by kc dyer
I follow her inside to find a charming, if tiny, little garret room with a round window overlooking the Ionian coast. Far below, I can see both the castle depicted on my postcard and the islands my dad is currently traipsing across, all within the amazing panorama of coastline. The view is incredible, and I could stare at it all day—if I didn’t have to work.
Luckily, the little Italian lady, who insists I call her Nonna Rosa, is anxious to feed me. She leads me out onto a terrace that surpasses even Margarita’s assessment. The view is indeed frikkin’ gorgeous, as is the excellent Wi-Fi. And Nonna Rosa’s selection of afternoon snack foods also gets an A+ rating. Teeny little cream puffs sprinkled in dark chocolate nestle on a plate with at least a dozen cannoli, each dusted in powdered sugar.
My heart grows three sizes in that single instant.
The terrace runs around the whole exterior of the guesthouse, and one section of it is shaded by a trellis of thick grape leaves. I settle down to write, happily noshing on cannoli. As soon as I log on to the internet—the password, not too surprisingly, is Etna—a text pops up from Charlotte asking for a few specifics to add to the last article. Hard on the heels of this comes an e-mail from Devi, with an attachment that turns out to be an article on magic mushrooms. I save it to read later and get to work on Charlotte’s edits.
Two cups of strong Italian espresso and a slightly embarrassing number of cannoli later, my dad strides onto the terrace, Margarita in tow. I stretch my arms out in an attempt to unkink my back, and Margarita mistakes my intention and dives in for a hug.
So much for caution in the tourism industry.
But whether she’s decided we’re old friends by virtue of our shared citizenship or just after seeing my dad around all afternoon, it appears I have little to say in the matter.
“Your dad’s quite the player, huh?” she whispers when she finally releases me.
“Oh no . . .” I begin, cringing, but she cuts me off with a laugh.
“Ah, it was fine,” she says and points to her overalls. “I zipped up a little, and anyway, I think the hiking has worn him out.”
I glance over at him, where he is leaning on the stone railing all the way across the terrace, drinking in the view. He does look tired and, as I watch, takes off his sunglasses and rubs his eyes. I realize with a start that his hair, at this distance, at least, looks more white than it does grey.
I turn back to Margarita. “Okay. But I hope he wasn’t too pushy.”
“Nah.” She slaps me on the shoulder. “He’s a good guy, and we had a great afternoon. You’ve got nothing to worry about, I promise you.”
As my dad turns toward us, Margarita leaves, pausing to high-five him on the way. She gives me a last wave, scoops a cannoli off the tray that Nonna Rosa is carrying in for my dad, and vanishes, chewing happily.
chapter twenty-three
SATURDAY EVENING
Affogato
Gia Kostas, special correspondent to NOSH, in Catania, Sicily
The truth is that breakfast is not really an important meal in Italy. Most Italians have something small—perhaps a pastry with their coffee—and put so much more of their attention into the later meals of the day. Affogato is the fastest way to combine the rich, dark espresso, which is a required element, with a perfect scoop of . . .
It’s a gorgeous evening, the sun spreading a layer of liquid gold across everything—land and sea and more—but the moment Margarita disappears, my dad visibly sags. He assures me he’s just worn out and needs a nap, and promises to meet me at eight for dinner. But his skin has taken on a grey tone I don’t like at all. Before I know it, he’s followed Nonna Rosa off to his room, leaving me with his untouched pot of tea and, more dangerously, a fresh plate of Italian pastry.
Instead of turning back to my work, I feel the familiar worry rise up to take over my mind once more. This place is so beautiful—with its crumbling streets, rocky shores, and ancient castles—but it’s not home. And while my dad might be claiming to be merely in need of a nap, I feel the weight of my choice to stay with him settle heavily on my shoulders. He’s had all his shots—after the virus swept the world, his whole faculty brought their inoculations up to date. But who knows what he’s vulnerable to? His resistance to germs has got to be down after the stroke, regardless of how small he claims it was.
