Our Italian Summer

by Jennifer Probst

  My mouth fell open. “Are you really questioning me on this? You never let me have wine.”

  She shrugged. “We weren’t in Italy.”

  Allegra smothered a laugh, and I shook my head. It was nice to hear my daughter laugh. Maybe I needed to try to not make everything a battle between us. Better to keep the peace, and my mother could help chaperone. “Just a few sips,” I warned.

  “We’ll do Pinot Grigio,” my mother declared. “It’s light and fruity.”

  While she initiated Allegra into the pleasures of adult beverages, I swept my gaze over the table. The chairs next to me were still vacant, and I counted nine people so far. I did a quick catalogue, making the initial assessments that had always served me well. A family of three—their son looked to be a bit older than Allegra. One older couple who looked around Mom’s age. And two female friends in their late twenties who seemed carefree and excited for the adventure ahead.

  I settled down. No one seemed to throw me off or give off bad energy. God knows, I didn’t want to get stuck with a bunch of annoying people for three weeks. I murmured, “Grazie,” when the waiter slid the plate of prosciutto and melon, entangled delicately with a few sprigs of mint, in front of me. Thick, crusty loaves of Italian bread were set out in baskets, with olive oil and pepper drizzled on small plates. My fingers twitched with the need to taste, and I reached halfway toward the basket before snatching my hand back. There’d be more carbs to choose from later, and I’d need to be careful.

  “Bread is life, signora,” an amused, lilting voice echoed from behind me.

  I turned around, startled. Our tour guide—was it Enzo?—stood before me, a half smile resting on his full lips. Was he judging me as one of those typical Americans who refuse good food in the name of thinness? I really wasn’t like that, but I also knew if I gobbled up pasta, sweets, and bread for a month, I’d never fit into my designer suits again. Food had been delegated to sustenance, not pleasure, for a long time. “Too much life and I won’t be able to zip up my pants after the tour,” I quipped, softening my answer with a smile.

  He laughed, and I was surprised at the rich sound, full of gusto and volume. I studied him with interest. I pegged him at about only five-seven, and his face held nondescript features that combined to make him easy to dismiss. He couldn’t boast of a sharp jawline or high cheekbones or even a sexy goatee. His face was round, with a blunt nose, high forehead, and heavy brows. His hair was dark and curly, and his eyes were a rich brown, the color of melted chocolate. He wore tan pants, mustard-colored loafers, and a crisp button-down green shirt with oversize cuffs. His body seemed fit, but it wasn’t as if he was busting out of his clothes with muscled biceps and rock-hard abs. The man was completely forgettable, and not my type. But there was something else that intrigued me—an energy that almost burst from him, an ease in the way he held himself and looked at me with a warm humor I rarely spotted in the male species unless they had a goal of seduction or gaining something they wanted. His scent rose to my nostrils, a delicious mix of musk, coffee, and rich spice that made me want to take a big whiff. His gaze met mine, and for one crazy moment, my cheeks began to heat in a blush.

  “Then I will try not to tempt you too early in the tour,” he said, opening his hands in the air. “But I must warn you about the bakeries. Especially Nonni’s in Siena. One of my favorites.”

  I couldn’t help but smile back. He wasn’t mocking me but seemed to appreciate my dilemma. “Then I’ll save up my calories for it.”

  “You won’t have to. We’ll be doing so much walking on this tour, carbs will become your new friend. You want to be sure you’re not hungry and have comfortable shoes. It is the only way to enjoy Italy.”

  It was odd to speak with a man who tried to take care of me. Maybe it was part of the tour-guide training.

  “Buona sera, Enzo,” my mother said.

  He directed his attention toward my family. “Buona sera. I hope you had a good rest and will enjoy dinner.”

  “I’m starving,” Allegra said. “Is tomorrow the Vatican and Sistine Chapel?”

  “Sì. I’ll be going over some of the stops for the next few days after everyone eats.”

  “Would you like to join us?” I asked, motioning to the empty seat next to us.

