Flipped (Better With Prosecco Book 1)

by Lisa-Marie Cabrelli

  And now there was a whisper in her heart. Sometimes it happened this way. Sometimes after she had written to her dad, he spoke back. Gently, quietly, but she always knew it was him. And this time her heart whispered… “Go to Italy.”

  She smiled. The room spun around her as she tucked herself under her covers, but she felt suddenly calm. She had been thinking for hours, and she was out of ideas. There was only one option before her. One crazy, terrifying, and foolhardy option. She would let Indigo fly her to Italy and pray that this stupid house was real and not some phantom house invented in Indigo’s expansive imagination. She would flip the house with her mom and pray that there was cash at the end of it that would cover her equity buy-in. She would wait and watch Samuel go down in a ball of fire and flames as he tried to manage this project that was way over his head, and at the end of the summer, she would come back to Jacksonville. Professional, competent, talented Hazel would come back to Blackwell and Crawley and show them what a true equity partner looked like. Everything would be okay. Hazel wouldn’t allow any other option.

  8

  Dean

  Dean tugged his baseball cap further down over his forehead and headed for the First Class Lounge. He was relieved to be away from his house phone, which hadn’t stopped ringing since he’d returned yesterday afternoon, and he had turned off the cell phone in his pocket. Although he’d been doing his best to stay calm, the constant vibrating reminder that he was being hunted had been driving up his anxiety levels. There was no denying he was facing an anxiety issue, although he had no idea where it was coming from.

  Last night, in the privacy of his bedroom, blackout curtains drawn, Adam had set up a video camera and a couple of standing lights “borrowed” from the now ghostly set. If Dean had thought that his panic attack had been a one-off and easily surmountable, that camera had convinced him otherwise. He’d been totally prepared and feeling great. He’d had his lines ready in his head and Isabella had been facing him smiling encouragingly, or was she just eager to practice her role? Anyway - he’d done this a million times.

  But when Adam had shouted “Action,” and that little red light popped on above the camera lens, Dean had lost it. This time around he knew what to expect, and at the first sign of that gaping maw of the black, glass lens creeping across the room to swallow him up, he sat down on the end of his bed and thrust his head between his knees. His heart pounded and someone must have turned on a sprinkler connected to his sweat glands, because it poured in rivulets down his face.

  Isabella had simply said, “Wow!”

  Adam had shaken his head sadly. “Yeah, we have a problem.” He paused for a minute and scratched his whiskery chin. “I have an idea,” he said. “Don’t freak out. Hear me out first, okay?”

  “Okay…” Dean had told Adam that he trusted him. That he would do whatever Adam told him to do, and he’d meant it, but it didn’t stop him from feeling distinctly worried. Adam had some crazy ideas.

  Adam told him the plan. First and foremost, they would need to get him away from the stress of the invasive press, second, they would need to get him out of the mind of Ed and the producers. If they caught a whiff that Dean’s “issue” was more than a one-time thing, the wolf in all of them would come out, and it wouldn’t be pretty.

  “Sara’s in Italy.” Sara, Adam’s wife, was indeed in Italy. She had left a month ago for a week’s vacation when their new baby was only a few weeks old. After the second week he’d asked Adam how long she was planning on staying and he’d practically bitten off his head, chewed it and spit it out. Dean hadn’t mentioned it again. “I think you should go and stay with her.”

  “Italy?” Dean said. “Why would I go all the way to Italy?”

  “No, listen, this makes sense, right? I say that you have a sick relative in Italy. No one would question that. We’ve made up your entire family background anyway, what’s one more nonexistent relative? The media will back off. They’d ignore the story leaking from our fifteen-minutes-of-fame seeking extras, and assume they were just attention hounds, which we all know they are anyway. You’ll be out of Ed's and the Producers' sight, so they won’t get a hint of how bad you are, and I’ll tell them that Italy is a mental health move and you only need a few weeks. They love that shit. Plus, you’ll be in Italy, buddy, in some tiny mountain town in the middle of nowhere where people will leave you alone and you can recover. I mean even George Freaking Clooney can walk around Italy without being harassed, and, no offense Dean, but you’re no George Clooney.”

