by kc dyer
I can’t help grinning back. I follow her inside to find that her prediction is, indeed, exactly what happens. Nonna Rosa outdoes herself with an incredible breakfast spread, my dad flirts outrageously with Dr. Elle, and when the neurologist makes a few sensible recommendations, he assures her he has every intention of following each of them to the letter.
Their conversation is so engaged, I’m even able to quietly quiz Teresa Cipher on how the two women really did manage to arrange such a speedy surprise visit. It seems that Teresa, still in London setting up her new office for ExLibris, hopped on an early morning flight to Rome and made good use of the yacht’s onboard helicopter to rendezvous with the quite legitimately vacationing Dr. Arcetti—who was indeed sailing along the coast of Tuscany.
Further, Dr. Elle’s husband, a hedge-fund manager, is apparently quite happy to stop in Sicily for the day while his wife does her friend Teresa a favor.
“He’s found a winery nearby,” Dr. Elle confides to me later as I thank her before they leave. “He’s a sucker for a Sicilian red.”
This reminds me of stories Anthony’s told me of how his own father does business. I’m not sure I’ll ever get used to the way wealthy people solve problems. All the same, I’m grateful this neurologist happened to be so close by and was willing to talk to my dad.
After a leisurely, almost two-hour breakfast, the women stand up to take their leave.
“Now, Ari,” says Dr. Elle, “after our chat, it’s pretty clear to me you don’t really need another prescription. But you’ll remember what I told you, yes?”
My father nods and drains his virgin mimosa. “Site visits spaced out by a day of leisure in between,” he says. “I think I can manage that.”
“Good.” She smiles at him and then nods at me. “Lovely to meet you, Gia.”
“And you,” I say gratefully, pocketing the business cards both women quietly press on me, just in case.
I turn to Teresa Cipher and reach for her gloved hand. “I haven’t thanked you for sorting out my last-minute presence on this trip. There has been an impeccable room waiting for me at every stop.”
“I have a wonderful team at ExLibris,” she says, returning my squeeze. “As soon as I heard you’d decided to accompany your father, I put one of my best team members in New York City on it immediately. Ramona has recently returned from a round-the-world jaunt of her own that she booked entirely on the fly, so she considers this little journey of yours a piece of cake.”
I reach across the table and lift my almost empty coffee cup. “To Ramona! Please let her know how much I appreciate her organizational skills.”
Teresa’s eyes twinkle. “She’s planning her own wedding at the moment too,” she says. “So you have something in common.”
I smile and nod and try not to think about just how little planning I’ve actually been doing. I silently vow to spend time on it tonight, as soon as my next story is filed.
We all stand up, and my dad, still not used to a postviral world, attempts to kiss Dr. Elle’s hand by way of farewell. She has redonned her gloves but still manages to avoid this ploy by blowing him a kiss instead, insisting it is the new Italian form of goodbye.
This is a woman who dodges like an expert.
My dad smiles and bows gallantly back at both women. And after they leave, true to his word, he retreats to his room only to return with the coil notebook I spied on his bed last night. With Nonna Rosa busy in the kitchen generating delicious aromas, the two of us work companionably in the dappled sunlight of the terrace for the entire afternoon.
In fact, the only down note for the day comes in the form of an e-mail that arrives from Anthony. It’s in reply to the love note I’ve sent him, but his words come across as stilted and odd. Not until I get to the bottom do I realize it’s been sent—again—via his executive assistant, Melanie Andrews.
Who gets their assistant to e-mail their fiancée, anyway?
chapter twenty-five
MONDAY
Ginger Tea
Gia Kostas, special correspondent to NOSH, on the Ionian Sea
Homeric legend has a lot to say about the role of the gods, with Poseidon among the most temperamental—and therefore interesting. Definitely the wrong guy to poke a stick at when you’re on a boat, fishing for . . .
I awaken to discover that in spite of his promises to Teresa Cipher, my dad has once again changed his plans and has made a deal with Margarita to speed us on our way. He swears to me that this will mean a shorter journey, as we weren’t scheduled to board the boat set up by ExLibris until tonight.