  He shook his head. “Grazie, but I shall be eating separately tonight and will return later.” With a nod, he moved down to the next couple, chatting a bit and working the table like a pro. I wondered if he’d always been a guide or had previous business or sales experience in another field. What was the job market like in Italy?

  My mother bent her head toward us. “He’s very cute,” she whispered.

  Allegra laughed. “Go for it, Nonni. Maybe you’ll have a big love affair in your homeland.”

  She pointed at me. “I was talking about your mom.”

  I refused to squirm like a teenager. “Don’t be ridiculous. We’re here to bond and see the sights, not crush on our tour guide. I’m sure he has a wife and children at home.”

  “No ring,” my mother sang, her dark eyes glinting with mischief.

  I sighed and concentrated on my appetizer. “Not interested,” I said firmly.

  “Mom, why don’t you ever date?”

  I jerked back under their suddenly intense, questioning stares. Surprise shot through me. My daughter rarely asked about my love life, or lack of it. I figured she’d be happier without a trail of men being paraded in and out of the house, and work was my full-time companion. It’d been just us against the world for so long, I never thought of even wanting to pursue a relationship. The few men who approached usually worked for me, and I didn’t mix work with pleasure. The one time I’d said yes to a date with a colleague, I found out over dinner that he was married, and I left. I’d missed out on my filet mignon and ended up binging on a Dairy Queen Blizzard. “I’m always busy, honey,” I said.

  Was that worry glinting in her eyes? Or something deeper? She hesitated before seeming to pick at her words. “It’s just that when I leave, you’ll be alone. And all you do is . . . work.” My mother’s judging look only slammed home the discomfort that Allegra’s words set off. I’d built a thriving business from nothing, and they both believed I sacrificed too much. When would a woman finally be respected for her drive and success rather than for how many heartbreaks she’d racked up? I’d managed to birth and raise my daughter with no man, yet it wasn’t celebrated but pitied. I’d assumed my actions would show Allegra the path to freedom to experience all her power as a woman of this world. But all she managed to see was the lack of a husband. The injustice of such judgment roared through me, and I opened my mouth to launch into a speech defending my choices, but the last couple arrived at the table and interrupted us.

  “I guess we’re the last ones to arrive,” the woman announced, reaching over to offer her hand. “Nice to meet you. I’m Dana and this is my husband, Steve.” We introduced ourselves and I took a moment to study them.

  Dana was dressed in a daffodil-yellow dress with red ankle boots. Her hair matched her shoes and was worn long and curly. Chunky colored bracelets clinked on her wrist, and a large purple stone swung in the V between her breasts. Her blue eyes snapped with a bright energy that hinted she was always ready for a party or an adventure. Her husband seemed more conservative, dressed in a white button-down shirt and jeans with a western-type belt buckle. His hair was gray and neatly trimmed, and he sported a smart mustache that reminded me of Sam Elliott. He towered over his petite wife, but his face was sun kissed and creased with laugh lines.

  “When did y’all get in?” she asked, an obvious Texas drawl lilting her words.

  “This morning,” I answered. “We’re still kind of jet-lagged.”

  “Our flight was delayed and we got here a few hours ago. I watched three movies on the plane, drank a bottle of Pinot Grigio, and haven’t slept in forty-eight hours. I just hope I don�
�t pass out while looking at the Sistine Chapel,” Dana said, waving her wrist in the air as she attacked the bread basket with gusto. “Where are y’all from?”

  “New York,” my mother said. “This is my daughter and my granddaughter.”

  “How wonderful!” Dana said. “Three generations of women touring Italy. I love it. Are you heading to college in the fall, Allegra?”

  “Next year,” she said.

  Dana sighed. “Those were my favorite years. Learning new things, falling in love with a different boy each semester, and being full of passion for causes. I still remember marching for animal rights and chaining myself to the mailbox at the animal kill shelter we tried to shut down.”

  Allegra’s eyes widened. “What happened?”

  “They just pulled the mailbox out of the ground and threatened us with arrest. But now it’s a no-kill, so we did make a difference.”

  The waiter glided by and placed a garden salad in front of us, then stocked up the bread basket again.

