by Harper Lin
His eyebrows pulled together as he looked at me in confusion.
“You know, Leonardo DiCaprio and Kate Winslet? ‘I’m the King of the World’?” I spread my arms out and leaned into him.
He laughed. “Well, that wasn’t specifically my plan, but as long as we’re out here…” He trailed his voice off and shrugged with a big grin on his face.
I rolled my eyes and turned to look out over the bow. A couple minutes later, when the buildings seemed to materialize over the horizon with the sun setting behind them, no less, I gasped. My hand flew to my mouth, and those tears that didn’t actually roll down my cheeks sprang to my eyes. I thought of my mother and my grandparents and how much it would have meant to them to be there, seeing what I was seeing. After they left, my grandparents had never made it back to Italy, and my mother had never managed to visit at all. We’d always talked about taking a mother-daughter trip to see the old country, but we never realized we had as little time as we did. I wished they were there with me, and I supposed that, in some ways, they were.
As Matt slid his arms around my waist, actually Titanic-ing me, I realized how lucky I was to be there with a man like him, a man who was smart and funny and successful, a man who valued family and tradition and our heritage as much as I did, a man who would never in a million years hurt and cheat on me like my ex-fiancé, a man who I was hopelessly, head-over-heels in love with.
If swooning hadn’t gone out of fashion in the nineteenth century, I would have done it then and there. On the other hand, I was approaching a city that still looked like it was straight out of the nineteenth century, so maybe it wouldn’t be unfashionable after all.
After we arrived at the dock, we’d loaded our luggage onto an actual gondola that had taken us to our hotel. The place was incredible. All the hotels we’d stayed in so far had been, but this one was even more amazing than the others. It was old, of course, but its Venetian Gothic architecture was still stunning. The interior was decorated in the gilded, ornate Rococo style that practically had visions of the nineteenth century art salons dancing in my head. The stories I’d heard in my college art history classes about the salons of Venice came back to me in a flurry, and if I squinted, I could almost see John Singer Sargent and James Whistler walking with Claude Monet down the hallway.
We’d been in Venice for eighteen or so hours when we arrived in the Piazza San Marco for lunch. I kept looking around with a giddy expression on my face, not quite believing I was there. The plaza was full of people, but it wasn’t what I would call New York City crowded. What was also different from New York was how original everything was—or at least looked. I knew it had all been restored or remodeled more than once over the years, but it wasn’t all glass and steel the way modern buildings were.
“You doing all right there?” Matt asked.
“Hmm?”
“I asked if you’re doing all right. You’re looking around like you’re in a daze.”
I giggled. “I guess I kind of am. I just can’t believe we’re here.”
Matt grinned as he leaned back in his chair. “After all the places we’ve been, you’re still amazed we’re here?”
“After all the places we’ve been, you’re still amazed that I’m amazed?”
“I wouldn’t say I’m amazed. I’m just glad you’re still getting excited about everything. I was afraid that five cities in two weeks was too much, and we’d be too exhausted by now to really appreciate the sights.”
“I don’t think I’ll ever be too exhausted to appreciate sights like this.” I gazed around the plaza again. Our café table was on one side of the long arcade that made up two sides of the square. My eyes were drawn to my left over and over again to stare at the ornate church at the east end of the square.
Calling it a church, of course, is an understatement. St. Mark’s Basilica is massive and beautiful and historic. It has incredible Byzantine architecture with gilt details that shine in the sun. I wanted to stand up and walk down to it immediately to go inside. I’d studied the pictures online and knew that the interior was every bit as gorgeous as the exterior, if not maybe a little more. I had to restrain myself until the tour Monica’s grandson Stefano and his almost-fiancée had arranged for us the next day.
I was beyond excited that they were taking the next two days to show us Venice. Everything you’d ever want to see, they’d arranged to show us. Adriana had even talked a friend of hers who worked for St. Mark’s into giving us a private behind-the-scenes tour after the last of the morning celebrations of mass. I had a feeling I’d almost cry again. I thought again about my grandparents and how they’d feel to know that their little Francesca had gotten to go to mass at both St. Peter’s at the Vatican and St. Mark’s in Venice. I was glad I’d packed waterproof mascara.
Out of the corner of my awe-struck eye, I saw Matt look at his watch.
“We’re going to be late if we don’t get going”
I glanced down at the tiramisu crumbs on my plate. The dessert had been so delicious I wanted to lick them up. That probably wouldn’t look very sophisticated though, so I took a sip of my cappuccino instead.
“Franny?”
“I’m just savoring the rest of my coffee. It’s heavenly.”
Matt looked down at his empty cup. “It’s not that good.”
“Don’t let them hear you say that.”
“What? Yours is better.”
I smiled at him. “Liar.”
“No, really. This?” He lifted up his cup and tipped it toward me. “This, I could take or leave. Yours? Yours is delicious.”
I made a show of peering into his cup. “That didn’t seem to stop you from drinking the whole thing.”
