“Skittish,” she said again. Is this guy even listening to me?
“Che cosa? What?” said Sandro.
“Skittish. The English word for the cat’s behaviour toward you.”
“Ah, si. Si. Well, I must say, you have a gift. You got it to come to you. In Italy we would call you a gattara.”
Sigrid sighed. She knew that the word he used meant cat lady. Yep, that is my fate.
“Well yes, I do volunteer work for a cat rescue back in Canada. And now that you know I am a gattara, can I leave with the gatto? It’s getting colder and I’d like to get home.”
“The cat needs a veterinarian.”
“Yes, obviously,” she said, letting out a sigh of frustration and impatience. Boy, this guy is cute, but kind of obtuse. “That is where I’m planning to take it. But there isn’t one open late on a Sunday night, so I’ll keep him in my bathroom till the morning.”
“You will do no such thing. There is a veterinarian open, a 24-hour emergency animal hospital. It’s about a fifteen-minute drive from here, maybe less at this time of night.”
“Okay, well, if you could draw me a map I would appreciate it.”
“No map. I’ll take you. You cannot take that cat on a Vespa.”
“Yes, I can. I take all kinds of things on the Vespa. You have no idea.”
Sandro threw his hands up, exasperated. “Sigrid! Signorina O’Herlihy. Please stop being so stubborn. It is late, you have an injured animal in a carrier, and you don’t know the way to the animal hospital. Let me take you, if only to make my father happy. He was so worried about this animal.”
“What about Guido?”
“Who is Guido?” Sandro sounded like a jealous suitor. “Ah yes, of course. Guido is your Italian lover. That’s why all you foreign women come here.”
Sigrid burst out laughing. “No! Guido is my Vespa. Guido la Vespa. I don’t want to leave him for much longer where he is. I mean, I thought I was just pulling off a quick kitty heist and I’d be out of here in a matter of minutes. If we’re gone for hours, he might get stolen. And I need him. Plus, I’ve worked hard to be able to have him.” Though I do sometimes think of him as my Italian lover, what with his soulful little headlights. Wow, too much anthropomorphizing, Sigrid.
Sandro stared at Sigrid, long and hard.
“What?” she asked. “Why are you staring?”
“You should do that more often.”
“What? Name my Vespa?”
“No, laugh. You are not a bad-looking girl, but you are a bit too serious.”
“Thanks for the suggestion, but one is generally not in a laughing mood when one is being interrogated.”
“Oh no, now you are too serious again.”
“Okay, look. Let’s just take the cat to the hospital. But what can I do about Guido?”
“Go and get Guido and meet me back here. We’ll park him right here on the patio and take this poor creature to a doctor.”
* * * *
Fifteen minutes later, Sigrid was sitting next to Sandro in a car, looking over at his profile and wondering if she should have gotten into a car with a stranger in the first place. Why hadn’t she grabbed kitty and run? Why had she been so quick to take this chance? Oh right, his looks. The streetlights bounced off his dark hair, prominent cheekbones, and Roman nose. She had decided that was what it was, or at least, that was what she would call it. It all made for a striking man, though not really a classically handsome one. But what she really could not stop looking at and responding to was his thigh, filling out his black jeans so perfectly, so close to hers in the front seat of the dark, metallic-gray Lancia.
She began to go off into romantic fantasyland, or at least lustful fantasyland, and reprimanded herself. Stop it, Sigrid. You’re off men, you’re through with them. Don’t you remember? She decided to focus on something else and looked instead at his hands on the steering wheel. They were large with long fingers and handled the wheel with confidence and ease. She started to imagine them handling her in the same way. Stop it, Sigrid!
“It’s okay, Pinot Grigio, it’s okay,” Sandro cooed, all of a sudden.
“What?”
“I am talking to the cat. It is upset, poor creature.”
Sigrid had been so distracted she had barely heard the poor kitty, meowing in fear, no doubt. And she even had the carrier on her lap! Ugh, men are no good for me. Here I am, the world’s biggest animal lover, and I didn’t notice the cat crying.