“And by tonight, we will be in Aeolia, ahead of schedule!” he boasts, before adding sneakily, “More time for your papa to relax and take it easy, eh?”
Bastard. I think how hard it must have been on my mother to be married to this man. And it’s not like he’s letting up. Margarita’s at the front door waiting while we bid Nonna Rosa goodbye and settle up our bill. She’s ditched her orange coveralls for a tiny jean skirt and cropped t-shirt, and looks every inch the American girl.
Waiting in the parking lot is Guido the cab driver, who is all smiles at this unexpected gig. Or perhaps at Margarita? It’s hard to tell.
His cab—a little yellow Fiat, apart from the passenger-side door, which is blue—is sparkling clean this morning. As we step into the parking lot, he leaps out to take my bag and hold the door for me. His gallant behavior is undermined for both of us, however, when my dad arrives with Margarita and ousts me from my spot behind the driver.
“You sit up front, darling. I have a few things to discuss with Margarita about our voyage today. You understand.”
This last is a command rather than a question.
Guido doesn’t look any happier than I am at this arrangement, and shooting me a disappointed glance, he tucks what looks like a tiny box of chocolates under his seat.
My own bag is on the floor between my feet. I’m extremely full from Nonna Rosa’s latest triumph, so I settle in and scroll through the pictures on my phone, deciding which to use for the article I plan to submit on her cooking. There is no question an article will be submitted—Nonna Rosa’s skills are unparalleled, and every bite is divine.
Take this morning, for example. I’d planned to just stick to coffee, as I have a history of an unsettled tummy on the water. But when I arrived on the sun-dappled terrace, an entire feast was spread out along the huge old sideboard. It was a brunch for the ages.
In my short time here, I’ve learned that food seems to be the center of Sicilian life. Everything revolves around slow, leisurely meals shared by families, and to Nonna Rosa? We were clearly family. Laid out along the sideboard were plates containing every Sicilian delicacy I could imagine and several I couldn’t. She handed me a cup of coffee, served with sweetened almond milk, to sip while I perused my choices. In addition to what I had come to view as her standards—the cream-filled croissants called coronetti and the brioche served with a choice of homemade jam and marmalade—there was a platter of what turned out to be goat cheese battered and fried to melty perfection. This was to be scooped up with morsels of a long Italian loaf sliced into bite-sized rings, each piece sprinkled in coarse sea salt. There were fillets of swordfish, grilled to perfection, nestled next to a pasta dish that turned out to have a sauce made with pesto and anchovies. In between these dishes were platters containing tidy piles of fresh sausage, each a different variety and with its own unique spice blend.
So, yeah, it’s possible I am feeling a tad uncomfortably full at the moment.
I pull out my tablet. Might as well use the time to write, as it’s a couple hours of driving before we make it to wherever it is that we are getting on a boat. Sitting in the front, at least I should get less carsick, and it will distract me from the charm offensive my dad is waging on Margarita in the back.
Before getting ready to leave this morning, I took t
he time to download my e-mail, planning to go over it while I drank my coffee. But as the choice ended up being to read it or to make time for the last of Nonna Rosa’s special brunches, there was really no contest. Now, however, facing a substantial drive through the mountains of northern Sicily, I can take the time to read through them, at least. Replying, of course, will have to wait until later.
But as I bend down to pull my tablet out of my bag, something catches my eye. Guido’s driving speed has, not unexpectedly, remained the same, and in fact, may be possibly even faster than yesterday’s. We have left the tiny, winding roads of the village and joined an autostrada—a pared-down sort of freeway. The day, by contrast to yesterday, is capped with a clear, beautifully blue sky.
We are hurtling north along a still fairly narrow two-lane highway as I notice a strange, black cloud up ahead. The cloud is oddly columnar in shape rather than the usual sort of fluffy cumulous mass I associate with a thunderstorm.