  “Who is?” Isabella piped up dreamily from the corner where she was lounging on his script reading couch. He decided to ignore the jab.

  “It could work.” He thought of the few times he had been outside of LA since his surge to fame. He’d been able to walk down the street in most places. He’d occasionally gotten stopped, but it was more of the “Don’t I know you from somewhere?” kind of queries than the all-out celebrity assault. It could work. He wasn’t crazy about being away from Ed that long, out of sight, out of mind and all that, but did he really want to be on Ed’s mind when he was freaking out every time someone turned a camera on him? Probably not.

  “Of course it will work.”

  “Okay. I’ll do it, Adam. If you think it’s a good idea, I’ll do it. Will we leave tomorrow?”

  “Who’s we?” Adam and Isabella said together.

  Dean looked back and forth between the two warily. They wouldn’t make him do this alone would they? “Well, okay, I guess you can’t go, Adam. I really need you here, building my case with Ed and the guys. But you’ll come, Isabella… right?”

  She looked at him blankly and didn’t answer.

  “There’s no room really,” Adam said, whipping out his phone and presumably texting his secretary to get her working on the flights.

  “If there’s room for me, there’s room for her, Adam. We sleep in the same bed remember?”

  “Yeah I know. I just think it would be taking advantage of my Mother-in-law’s hospitality and all that. I mean the house isn’t that big.”

  Dean knew that Adam didn’t like Isabella but this seemed a bit cruel.

  “No, it’s okay, honey,” Isabella said. “I’ll hold down the fort here. I should stick around for auditions anyway.”

  He’d been pissed at Isabella at the time but since yesterday he’d decided to give her the benefit of the doubt. He was wrong to expect so much of her. She had her own life after all. Now Dean was trying to relax in the deep leather seat in the quiet lounge, listening for his flight to be called. He was on his way to Italy, and it was the last place he wanted to be.

  9

  Hazel

  Hazel stepped out onto the tiny train platform and turned to manhandle her bulky case down the stairs of the train. It got stuck on the last step, so she yanked, tired and frustrated, and the case lurched forward, attacking the Achilles heel of her left foot. She winced in pain and stifled a yelp as the other passengers disembarked around her with scowls of impatience. It was about 2:00 p.m. and she’d been traveling all day. After landing in Pisa a few hours ago, she’d been navigating the trains quite successfully and was feeling pretty pleased with herself.

  Don’t panic, she said to herself, you got this. After the wet, oppressive heat of Pisa, the breeze blowing down the platform and whispering against her sweaty cleavage felt like a gift from above.

  She turned in a circle to take in her surroundings and felt the first stirrings of excitement. Italy looked exactly as she’d imagined it would. She was standing on a wide platform with signage informing her that this was track three. The other tracks stretched out endlessly to her left and her right. To her left was a mountain, and she could just make out the dark gap of the long tunnel from which she had emerged just before pulling into the station. In front of her was a pale yellow concrete building made quaint and picturesque by the coffee colored shutters on the windows above a wide porch-like overhang with black, iron supports. A row of tall, graceful double doo
rs gave access to what was clearly the station building. Next to the station building was a tiny cafe almost hidden behind a large pergola that was buckling under the weight of grape vines. The vines were lush and green and in some areas had pulled patches of the creamy plaster from the wall of the building. The disrepair only added to the charm. A clutter of red, plastic seats under the pergola called out to her. Come and have a coffee and rest your legs, they said. But she had lots to do and could not be distracted.

  The conductor was tapping her shoulder. “Si potrebbe allontanarsi dalle piste del treno, Signora?”

  Back in Jacksonville, Hazel had driven out to St. John’s Town Center and parked herself in front of the language section at the Barnes and Noble. She had poured through every “Italian Conversation” book she could find, eventually choosing one solely because it was small enough to fit in her back pocket. It was in her back pocket right now, but she didn’t bother taking it out. After reading and repeating every phrase in the book since her first flight took off, she was no closer to being able to say anything. She frowned. Not a word the conductor had just said had sounded like anything in that phrase book. She stared at him blankly. He puffed out an irritated breath and repeated his sentence while motioning dramatically with his hand for her to move forward.