“Sigrid? You seem distracted.”
“Oh no, I was just wondering what you called the cat.”
“Pinot Grigio,” he said.
“That’s what I thought you said.”
“That’s what my father and I have been calling it, because it is all gray, which in Italian is ‘grigio,’ and we have a vineyard that is famous for its Pinot Grigio.”
“You have a vineyard?”
“Yes. Do you like wine?”
“Absolutely, I like wine. Especially white wine. I can’t drink red, it gives me migraines. But white wine, I love, and also rosé and sparkling, of course. I love Prosecco. As far as I’m concerned that is one of the best things about Italy, the availability of cheap wine in corner stores. Just the other night, I bought one of those Tetra-Pak thingies full of wine, for like, not even two euros.”
“Tetra-Pak?”
“Yes, you know, those little cartons that come in multiples, wrapped together in cellophane. They fit so nicely in my little fridge at my bed-and-breakfast.”
“Dio! That wine is terrible! You Americans have no taste!”
“Canadian.”
“Same thing. You have no taste in wine. None. The wine my family produces is not cheap, as you say.”
“Well then, I wouldn’t be able to afford it.” Who did he think he was, telling her she had no taste? He is a little too sure of himself, this Mister Roman Nose. “Anyway,” she added for good measure. “Cheap Italian wine in Tetra-Paks is better than most average wine available in Canada.”
“You bought a Vespa, and you are only on vacation here. Vespas are not cheap. So you can’t afford a nice bottle of wine, here or there?”
“Yes, I’m on vacation, but a long vacation. Canadians can stay here three months without a visa and I figured Rome was a nice place for Christmas, what with the Vatican and all.”
“Three months? You have a nice employer.”
“Well, it’s a long story. Anyway, I got the Vespa relatively cheap from my landlord, Signor Palumbo, at my B&B, but even if I had bought it at full price, things like bikes or cars are an investment, right? You need them to get around.”
“So you like your Vespa? It’s 150cc, I noticed.”
“Yep, Guido’s a 150, and I love him. I had never been a motorbike person back home, although one of my brothers had one when I was a teenager and I learned to ride it pretty easily. When I came here and got the chance to have Guido in my life, it was relatively simple to pass the Vespa license test. And he has converted me, really, to being a motorcycle chick. It’s the best way to get around.”
“A chick?”
“Slang for woman.”
“Ah, all right. You realize that Vespas are not exactly Harleys. More like scooters.”
“Perhaps, but technically, they are motorcycles. They are bicycles with a motor. Anyway, ‘scooter chick’ doesn’t sound as glam as ‘motorcycle chick’.”
“Glam?”
“Short for ‘glamorous’.”
“I see. I learned English at school and I use it in my business, of course. I did a one-year exchange in Boston, but some slang is still strange to me. Please explain, though, you call Guido by a masculine name, but I saw your Vespa and it is pink!”
“Guido is at home in his masculinity, and he doesn’t need to prove anything to anyone,” said Sigrid, again woefully aware that she was anthropomorphizing a motorized bicycle. I really must miss having a man in my life. “Anyway, I can’t imagine owning a car anymore, although this one is lovely.”<
br />
Sandro laughed. “Lancias are more than lovely. They are the classic car of Italy.”
“So, of course, you own one. That and you also own a vineyard.”
“And a Vespone.”
“A Vespone?”
“A big Vespa, a 250 cc. They are for men.”
“What, is it a law that women can’t own them? That is sexist.”
“Of course, women can own them, but usually it is men who do, while women and teenage boys have Vespas, like yours.”
“So you have a Vespone, then?”
“Yes, but it would not have been suitable for our drive tonight. And also I have a restaurant, don’t forget.”
He was barely stifling laughter. He is just looking far too pleased with himself, boasting about all his successes and his possessions.
Pinot Grigio was really stirring now. “Oh, baby, almost there.”
