by Jenny Nelson
Not scary, terrifying: Dorothy and Hal were planning a trip to Tuscany in September. As Hal wrote, they hadn’t been to “the Continent” in decades. Now that Georgia was there, it gave them a great excuse to see their daughter and indulge their love of the Renaissance masters at the same time. The news smacked of a plot to whisk her back to Wellesley and enroll her in grad school (subject TK and TI—totally irrelevant) or maybe just lock her up in her childhood bedroom.
Great! she wrote back, amazed at the false enthusiasm one little exclamation point could convey. Looking forward to it! Then, for good measure, she added, Keep in mind that it could still be insanely hot in September. You might want to come in October for the grape harvest. I probably won’t be here, but will hook you up in Tuscany and Florence and wherever you want to go. Though her parents had been fine on the phone, there was no telling what might happen in person. Georgia anticipated their visit as eagerly as she did a trip to the gynecologist.
Then she saw it, wedged between Daily Candy and Tasting Table NYC: Glenn Tavert, with an attachment. She took a sharp breath and clicked.
Hi Georgia,
Hope this email finds you eating pounds of pasta and drinking vats of Barolo in sunny Tuscany. Sals is great. She has become the neighborhood mascot and is best buds with everyone. We can’t walk down the street without someone stopping to say hello.
Georgia paused, looking up at an ancient Spuds MacKenzie Bud Light poster tacked on the wall. Everyone knew dogs were total chick magnets—even Spuds. Sally had probably scored Glenn a dozen dates by now.
I’m doing well. Started therapy a few weeks ago. Get to talk about my favorite topic—myself—to someone who charges as much as a partner at Standish and nods a whole lot. Not a bad deal for either of us, I guess. Anyway, it seems to be working as I am being a good boy and not doing anything I shouldn’t. Ha ha.
Attached is a pic of Sals at my folks out east. We’ve been going every weekend. The other dog is her new best friend, she just moved in to the house next door.
Email if you get a chance. Hope the friend part of our relationship can start now.
Glenn
In the photo, Sally sat on the beach with her back to the water, a cockapoo or some other hypoallergenic breed that cost a fortune by her side. Sally looked happy. Two lounge chairs draped with beach towels, a couple of magazines, and a minicooler were next to them. One of the towels was Glenn’s—Georgia recognized the navy-and-white Ralph Lauren stripe, which his mother bought for her beach house by the boatload. The other one obviously belonged to the poo’s owner, who was decidedly female. No guy friend of Glenn’s would stretch out on an orange-and-hot-pink paisley print.
Georgia deleted the entire e-mail, including the picture. Glenn knew her well enough to know she’d scrutinize it, which meant he wanted her to know he was dating the poo’s owner or, at the very least, sleeping with her. This didn’t make Georgia feel especially friendly toward him; it made her want to punt-kick him across Mecox Bay.
By the time she finished wading through the rest of her 457 e-mails, she had a fresh response from her father in her in-box. Don’t care about harvest, he wrote, care about daughter. See you in September, late September, per your advice re: insane heat.
Georgia sunk down in her plastic chair. Glenn had a girlfriend, Sally had probably forgotten her, and Hal and Dorothy were coming to visit. Next she’d hear Sam Sifton had given Marco three stars.
Startled by a rap at the window, she turned, semi-expecting the greasy guy from last time to be staring at her with a pair of scissors in his hands. It was Effie, who pressed his nose into the smudgy glass and held a white pill bottle with a neon-yellow smiley face on its label, grinning like a junkie who’d just scored powdered Dilaudid. Georgia logged off and walked outside, palm outstretched, to join him and Vanessa.
“Please,” Georgia said, “please tell me something in that bottle will cheer me up.”
“Happy Days,” Effie said, popping off the top of the pills. “Good for whatever ails you. It’s got mega doses of herbs, algae, and every vitamin you’ve ever heard of. If this doesn’t cheer you up, it’ll—”
“Make you vomit?” Vanessa asked.