  “Si potrebbe allontanarsi dalle piste del treno, Signora?”

  “He wants you to move. You are too close to the train.” She felt a shy tap on her arm and turned to find a small girl smiling up at her. She was all of maybe ten years old and standing alone on the platform. Hazel looked around for her parent; surely this little girl wasn’t alone in the middle of a train station, in the middle of nowhere. “You must to move,” the little girl said. The conductor sighed behind her.

  “Of course!” Hazel leaped forward into the center of the platform, dragging her heavy case behind her and feeling distressingly out of control. “Mi Scusi!” The conductor rolled his eyes at her and waved down to the engine compartment as the train hissed and began to slowly pull away.

  As Hazel headed toward what looked enticingly like an elevator, she took another worried look around for the small girl who had helped her. Finally, she spotted her in a group of girls gathered together on the platform, all wearing school uniforms. Did they go to school on a train? On their own? At ten years old?

  It was hot again. The breeze she'd been so thankful for had died down and, although the air felt fresh and clean, the sun was beating down on her head. It was time to move on.

  Hazel took the elevator down and crossed under the tracks, emerging onto a walkway that took her out to the front of the station where she hoped to find a taxi. There was not a single car in the small parking lot and not a soul in sight. Wait, was that a taxi stand? She hauled her massive case toward what appeared to be a “Taxi” sign in front of the little cafe and discovered, yes, it was a taxi stand, but there was no one in sight.

  Don’t panic Hazel. You’ve been doing so well up until now. You can handle this too. Just find someone to ask.

  All of her recently built up confidence started to waver. What on earth was she doing in a country where she didn’t speak the language, on a mission with her mother, of all people?

  “Posso aiutarti?” A man had just emerged from the little cafe with a pile of empty boxes in his hands. He was wearing a crisp, white apron and a short-sleeved, white t-shirt that showed off his olive skin and worker’s muscles.

  Aiutarti. Her mind puzzled over the word for a few seconds and then blessedly made a connection. Aiutarti sounded like aiuto, which she knew meant “help.” She had memorized aiuto.

  “Yes please!” she said, dragging her case toward the man quickly. “Hablo Inglese?” Wait, no. That wasn’t Italian, that was Spanish. Darn her high-school Spanish classes; they were screwing her up.

  The man laughed and turned to dump his pile of empty boxes onto a dumpster which sat unobtrusively at the edge of the wooded area next to the cafe. He turned back to face her, wiping his hands on his pristine apron. “Non parlo Inglese,” he said.

  Why, oh, why hadn’t she taken Italian instead of Spanish? She’d never used a word of Spanish in any conversation. Starting to feel a bit desperate and slightly embarrassed, she waved her hand at the taxi stand sign. “Taxi?” she asked the man hopefully.

  “Sono solo due. Stanno ancora riposando,” he replied and gave her a grin.

  Due. Due meant two. She knew that much. The town only had two taxis? She looked around in frustration. By the looks of things, this was a tiny town. Why would she imagine they had more than two taxis? She could wait - but the idea of sitting here under this punishing sun wasn’t appealing. Plus, she’d been traveling so long she just wanted to be there already. Wherever “there” was.

  “Can I walk to Via Bellinzona?” she asked the man, half hoping he would say no. He shrugged and headed back to the cafe, summoning her to follow him.

  “Ti disegnerò una mappa.”

  A mappa - that had to mean map. She sighed in relief and followed him into the cafe, wincing as her impractical left shoe rubbed against the sweaty blister on her heel.

  “Is it a long walk?” she asked.

  He shrugged and grinned at her again. She realized he had no idea what she was saying.