In the seat behind me, Margarita is laughing at something my dad says when I hear a low rumble, like distant thunder. I hunch down to peer suspiciously through Guido’s window at the ominous cloud. Guido, earphones firmly plugged in his ears and eyes glued to the road, ignores me.
He signals, and we roar past a small white truck with what looks like a handmade mattress strapped to the truck bed. The truck is traveling well below the marked speed, but as we pass, I see that a sheep and two tiny white lambs are in the back. All three appear to be tied in place with rope harnesses. I catch a glimpse of the ewe, stolidly chewing a mouthful of hay, before they are behind us. With the truck out of the way, my view is clearer. The strange thundercloud appears to be gathering at the top of Mount Etna.
Because of his earphones, when I reach over to put a hand on Guido’s arm, he jumps a little, and the tiny cab swerves.
He pulls one of his earbuds out, and I hear a thin chorus of “Sweet Child o’ Mine.”
“Sorry—but . . . is that cloud coming from Etna?” I point out the window past his nose.
Guido glances out of his side window and nods.
“Yes. Is not cloud, but ash. She’s been making noise for many weeks now. Nothing serious, just rumbles. Seems to be worse in mornings, for some reason.”
“So, it’s a cloud of ash, then?”
“Si. If wind is up high, it usually blow out over the water. You see there?” He points up at what looks like a load of white cumulous clouds in the distance. “All ash. It sometimes look white, up high. Not sure why.”
I glance nervously over at the black column that I can now plainly see is billowing from the top of the peak, like smoke from a chimney. Craning my neck proves it is indeed floating off to join the distant, larger cloud.
“Is there a way to drive around the mountain to get where we’re going? It seems awfully cranky today.”
He shakes his head. “We don’t get closer than this, no worry. I drive very fast, we be pass her before you know.”
Still. I can’t seem to tear my eyes away. After a few moments, I begin to feel the black stream might be lessening. Sure enough, as the highway bends to head due north and we are fully past the peak, the smoke is definitely beginning to fade to grey.
In the back seat, my dad and Margarita are discussing the local legends of Odysseus and the Cyclops. I narrow my eyes at him and interrupt.
“You’re missing the show.” I gesture at the grey column of cloud visible through the back window. “Guido says Etna has been erupting for months.”
“Yes, yes,” my dad agrees. “I was watching from the window of my bedroom this morning.”
He leans back and steeples his fingers together. “It’s likely the Isole dei Ciclopi were . . .” he begins, when suddenly, from out of the low wreath of smoke surrounding Etna, a perfect white ring appears.
“Look, look!” I shriek, cutting him off.
Guido turns, craning backward to see, and the car swerves crazily again.
“Is smoke ring?” he asks, straightening the wheel without a noticeable change in speed.
“It sure is,” says Margarita, looking over her shoulder. “She does that once in a while just to remind us who’s in charge.”
The white ring drifts upward languidly, holding its shape for almost a full minute before dissipating into grey mist.
“Is it—is it a sign of anything?” I can’t take my eyes off the peak of the mountain. “Like, does it mean an eruption is imminent?”
Guido makes a sound very much like a snort. “She rumble a lot, our girl, but hardly ever blow her top. We do our job to keep her happy. The ash, it help the crops, so we grow food and grapes, and we pour out wine in her honor.” He shrugs. “Sometimes they have to close airport, and once in a while, lava eats a building, but really? No big deal.”
By this time, the peak of the mountain is no longer visible through either the back window or my side mirror. Since my dad has started up again with his storytelling, I turn back to my tablet, and taking a cue from Guido, I plug in my own earphones.
I’m not familiar with any native Sicilian singers, but I flip through my playlists and settle on listening to Ariana Grande the rest of the way, just to keep on Lady Etna’s good side.
* * *
—
The rest of the drive is generally adventure-free, apart from a small detour we have to take at a spot where the oncoming lane of highway has buckled and crumbled down the mountainside. There is very little traffic at this point, but Guido is forced to slow down as an oncoming vehicle swerves into our lane to circumvent the problem.