“I don’t care. Just give me the bottle.” Georgia pictured Glenn and his new girlfriend lubed up and lying side by side on their pricey towels, Sals and the poo sprawled next to them, all of them basking in the Bridgehampton sun. The friend part of their relationship, she thought, as she swallowed two grass-green pills with a slug of water, definitely did not start then. Not then, and not ever. She closed her eyes, willing the Happy Days to work their magic.
Trattoria Dia opened its doors to the public on the summer solstice, a bright and balmy evening without even a hint of humidity. Claudia’s astrologer picked the date, claiming the alignment of the stars ensured a smash success. She was right. At half past four, groups of two, four, and the odd party of five began queuing outside the double doors for the six-o’clock seating. By five thirty, the parking lot was completely filled; by six a line of parked cars snaked past the villa, overflowing onto the road. With no advance notice to the press, a no-reservation policy, and no phone, Claudia had planned an under-the-radar open that would allow the staff to work out the kinks before the masses came. Despite her efforts, the masses came and they showed no interest in going anywhere else. They sat on the low brick wall lining the front courtyard, they gathered by the potted roses and hydrangeas, they spilled onto the grounds, over the back patio, and into the garden swilling tumblers of complimentary Chianti to ease the hour-long wait. They all wanted one thing: to eat a meal at Trattoria Dia. And when that was done, they wanted to do it all over again, but this time with a dozen of their closest friends.
From that day forward, Georgia barely had time to shave her legs, let alone worry about her parents’ fall visit, Claudia and Sergio, Gianni and the blonde, Glenn and the poo girl, or her own sorely single state. Besides, she’d come to Italy to cook, not to be consumed by what was happening in the Hamptons or rejected by guys she barely knew. So cook she did, forgetting, for a while anyway, about everything else.
Did they really send dessert back?” Vanessa asked. Her face was slick with sweat, despite the red terry-cloth headband she’d taken to wearing around her forehead à la Björn Borg. It even had the little Fila F on it.
Georgia nodded. “I don’t care who they’re related to. Two bottles, one app, one entrée, plus a dessert?” She wiped her forehead with the back of her sleeve. Despite the late hour, the temperature hovered in the upper eighties, and the air in the kitchen was so thick you needed a scythe just to move from sink to stove. She was probably rocking a Jackson Five–style ’fro, frizz factor at least nine. “Who sends dessert back?”
The table in question was a twelve-person party of a certain age, several of whom were said to be distant relations of the deposed Italian monarchs. Socialites and social climbers might be snippy, thought Georgia, recalling her Marco days, but low-ranking royals were worse. The restaurant had been open for four excruciatingly busy but ultimately satisfying weeks, and until this group showed up, the number of sendbacks could be counted on one very small pinkie.
“Are they even allowed in the country these days?” she asked. “The king or prince or whoever it is?” She swiped her blade across her stone several times, then slipped it back into her knife roll.
“Yes,” answered a male voice. “They are. As of a few years ago, they’re allowed back in.” Looking cool as a frulatte in an untucked white shirt and perfectly faded jeans, Gianni stood in the steamy kitchen. He held a bottle of rosato and two wineglasses.
To Georgia, he may as well have been a mirage. The last time she’d seen him was at the friends-and-family party in June. It was now the end of July, and after what she’d heard about him and the blonde, she’d assumed there wouldn’t be another time. His curls crept past his collar, but otherwise he looked exactly the same: all chiseled cheekbones, olive skin, and juicy lips. No wonder she’d want
ed him.
“Hi, Gianni.”
“Ciao, Georgia.” He crossed the room and walked toward her. “I came to deliver my compliments to the chef. The dinner was spectacular, especially the maiale. Each time I eat here the food gets better.” He looked at her slyly. “You really are as good as they say.”
“Thanks.” Feeling her face get hotter than it already was, she stared down at her clogs. “But it’s really a group effort.”
“Even the specials? Claudia tells me they’re yours.”
“The specials are, yes.” Georgia would forever be indebted to Claudia for putting her in charge of specials, which attracted even more attention than the à la carte items. One day, one day very, very soon, she would create an entire menu and the specials.