  I dug into my salad, enjoying the flavorful dressing of garlic softened with oil, vinegar, and salt. Dana chattered on, informing us they were here for their tenth-anniversary celebration and that she owned a clothing boutique. She fell into a lively discussion with Allegra on saying no to black and embracing bold, seasonal colors, and I loved watching my daughter relax and enjoy an adult evening getting to know people. Maybe this wasn’t such a bad idea after all. It was good for all of us to get away from our usual routine, stuck with the same people who shared our daily schedules.

  “Do you both travel much?” I asked Steve, who remained quiet next to me.

  “We try. I run a ranch, so it’s hard to get time away,” he explained in a gravelly voice. Yep, definitely like Sam Elliott. My mother perked up at the mention of a ranch. She had a weakness for the movie The Horse Whisperer with Robert Redford. Except that took place in Montana.

  “A horse ranch?” she asked, cocking her head.

  “Yes, ma’am. Been raising horses since I was young. Inherited the place when my parents passed.”

  Dana’s ears perked up at the sound of her husband’s voice. I wondered if she gave him much time to speak. “We even host guests who like to experience a working ranch as a vacation. You get to shadow Steve and eat all sorts of delicious food and go for rides. It’s highly rated on TripAdvisor. Maybe one day you’d like to come visit!”

  “It sounds so exciting,” my mother said. “But I can only imagine how much work it takes to run a ranch.”

  “We have a ton of employees, but Steve likes to be involved with everything. I keep telling him to go to a part-time schedule, but he’s stubborn.”

  My mother snorted. “My daughter is also a workaholic.”

  “Ah, what do you do?” Dana asked.

  I bristled at the way Mom spoke about me but forced a smile. “Advertising. I own a company, so I understand the challenges. At least we love our work,” I said brightly. “Too many people suffer through boring day jobs just to gain a pension. I think the world needs more passionate employees.”

  Steve nodded. “Agreed.”

  Dana spoke. “I love dressing women in new designs and watching them feel confident in their bodies. But too much of anything isn’t good. That’s why I insisted on a long trip for our anniversary, to take a breath. We’ve always dreamed of seeing Europe.” She turned to Allegra. “How about you, honey? Are you like your mama? Ready to set the world on fire with your career?”

  The words were obviously meant as a compliment, but my daughter’s reaction made my heart stop. Distaste carved out the features of her face and she shook her head hard. “No.”

  She didn’t explain any further. An awkward silence fell, and Dana and Steve shared a look. Allegra ducked her head, and I forced a breezy laugh, pretending it didn’t bother me. “What daughter wants to be like her mom, right?”

  Everyone chuckled. I avoided my own mother’s gaze and steered the conversation back to Dana, where it was safe. I wasn’t ready to showcase the cracks within my family on the first day of the tour. Another reason I’d wanted us to eat by ourselves, but at least Dana was entertaining, and it was obvious my daughter enjoyed her lighthearted dialogue.

  We’d just finished the main course—a branzino with crisp green beans and roasted potatoes—when Enzo returned and stood at the front of the room. The chatter died down and everyone looked expectantly at the man who held their entire vacation within his grasp. He paused, letting the anticipation build, and finally spoke in his deep, lyrical voice.

  “You are about to embark on the vacation of a lifetime.”

  Oh, he was good.

  Low murmurs of approval rose in the room. I shifted in my seat and gave him my full attention. “Destino Tours is committed to showing you not only the beauty of Italy, but the hidden treasures most tour groups would never experience. We begin tomorrow with seeing the Vatican and the momentous Sistine Chapel by Michelangelo. There will be plenty of free time within our schedule to explore on your own, but before booking any extra excursions, come see me first. As in every big city, you must be aware of pickpockets and frauds.”

  A woman chimed in. “Should we carry our passports with us?”

  “No, you should keep important travel papers locked in the hotel safe or secured in your luggage. Be careful of your wallets and purses within easy reach. You don’t need to be afraid—just aware. From now on, I am at your disposal. I will be giving you all my cell phone number, and I’m on call twenty-four hours a day.”