And as for this insane journey? He’s not supposed to be here at all. Neither of us is. If his doctor knew he was traipsing around rocky islands, crawling through caves, and—I can’t even bear to think of confessing the whole mushroom episode. I brought his medication, yes, and have been on his case enough that I’m sure he’s now in the habit of taking it when he should. And I can’t think what else I could have done. I mean, he’s a grown man. He has to be responsible for his own choices.
Nevertheless, I feel suddenly overwhelmed with guilt. For a person who is here to keep an eye on him, I haven’t exactly been great at stopping him from overexerting himself. I haven’t even been able to keep him off hallucinogens, for heaven’s sake.
I pull out my tablet and start Googling Sicilian physicians. I need someone who speaks English, someone who I can convince or pay or whatever it takes just to have a look at my dad. But my eyes are crossing looking at the list of names, all with addresses which could be anywhere. It’s so discouraging.
Before I know it, I have my phone in my hand, texting Devi. Her life is crazy right now, yes, but she’s so much better than I am at taking the emotion out and looking at things rationally. I compose a long text, asking for suggestions, even if it means tricking my dad into seeing sense. But the minute I press “Send,” I remember. It’s Saturday morning there, which means she’s on her street beat. Which means her phone is off, for who knows how long.
Dropping the phone to the table, I pop in the last of the cannoli and fret. My stomach is aching, and truthfully, I’m not sure if it’s worry about my dad or an Italian pastry overdose.
Probably a bit of both.
The golden light has faded, and the sky has become overcast. Above the village, thunder rumbles, echoing from the distant slopes of Mount Etna. I shiver and pull a sweater out of my bag. I consider sneaking into my dad’s room to steal his phone and find Margarita’s number. I have no doubt she’ll know who to call.
And then, suddenly, I think of Raj. He’s been living here—well, not here, but in the region—for at least a year. I’m fairly certain he’s back at the site near Makri in mainland Greece, but he’s got to have contacts. Before I can change my mind, I look up his number and text him a note. This one is much shorter than the huge missive I sent to Devi. After everything that’s happened, I can’t actually bring myself to mention the whole mushroom thing. Just that I’m not convinced I should be managing my father’s health issues on my own, and any suggestions from him would be welcome.
There is a flash of lightning from somewhere behind me, followed by an immediate—and deafening—crash of thunder. Abandoning my dishes to the rain, I grab my things and dash under the cover of the awning over the door. And as I do, my phone lights up in my hand.
Hey, Gia. Glad you are safely in Sicily. Wish I was there to show you and your dad around. The region around Etna is just loaded with fantastic sites. RE your dad: have you considered reaching out to the person who organized his trip? I remember her saying that the company—is it ExLibris?—is on call at all times. She might be able to help you find a local doc. Your dad and I plan to meet up in a couple of days near Rome. Let me know if you need me to come sooner.
Reading this message, my eyes fill with unexpected tears. Setting aside the fact that this guy—even with our slightly embarrassing history—is willing to drop everything to come help my dad, just reading this calm and reasoned advice heartens me.
Outside the door, rain is suddenly sheeting down, a deluge that blocks out the view off the terrace entirely. I tuck my phone in my pocket and pull out my walle
t. There, in the back, is the small white card Teresa Cipher had paper-clipped to my dad’s itinerary.
I have to step aside as a child, maybe eight or nine years old, dashes past me with a tray and, instantly drenched, collects my remaining dishes to lug back inside. I jam my hand in my pocket and drop the change I find there onto the tray as the child struggles by. This earns me a brilliant smile and reinforces my decision.
I dial the number on the card and, seconds later, connect through to a very reassuring conversation with Teresa Cipher. Speaking to me from London, her first priority is to confirm that no emergency is taking place. Once I tell her that I’m just worried, her voice lightens.
“Every eventuality is included in the ExLibris service package,” she assures me, “and we want you to know that your dad is in the best of hands.”