“Then I delivered my compliments to the right person.” He smiled. “Would you join me for a drink? I can fill you in on the Savoys, our answer to the Windsors.”
She looked at him blankly. “The who?”
“The Italian royal family? The one you were just talking about?”
“Oh, right,” she said in her best easy-breezy voice. “The Savoys. Let me finish up here and then”—she met his eyes—“I’d love to join you for a drink.”
“I’ll be waiting.” He walked to the melanzana door. “Ciao, Vanessa,” he called over his shoulder.
Vanessa, who’d fastidiously been cleaning her station, looked at Georgia from underneath her sweatband. “I thought you were working on being happily single these days?”
“I am. It’s just a drink.” And if it turned into something more, well, being single didn’t mean being celibate. Banishing all thoughts of frazzled hair, sweaty skin, and bodacious blondes, she took off her apron and followed Gianni out the door and into the sultry night.
They sat at the same table where Claudia had delivered her pep talk to Georgia at the beginning of the summer. Gianni opened the bottle with a corkscrew on his key chain and poured two glasses. “To you,” he said.
“Not sure why, but why not.”
That night they sipped pink wine under white stars, and when they’d polished off the first bottle, he magically produced a second, which he’d stashed—in a cooler, no less—under the table.
“Guess you were pretty sure I’d join you for a drink.”
“Actually,” he said, uncorking the second bottle, “I was.”
Halfway through, he invited her back to his place. She said yes. The last person she’d slept with was Glenn, and it was so long ago it felt as real as a cheesy sitcom dream segment. She was beyond overdue.
They walked back to the vineyard hip to hip, their shoulders and elbows occasionally meeting. His fingers grazed her leg as they climbed the stairs to his apartment, and seconds later they were entwined in a kiss that landed smack in her stomach. They stood in the hallway, kissing, and he cupped her face in his hands, then ran his fingers to the nape of her neck. He gently pushed her head forward and kissed the hollow just beneath and slightly behind her ear, instinctively zeroing in on her most sensitive spot. Her skin tingled, and she clenched her shoulder blades together.
“Finally,” she murmured, her eyes half lidded, her lips turned into a lazy smile.
Then, without any warning, he stopped. Just like that, Gianni stopped kissing her.
Her eyes sprang open. “Gianni? Is everything okay?”
“I’m sorry, Georgia, but I don’t think this is a good idea.”
“You what?”
“It’s not you, Georgia. I like you and I want to get to know you. But not like this.” He bowed his head. “Please forgive me.”
“Sure, Gianni. But it’s okay, really. I want to do this.” Was she begging the Italian Stallion to take her to bed? Because it sure sounded as if she was.
“I don’t want it to be this way. Not with you.” He held out his hand. “Come. Let me take you home.”
Throwing herself out there—out of desperation or desire, it didn’t matter which—and getting flat-out rejected was more mortification than she could handle. Without a word, she turned and walked out the door and down the stairs. Maybe, she thought, as she headed to the villa, it really wasn’t her. Maybe he’d suddenly remembered he’d run out of condoms. Or Viagra. Or maybe he was having a herpes flare-up. Then again, maybe it was her. She walked faster.
Gianni followed behind, shouting for her to slow down, finally catching up when she reached the villa’s back door. “Please don’t be mad at me,” he said breathlessly.
She spun around to face him, but before she could say anything, he reached out and touched her cheek. “You’re beautiful, Georgia. Even when you’re mad, you’re still beautiful.”
“That’s great, Gianni. Thanks. But if you don’t mind, I think I’ll go inside now.”
“Will you listen for one minute? You left so quickly I couldn’t explain.”
“No explanation necessary. Good-bye, Gianni.” She turned back to the door.
“Come to Sicily with me,” he blurted.
“What?”
“In two weeks, for Ferragosto, one of our biggest holidays. I have business to do in Bologna and Milano, but then I am going to Taormina, to the Palazzo Lazzaro, my most important client. It’s so romantic you can’t imagine. The beach, a suite in the best hotel in Sicily. A nice restaurant. Or better yet, room service. Taormina in August is perfetto.” He clutched his hands together in mock prayer. “Come with me.”