“Actually, we are there,” corrected Sandro, as he pulled into a parking space behind a rather dull-looking, at least by Roman standards, squat and modern building. Sigrid realized that it looked like something back in Toronto. They were obviously in a part of Rome that had been built up after the war. The modern architecture, which back home didn’t seem to look so bad, appeared ugly after weeks of winding Guido la Vespa around the Piazza Navone and the Colosseum. But Sigrid was grateful that the emergency animal hospital was there.
As though he were reading her mind, Sandro said, “This part of Rome is not so pretty. But we are fortunate to have a place like this for animals.”
“Do you have pets? I mean, how did you know about it?”
“I told you. My father is soft-hearted. He is always taking in strays. It can be quite a problem.”
That last comment sounded cryptic to Sigrid.
“Your dad sounds great! Why do you sound so negative when you talk about his soft heart?”
“No reason. And I’m certain you would like my father and he you. You obviously have a weakness for strays, too.”
Isn’t that the sorry truth? Stray men and straying men.
The inside of the animal hospital wasn’t much prettier than the outside, though at least there were some Christmas decorations in the waiting room, and the people on duty were caring and friendly. Sigrid’s heart broke as she saw one young couple cradling their cat, who looked as though it had had a worse encounter with a car than Pinot Grigio. Just as she and Sandro sat down, the couple were called in to see the doctor. She wished the best for them, but had a sick feeling in her stomach that they would be saying good-bye to their pet tonight.
Sandro touched her arm. “You know it is for the best if that animal does not continue to suffer, don’t you? It looked in terrible shape. And that couple no doubt love him and will understand that, as well.”
“I know. I just feel bad for all three of them.”
“Sometimes, you seem very sweet.”
Sigrid gave Sandro a sideways glance. “Sometimes?”
“So far, only sometimes,” said Sandro, as he stood up and went over to the desk and spoke in rapid Italian with the pretty lady answering phones. She flushed as he leaned into her, smiling and whispering. Flirt, thought Sigrid, feeling uncomfortably jealous. I guess he is making this woman’s night. Here she has been seeing hurt animals and weeping people all night and now this hunk comes over and charms her.
The hunk looked over at Sigrid and said, “We’re in luck, cara. There are two veterinarians on staff tonight. We can take Pinot in to see one right now. No waiting.”
* * * *
Sigrid’s Italian was fairly good, and she understood most of the conversation between the young veterinarian and Sandro. Poor Pinot Grigio was pulled reluctantly out of the carrier and a close-up look at him revealed a flea-ridden, scruffy sweetheart with a badly broken front right leg. It also revealed, most definitely, a male cat. Sigrid was pretty sure Sandro and the vet were joking about its balls. She heard the word pallone so unless they were discussing soccer, which she really doubted, Pinot’s manhood was under discussion.
The vet said that Pinot would be given pain medication overnight, put on intravenous fluids, and that x-rays would be taken in the morning, since the x-ray technician was not available until 6 a.m. Depending on the severity of the break, the cat’s leg could be set or might have to be amputated. If the latter were the case, the option of euthanizing was to be considered. When Sigrid heard that, she started to cry.
“Cara, please,” said Sandro. “It is just a possible outcome at this point. If this cat has to have his leg amputated, who will look after him? He cannot be put back out on the street, and I doubt he is very amenable to indoor living.”
“I’ll take Pinot in.”
“And take him back to Canada?”
“Why not? We have cats in Canada,” she protested, knowing full well that it would be preferable to find a good Roman home for the cat.
“Well, we can talk about it once the x-rays have been taken. Now, we should leave. He will be fine overnight.”
Sigrid reached for her credit card and headed for the front desk, only to feel Sandro’s hand on her wrist. The feeling was not unpleasant and she hoped he hadn’t noticed her fine, blonde arm hairs standing on end. “Let me,” he said, reaching for his wallet.
“No, no, it was my idea to rescue the cat.”
“It was also my father’s idea and since the cat was found on my family’s property, it is our responsibility to pay.”
“I’ll agree to that only if you won’t make a decision about its future without talking to me first.”
“Madonna, you are stubborn, woman. But I think you mean ‘his future.’ I think you can call Pinot ‘he’ now. We’ve seen the evidence,” he said, winking at Sigrid.