  10

  Dean

  Sometimes Dean wondered about the mental health of his friend Adam. He knew that his heart was in the right place and that he was always looking out for Dean’s best interests, but a limousine? If Dean had hoped to sneak unobtrusively into the town of Borgotaro unnoticed, this most definitely wasn’t the way to go. Heads were swinging toward him like someone had just whacked them with a baseball bat. The expressions on the faces of the good folk of Borgotaro were priceless and clued in - this wasn’t some ordinary visitor arriving. So much for under the radar!

  He had climbed into the limo from the steaming, dirty pavement outside Linate airport in Milan, and, although he had been sitting for hours and the last thing he wanted to do was sit some more, , he was grateful for the air-conditioned interior.

  “Is it always this hot?” he had asked the driver, a stern-looking guy with a brimmed hat pulled firmly down onto his forehead, his eyes hidden behind mirrored aviator glasses.

  “Si,” the driver had said and closed the limo door as Dean swung his legs inside quickly. The door barely missed his shin. He had a charmer here. Except for the occasional curse word (at least Dean figured they were curse words) on the busy highway leaving Milan, the man hadn’t uttered another word. The silence was okay with Dean. Once they were out of the confines of the city and headed toward the mountains, the scenery was breathtaking. Dean had only rarely traveled abroad for the international releases of the Rolling Thunder films. The movie settings themselves were so very American. No exotic, foreign locations for him, and lots of days spent in the hangars of studio lots. During those few trips he had taken abroad, he'd been so heavily scheduled that there was rarely time for acting like a tourist. When he did find himself with a few spare hours he was often too exhausted from the fast, furious schedule and multiple locations. This drive through an unfamiliar area, with nothing to do and no one jabbering at him about appointments and responsibilities, was fascinating, and it only got better.

  During the last half hour of the trip they drove deeper into the heart of the mountains. He caught quick glimpses of it stretched out before him like a snake rushing away through a garden bush. He was glad he didn’t get motion sickness. The driver treated this bending highway as though it was an unending straight line. The lurch of the car peeling around several sudden curves had caused Dean to slide uncontrollably and slam into one or other of the padded doors on the back seat while he frantically searched for a hold before he went slamming in the other direction. They had left the highway at an exit clearly marked Borgotaro and Dean was hoping for a quick, smooth finish to the adventure, but the curvy roads seemed endless. It took another fifteen minutes before they passed under a rail bridge, then drove under an
overpass and turned toward a smaller road bridge that crossed a shallow, rocky river bed into the village of Borgotaro.

  Dean was instantly smitten, funny looks from pedestrians notwithstanding. Across the bridge, at the entrance to the town, was a row of ancient brick houses. Directly in front of him were steps leading up from the road and through a small passageway between these old buildings. Perhaps it led to the main street of the village or to a shady plaza. People were everywhere. Some with dogs, most with bags of shopping over their arms, and there seemed to be hundreds of kids.

  The driver took a left turn then swooped around a large curve onto a street hugged by large oak trees. The trees cast lacy, dappled shade over what looked like an abandoned hotel. Rather than being a blight on the landscape, the empty building gave an air of mystery and character to the surroundings. The limo had to stop to let a family pass in a crosswalk so Dean got a glimpse down what must have been the main street on his right even as he was ducking his head in embarrassment at the children staring openly at the shiny, black limo. On that main avenue, marked ‘Via Nationale,’ he saw crowds of yet more shoppers, strolling unhurriedly down the cobblestones. No vehicles were allowed, and the sidewalks were full of wooden decks perched outside the restaurants. The crowded tables were packed with men and women sipping drinks and chatting and laughing with each other. He felt a strong pull towards them, toward that slow, gentle life of friends, family, and food.

  They were driving again now, past a leafy park on his left side. On his right, there was a square with more restaurants and outdoor tables and an old movie theatre with large Hollywood posters in Italian on the walls around it. Then the limo turned and started up a long, steep hill. He glanced at a sign and saw the street was called “Via Bellinzona.” There didn’t seem to be much “town” in front of him now, just rows of towering, stately homes. He figured they must be nearing the end of the journey.