“You’re crazy, Gianni. One minute you want me, the next you don’t, now you do again.”
“No.” He put his finger on her lips. “I’ve wanted you since that day we met, even with that ugly hat on your head. But I want it to be right.”
He looked so genuinely earnest—and so insanely gorgeous—there was no way to not consider his offer. Plus, he’d invited her to Sicily. Sicily! Then there was the weekend Claudia owed her, and the lack of anyone to share it with. Which led to her third rationalization: if not Gianni, then who? There wasn’t exactly a cast of thousands (or even one) waiting in the wings. And though it made her feel like an eighteen-year-old boy on spring break in Cancún, there was the sex. She could have sex in Sicily.
“Okay,” she said slowly. “You’re on.”
“Are you sure that’s a good idea?” Vanessa asked. “Going away with Gianni?”
Georgia and Vanessa sat on the patio drinking glasses of icy limonata laced with fresh mint, relishing their only break of the day. The air was hot and heavy with humidity; swollen clouds hung, unmoving, in the gray sky above. Dinner rush would hit shortly, and neither Vanessa nor Georgia nor anyone else on the Dia staff would rest until the last customers walked out the door, their bloated bellies hanging over their belts, pledging their imminent return. The summer had seen a stretch of near flawless weather, and that, combined with near flawless reviews, meant a jam-packed restaurant each and every night. The crew was exhausted; rain was just what they needed.
“No,” Georgia answered, “I’m not at all sure it’s a good idea. But I’m going anyway.”
“But you hardly know him! What if he’s a series killer? And what about that blonde?”
“He’s not a serial killer, Vanessa. A womanizer, yes. But a murderer? No way. And she’s his cousin.”
“Sure she is.” Vanessa put down her glass and stretched her fingers to the splotchy sky. “As long as you know what you’re doing.”
“I’m giving it a chance. Isn’t that what I’m supposed to do? Isn’t that what we’re all supposed to do?”
Fat raindrops began to fall, leaving leopard-print spots on the slate patio. Neither girl flinched.
“I guess so,” Vanessa said finally, not sounding entirely convinced.
With a single clap of thunder, the sky broke open and an avalanche of water tumbled out, instantly drenching them both. Shrieking, they jumped from their seats and ran to the melanzana door, which was locked. They pummeled it with their palms, shouting for someone to open it.
Effie peered out at them through the window next
to the door. “Oh, hi, guys. Did you want to come in?”
“Effie, open the door now!” Vanessa yelled.
Effie fumbled with the lock. “Whoops. Having some difficulty here, girls, stay with me.”
“Open it now!” Georgia shouted as Effie pulled open the door.
Georgia and Vanessa jumped into the vestibule, laughing as water pooled at their feet.
“Is it raining? You guys look a little wet.” Effie tossed them two dish towels.
“You,” said Vanessa, “are a dead man, Effie.”
That night it rained so much a flood warning was issued and drivers were advised to stay off the roads. Trattoria Dia shuttered its doors at 11:07 p.m., the first time in the restaurant’s brief but bustling history it had closed before midnight. The staff celebrated by going to sleep.
For the next two weeks, Georgia tried to focus on work and nothing else—not on Gianni, who was away on business, and whose kiss she could still sort of feel when she closed her eyes and imagined his delicious, red lips, and not on their upcoming trip to one of the most romantic places in the world, where what she’d been hoping would happen since the friends-and-family party would almost definitely happen. Fortunately for her, the restaurant was jumping all day long, leaving little time for daydreaming or anything else.
At last, the eve of their departure arrived. Georgia packed her bag, did a homemade avocado hair mask in a futile attempt to tame her frizz, and fell into bed, where she promptly passed out. The next morning, she and Gianni sat in seats 3a and 3b, respectively, on Alitalia flight number 4144, final destination Taormina.
“Nice seats,” Georgia said as the stewardess ushered them to their Magnifica-class seats. “They even come with choice of water.” Georgia pointed to the small bottles of sparkling and flat waters tucked into the roomy armrests between seats.
