew she was bubbling ridiculously over the radio, but couldn’t seem to stop.

  “The cards,” Ridley groaned. “I couldn’t get over the cards.”

  The ground floor had been the start of a display of the evolution of Bergallo clock works. A primitive cast iron behemoth had dominated the floor. It was plain to see the device’s crudeness. The next two were more refined.

  A large display case including timepieces going back to the 1600s.

&nb
sp; But the wall beside that had been covered in postcards. More were in large glass display cases. She’d expected images of the many clocks that must have come from here. Instead, there was a massive set of Papal collecting cards. Travel postcards, mostly from France and Italy—presumably sent by the clockmakers back to their families from places they’d done installations.

  The museum curator was so excited to have visitors that she gave them a personalized tour…without having a single word of English. Their nonexistent Italian hadn’t diminished her joy or the volume of information she tried to impart.

  But the main portion of the postcard collection had been of Hollywood stars, especially Marilyn Monroe. Marilyn seemed to rule Italy, but no one could tell Erica why. She was on posters and t-shirts, playing cards and refrigerator magnets. And she was front and center in the Bergallo Museo dell’Orologio postcard collection. There were fifty or more of her alone.

  They’d both had trouble sounding suitably impressed.

  But it was a clock museum, and they’d finally moved on.

  At each new clockwork that filled the three small floors of the museum, the curator had wound each mechanism, then reset the time so that it would run through its chimes—thankfully, small chimes rather than massive town ringers.

  Her and Ridley’s non-Italian had degenerated their host to pointing at every clockwork and crowing out, “Tutto bene! Tutto bene!” All good. They decided that she meant they were all operational. As they ascended the ramps, leaving chiming and ticking mechanisms whirring away behind them, the sound built and carried. And while the chimes ran down, the ticking continued.

  Out of sync perhaps, but not out of time. There was a steadiness to that underlying beat.

  “My favorite part was the ticking,” and as odd as it sounded, it was true.

  “Really? I thought it all got a little annoying by the time she had them all running. Perché?”

  “Didn’t you mean Perch? I don’t know really.”

  She lay the cheek of her helmet on Ridley’s back and watch one side of the world go by. Orchards, groves…uliveto.