This almost makes me tear up again, and when the young child reappears to collect the abandoned teapot, I have to physically restrain myself from reaching out for a hug.
Teresa Cipher goes on to say that she will be back to me before nine the following morning and then wishes me a good night. As I head toward the stairs to my room, an enormous clock near the check-in desk ponderously strikes nine times. Upstairs, my dad’s door is slightly ajar, and I peek in to see he is still out like a light, snoring gently. There’s a coil notebook on the bed beside him, and his favorite fountain pen dangles from one hand.
I creep in long enough to cap his pen and flip the duvet over him. Then I turn off the light and head up the final flight of stairs to my room. As I cuddle into my own little bed, the gentle breeze whispering in through my window has been cooled by the rain, which has finally stopped. I lie there, staring into the darkness, and think of Raj Malik’s kindness and good sense.
And then I think of how he looked that first night, his hands cupping my face, the crease at the curve of his smile that I could not stop kissing. I think of how I watched a single bead of sweat trickle from his hairline below one ear and trace its way down his chest under his open shirt, around one pectoral muscle, and then down across those washboard abs, and . . .
Sitting bolt upright in bed, I blurt, “What the hell, Gia?” so loudly I startle myself.
Embarrassment floods through me. I tell myself it’s only gratitude for Raj’s help with my dad, but it takes a real force of will to banish the image from my mind’s eye and force myself to lie down again.
Of course I’m grateful. Raj gave me the good advice about calling Teresa. He even offered to come and help. Why wouldn’t I be grateful for that kind of support?
But here in the deep, slightly humid Sicilian darkness, I can feel heat rise to my face. I know this whole thing, this stupid memory of Raj’s perfect, perfect abs—can only be prompted by one thing. I’ve had almost zero communication with Anthony over the last few days, and anyway, so what? Mental imagery like this only proves I’m normal. Human. A normal, human woman missing her fiancé. No other explanation needed.
I make a mental note to write Anthony a detailed, loving e-mail in the morning, but for some irritating reason, it seems to take a long, long time before I fall into sleep.
chapter twenty-four
SUNDAY
Cannoli
Gia Kostas, special correspondent to NOSH, in Sicily
These sweet, perfect packages made the leap across the Atlantic to America many years ago, but this ideal version, served in its native Sicily, has a certain . . .
I awaken the next morning to the low rumble of what sounds almost like a jet engine. Instead, when I peer out my little round window, I see a majestic yacht slowly motoring toward the rickety little jetty directly below our guesthouse. The incongruity of the elegant ship—complete with helicopter pad—pulling in toward the little wooden dock clears the sleep from my brain. Feeling like it has to contain a celebrity, I race through washing and dressing. By the time I emerge from the twisty staircase into the main lobby, two women are striding across the gravel driveway.
They are both tall, but the first woman is truly striking, wearing a knee-length wrap dress in a nautical Breton stripe and white gloves. The four-inch heels on her elegant pumps impede her progress across the gravel not at all. Behind her, the second woman has dark hair, neatly coiffed in a French knot, a light raincoat open and flapping in the wind, and chic, sensible flats. As they reach the doorway, the first woman removes her sunglasses, and I realize with a jolt of recognition that it is Teresa Cipher.
“Ms. Kostas,” she says, extending a gloved hand.
“It’s—it’s Gia.” I can’t seem to get out a sentence without stuttering. “What? I—I mean, I certainly didn’t expect to see . . .”
Her smile broadens. “Gia, allow me to introduce Dr. Elle Arcetti. Dr. Arcetti is a neurologist and a friend of mine.”
The doctor, who is also wearing gloves, shakes my hand firmly. “Lovely to meet you, Gia.”
Before I can settle on one of the five or six thousand questions that have just leapt to mind, I hear footsteps on the stairs behind me.
“Ari!” says Teresa Cipher warmly, and indeed my father has arrived.