“What the hell?” The edge of the road seems far too close as we go flying by.
Guido gives another of his practiced shrugs. “Is nothing,” he says, unplugging one ear again to talk to me. “Quite common through these passes. The volcano, she shake the ground sometimes. And there is not so much money these days, so government slow to fix.”
I glance back over my shoulder, and notice the spot where the pavement has crumbled down the cliffside has completely lost its guardrail, which has also fallen into the abyss. I think about Guido having to return this way and can’t suppress a shudder. But when I lean closer to ask for more details, Guido has plugged himself back in and is humming tunelessly along with 1980s Axl Rose.
Conversation plainly over, I open up a file to start a new article for NOSH and begin to type. Before I know it, we are careening toward an ever-approaching horizon that is filled with nothing but clear, blue water. Soon Guido is expertly wheeling through what looks like a resort town. We pass a huge marina filled with yachts and high-end motorboats and then take a sharp turn onto a dusty coastal road. A few moments later, we pull up beside a fence topped with barbed wire and a locked gate. This could not be a greater contrast to the marina we just passed. Behind the fence, a few boats bob at a grey pier that is affixed to the shore with only a bit of rope and some old rubber tires.
All the same, I fling open my door and hop out of the car, relieved to breathe the sea air. After a few deep breaths, I turn to see Guido, with his hand on Margarita’s arm. She smiles at him, and I see her drop his tiny box of chocolates into the little string bag she is carrying. He leans in for a kiss but is disappointed when she pats his cheek and walks off, pulling a large bunch of keys from her bag.
As my dad hoists himself out of the car, Guido marches past him, looking as stormy as Etna. He reaches into the trunk of his car and comes out not with our bags but with a tiny whisk broom. Starting at the hood of the car, he sweeps away the fine layer of black ash we must have picked up on the drive. He pauses long enough to collect the folded wad of notes from my dad and then returns to his sweeping as we grab our bags and follow Margarita through the gate. She’s jingling the keys and whistling as she strides out along the rickety dock.
A young man hops off the larger of the three boats—I notice now, the only one of the three with a real motor—and
throws his arms around Margarita. He’s topless, skin tanned a golden brown, with matching gold tips in his long chestnut hair.
“This is my cousin Federico,” she says, peeling away one of his arms and turning back to us. “He’s going to take us to Aeolia on his boat La Fortuna.”
Federico grins, keeping one arm firmly around Margarita as he shakes our hands. Behind him La Fortuna bobs vigorously up and down, bumping the dock with thumps I can feel through my feet.
My dad looks slightly crestfallen at the appearance of Federico. “Oh, I thought I was hiring your marine services, my dear,” he says to Margarita. “You showed such excellent captaining skills on our tour of the Isole dei Ciclopi.”
She grins. “This is a better boat for this trip, Ari,” she says, and leans across to pat the hull. “Younger and with a bigger—you know—engine.” She hops lithely aboard and then turns her smile on her cousin. “I love Federico’s big boat,” she laughs. “I ride it whenever I get a chance.”
Federico roars and then solicitously helps my father onboard before reaching a hand out to me.
Behind us, Guido, having finished sweeping the ash away from his paint job, shoots a final glare at us all and peels out of the parking lot before Federico has even untied his boat.
I’m not sure who looks more disappointed—Guido or my father. I think I have to vote for my dad, who is forced to wear a large and very unbecoming yellow life jacket in contrast to Federico’s sleek life belt. And anyway, poor Guido is long gone, back toward the smoke-ring-blowing mountain he calls home.
* * *
—
Uncoiling themselves from each other only long enough to don their own life jackets, Federico and Margarita give us a quick tour of La Fortuna. Far from the yachts we passed by only moments ago, this is clearly a fishing vessel, sturdy and low-slung and—a fact which becomes only apparent once we are onboard—reeking of fish. As Federico casts off, we have to wind our way around a tangle of nets and buoys in the main open section near the back. Further forward, there’s a small room below the bridge with a long table covered in unwashed dishes and a dozen or more fast-food bags.