Oh, what he does to me, she thought. Macho jerk.
“Oh, by the way, I have something for you. I noticed this at the front desk,” Sandro said, handing Sigrid a pamphlet. “Have you heard of this place: the Torre Argentina Cat Sanctuary?”
“No, I haven’t,” said Sigrid, looking at the pamphlet, which appeared to advertise a no-kill cat shelter situated among some excavated Roman temples.
“These ladies are famous in Italy, famous gattare or cat ladies, for the wonderful work they do, all on a volunteer basis, doing what you did tonight, helping street cats. They are always looking for others to help them, even if only for a couple of hours a week. While you are in Italy you might like to go and at least visit them. They are not far from the Pantheon, so easy to find.”
“Sure. Sounds fun.” And a better use of my time than obsessing about what drove me to Italy in the first place.
Chapter Two
The ride back was quiet, much quieter than the ride to the animal hospital. Pinot wasn’t meowing, but Sandro could also sense Sigrid’s sadness for the cat, her preoccupation. He was preoccupied, too, finding himself distracted at every red light by the sight of her long legs sheathed in those black, stretchy leggings clinging to every curve —legs she stretched out in front of her as much as the front seat would allow—and blonde hair, now falling out of its messy ponytail.
“Stop worrying. Our friend is in no pain tonight. He is being hydrated and fed and he is in a warm cage with blankets and people to care for him. In spite of his leg, he is probably feeling better now than he has in a while.”
“True enough,” said Sigrid. “For Pinot, it is probably like the kitty Hilton.”
“So tell me, Miss O’Herlihy, why are you in Italy for this long vacation? Are you here to find a lover? I know you laughed about that suggestion earlier.”
“Excuse me?”
“You would not be the first American woman to come to Italy looking for a man. After all, we are famous…”
“Canadian.”
“Che cosa? I beg your pardon?”
“I’m Canadian.”
“Oh yes, of course. But it makes no difference, because Canadian women also come here looking for romance. We Italian men are famous, as I was saying, famous the
world over for our bedroom skills, not to mention our cooking skills.”
Even in profile, Sigrid could see that he looked pleased with himself.
“You’re pretty sure of yourself, aren’t you?” And contemptible in an undeniably attractive sort of manner. “I have to wonder if that much bravado and puffery isn’t just for show.”
“I am not putting on a show. And I am not particularly conceited. Just realistic about women and about life. Of course, each would be pointless without the other.”
“So why aren’t you married? “ It then occurred to Sigrid that she wasn’t even sure about that. “Or are you married? “
“No, I’m not stupid. I said women were important, not marriage.”
Sigrid thought about Doug and silently admitted that marriage no longer seemed as enticing or important to her as it once had. But she would be damned if she would let Sandro know she shared his world view. “I suppose you think any woman would fall at your feet for a chance to…” She stopped.
“A chance to be in my bed?” At this point Sandro was laughing. “Let me put it this way—I have never heard any complaints.”
She shook her head. “Bully for you.”
“So, cara, I gather you are not married. No man who can call himself such would allow his blonde wife to go off to a country full of Latin men without his presence.”
“I’m not married, no. And stop calling me ‘cara,’ I have a name.”
“Yes, but your name is impossible to pronounce!”
“Only the last name’s a bit tricky, and even then only for Italians. But even you Italians should be able to handle saying Sigrid.”
“You are really a bit of wildcat yourself, aren’t you, Sigrid? “
Of course Sandro, like most Italians, pronounced it “Seegreed.”
She rolled her eyes. “And it’s not ‘Seegreed,’” she said in an exaggerated imitation of him.
“I will do my best to pronounce it properly if you will do your best to roll your r’s properly, like an Italian. So, Sigrid, you are here to find a man?”
“No, I’m here to get away from one, if you must know.” Stupid Doug.
Amore and Pinot Grigio - a Guido la Vespa Christmas Tale [Guido la Vespa] (BookStrand Publishing Mainstream) Page 2