He clumps up beside us, looking well-rested, if a little thinner than usual. And now that I’ve taken to noticing things, his hair is whiter, even this close up. But his smile is wide, and his eyes take on a look I recognize as he spots the woman in the raincoat.
“Teresa? What are the odds?” says my father, shaking her hand heartily before turning a charming smile on her companion.
Teresa repeats her introductions and then beams around our small group.
“It’s such a perfect coincidence,” she says in her warm contralto. “Here I was, happily escorting Dr. Arcetti to a reimagining of the dinner scenes from Under the Tuscan Sun, and I was struck by our proximity to your itinerary, Ari.”
She crinkles her eyes at me for a fraction of a second before continuing smoothly. “And as Elle is a neurologist, she insisted that we stop so she could meet and chat with you both. After all, this has been quite a year for you, Ari, hasn’t it?”
If my dad is at all put out by this reference to his condition, he doesn’t show it. Instead, he invites the women to share breakfast with us, going so far as to offer his arm to escort the beautiful neurologist out onto the sunny terrace of the guesthouse.
“We’ll join you in a minute, Pops,” I call out to him. He answers with an airy wave of his free hand.
Teresa Cipher raises an eyebrow at me inquiringly. “I do hope you don’t mind me taking things in this direction,” she says quietly.
I bulge my eyes back at her and tilt my head toward the front door. The two of us step outside onto the gravel parking surface.
“MIND?” I shout before I can get a grip on my voice.
I manage to tone it down a little, and try again. “Mind? I most certainly do not mind. I am—I don’t know what I am. Delighted? Thrilled? I mean, last night, I called you for help finding a local doctor who might speak English, and you show up the next morning—on a yacht? With a neurologist in tow?”
She laughs at this, but I do hear the note of relief in her voice. “My dear, this is what we do at ExLibris. It’s our goal to make the experience a memorable one for all our clients. But we factor in the need to handle emergencies, and I have to say, you sounded quite desperate on the phone last night.”
I can’t help sighing. “Listen, I think you know by now that my dad is—well, he can be a handful.”
Teresa nods. “Everyone has their eccentricities,” she says diplomatically.
I lean against the door frame. “Yeah, okay, call it what you like, but it strikes me that my dad may not have been completely up front with you about his health.”
Her expression clouds just a little. “Well, yes—we do expect our clients to be forthright, particularly if they have health concerns.”
“The problem is that my dad is such a Greek male
. He’d bleed to death before asking for a Band-Aid. In his defense, I’m pretty sure he had no idea he was ill when he first started planning this whole thing. But you should know that the day I met you, I’d actually flown over to Athens to bring him the medication he was supposed to be taking for his TIA—and that he left behind at the hospital.”
All the good humor fades from her face. “Yes, I recall the meeting vividly. And Ari did make a brief reference to some neurological anomalies, which is why I’ve brought Dr. Arcetti today. However, I admit I assumed these events were well in the past. I had no idea he’d been so recently ill.”
“Yep. Sneaky devil didn’t want to cancel his trip and wasn’t about to tell you in case you canceled it for him.”
Teresa Cipher is silent a moment. “And this attack happened when?”
“Two days before he flew here. He was literally in the hospital less than twenty-four hours before signing himself out. I’m sure he didn’t tell you because he didn’t think ExLibris policies would allow clients to leave under those circumstances.”
“Hmm. Well, he likely would have been right. However.” She pauses, and her lips twitch at the corners. “I understand how your father is disinclined to adhere to the norm. I’m very glad you called me. You did the right thing.”
A wave of relief washes through me. “I mean, he’s actually been pretty well, on the whole. It’s only when he overdoes it—he seems to crash more easily these days. Yesterday he looked just terrible.”
She nods. “Well, in light of all that you’ve told me, I’m glad we’ve been able to get here as quickly as we have. Shall we go join them? Let’s see if Elle can talk some sense into him.”
She sweeps a hand toward the entrance and grins. “I’ll be delighted if she is able to offer some good advice, particularly in light of the—naturally, purely coincidental—nature of our visit.”