  Okay, that was impressive. The poor man’s phone was probably blowing up on a regular basis, and I’d say he didn’t mean it, but there was a ring of sincerity laced in his tone.

  “I’ve given everyone a detailed itinerary, so let me know if there are any questions. We meet at nine a.m. in the lobby to take the bus to the Vatican. Shoulders and knees must be covered, so bring a jacket with you if you’re wearing a tank top.”

  “Why?” another woman called out.

  “The churches are strict about proper clothing in a religious setting. We must respect the rules.”

  His tone brooked no disagreement. I was more impressed with each minute of his speech. He spoke excellent English. I’d never thought about how hard it would be to contain and please a large group of people with so many different views on what they wanted or needed.

  He continued. “A breakfast buffet will be served in the restaurant. Now, I will be around if you have any private questions or concerns. If you will take out your phones, I will give you my number.”

  We all took them out and I added him as a contact. I didn’t remember his last name, so I saved it under Enzo Tour Guide. Dana and Steve stood up. “We’re going to head up early to catch up on sleep. It was so nice to meet you,” Dana said.

  “Same,” I responded. “See you in the morning.”

  I pondered the fruit tart on my plate and settled on a few sips of precious coffee. It was strong and a touch bitter and absolutely perfect. “They were nice,” my mother commented, forking up a piece of her dessert. “She’s a hoot.”

  “She’s cool,” Allegra said. “I’d love to run a clothes shop.”

  I snorted. “Retail has awful hours and high turnover. You’d hate it,” I said.

  Immediately she stiffened. “Why do you have to ruin everything I mention?” she asked, her eyes burning with resentment. “Just because you don’t like it doesn’t mean I wouldn’t.”

  I sighed. “I’m just telling you the truth. Lots of jobs seem glamorous from the outside, but you realize there’s too many limitations or downfalls. I’m trying to help.”

  “You do it all the time. I told you I’m interested in cooking and would love to take classes, but you said to stay away from the restaurant business.”

  “Because it’s a nightmare. You work nights, weekends, and odd hours. The pay is terrible, and it
’s competitive.”

  “I don’t care. I’m tired of you crapping on all the things I’m interested in.”

  “Allegra, language,” my mother scolded. “Your mother is only trying to help. Just let her know when she’s doing something to upset you and you can work it out.”

  “Forgive me for trying to teach you a few things about life,” I said, tired of always being the bad guy. “When you declared you’d be a Broadway dancer and you couldn’t even get through your first recital, did you want me to give you false expectations? Or how about when you said being a vet was your calling but you pass out at the sight of a needle? There are endless numbers of jobs you’d excel at. I’d be happy to help you explore them, or get internships, or make phone calls to my contacts. Whatever you want.”

  “Forget it. You don’t understand. I’m tired.” She turned toward my mother. “I want to go to bed. Can I have the key?”

  My mother glanced at me, obviously torn between the both of us and whose side to take. Our first night in Italy and we couldn’t get through a dinner without fighting. I pushed my chair away from the table. “It’s okay, I’m going to bed too. I’ll see you both in the morning for breakfast. Text me if you need anything.”

  Mom looked like she was about to say something, then thought better of it. I remembered when things fell apart when I was young, her advice to fix any problems revolved around two sacred things.

  Feed me.

  Make me go to bed early.

  If only things were that easy.

  I spun on my heel, took the elevator to the ground floor, and headed toward the exit. I needed some fresh air and to take a breath. I had to get in the right headspace, and feeling consistently frustrated at Allegra wasn’t helping.

  I smiled at a few of the staff, then pushed through the double doors onto the sidewalk. The main street of Via Nazionale was lively and packed, with crowds meandering in and out of the shops, laughing, and talking in Italian. Darkness only accented the landscape, with the buildings lit up and the earthy smells of the city drifting to my nostrils. Cars beeped and zigzagged down the road. I ducked into a darkened doorway, seeking a few minutes of solace. Tipping my head up toward the midnight sky, I prayed this trip would give me back the balance in my life I’d been missing.