“I’m not going to pass up a good cup of coffee.”
“But you just said—” I stopped and rolled my eyes. There was no use in pointing out to him that he had literally just said that it wasn’t that good and that he could take it or leave it.
Matt grinned at me. “Have you tried my coffee?”
I cringed. “Yes. Unfortunately.”
“If I drink that, I think you know how low my standards are.”
“So I guess maybe my coffee isn’t that great after all.”
“Nope, yours is perfect. Just because I’ve been known to eat burnt toast doesn’t mean I don’t know a good steak when I see it.” He stopped for a second. “Well, taste it. I don’t actually know if a steak is good by sight.”
I giggled and leaned back in my chair. I took another sip of my cappuccino.
“We really do have to go, Franny.”
“I know, I just—” I gazed around the square again, taking it all in.
“We’ll be back tomorrow. We’ll be back tonight. We have reservations for dinner at Caffé Florian, remember?”
I looked across the piazza at the historic café and felt a little flutter of excitement in my stomach. The restaurant had been there since 1720, before the United States was a country, before Italy as it exists today was even a country! Back when Caffé Florian opened, Venice was its own country. I didn’t think there even were any restaurants in the U.S. that were that old, and if there were, I’d certainly never eaten in one.
“I know.” I sighed but didn’t get up.
“Franny.”
I glanced into my cup. “Two more sips.”
He looked at his watch again. “Get sipping.”
I finished off my coffee while Matt took care of the bill. For the duration of the trip, I’d given up on fighting him to pay for anything. “I invited you; I’m paying,” he’d said every time I’d tried.
None of my objections about having plenty of money or wanting to pay for something as an expression of gratitude did anything to convince him otherwise. At least he let me pay for the shopping I did. Monica, of course, paid for the shopping I’d done from the list that she had, in fact, ended up providing for me.
“You ready?” he asked when I finally put my cup down.
“I think the more ap
propriate question is are you ready?” I replied as I stood up. I smoothed the skirt of the simple black-and-white shift dress Rhonda had convinced me to buy. I really was grateful she’d talked me into it. It had a classic silhouette but enough style that it felt modern. And I’d seen enough women on the street wearing similar styles that I didn’t feel it marked me as a tourist. In fact, I’d even seen an Italian woman or two look me up and down with approval. I’d seen more than one or two Italian men do that also, but I didn’t think that particularly spoke to the fashionableness of my dress. I didn’t think Matt blended in with the locals quite as well, but enough people had tried to speak Italian to us that I knew he didn’t stick out like a sore thumb. Since arriving in Italy, we’d both realized how embarrassingly bad our Italian was. I had declared more than once that we were taking a class when we got home. Matt nodded when I said it, but I didn’t know whether he actually agreed with me.
“No, I still think the right question is whether you’re ready. If knives go flying, you’re going to be the one standing next to me,” Matt said.
“Yes, but your fingers will be closer to it.”
“Hmm,” he mumbled thoughtfully. I wasn’t sure whether he was seriously considering my point or just being silly. He held out his arm to me, and I took it.
The event we needed to get to was an Italian cooking class Monica’s grandson Stefano had signed us up for. We were going to make a full traditional meal from the aperitivo (appetizer) to the primo (first course, usually pasta) and secondo (second course, usually meat or fish) all the way through the dolce (dessert) and the drinks courses that followed it. Stefano wasn’t sure, but he said he thought we were going to make połenta e schie, or polenta with shrimp, and a dessert of pandoro, a sweet yeast bread. I was excited because Matt would finally learn to make something other than spaghetti Bolognese. I was also excited because I was hoping to pick up a new dessert I could serve at the café.
“Andiamo cara,” Matt said as we headed into the middle of the plaza, showing off that he knew how to say, “Let’s go, darling,” in Italian.
We’d reached the middle of the square when he stopped and swung me around to face him. He held on to both of my hands. I tried not to stare at the basilica behind him. He was handsome, but St. Mark’s was stunning.
“Francesca, cara,” he said with a decent enough accent that he actually sounded like he knew more than ten words in Italian.
“Sì, Matteo?” I replied, playing along.
“Sei bellissima, Francesca.”
I blushed. It wasn’t that he didn’t tell me I was beautiful all the time, but something about the place and the look in his eyes made it feel extra special. “Grazie, Matteo.”
He stared at me for what felt like a long time then shuffled his feet like he was getting ready to start walking again. I started to turn around to leave. “Francesca?”
I turned back to look at him. “Sì, Matteo?”
“Francesca—”
I waited until I realized he wasn’t going to say anything else until I did. “Sì?”
“Ti amo.”
The tears started down my cheeks before I even realized they’d come to my eyes. I forgot every Italian word I had ever known. I could only raise my voice to a whisper. “I love you too, Matty.”
Read Book 5 of The Cape Bay Cafe mysteries, Americanos, Apple Pies and Art Thieves.
It’s almost Thanksgiving, and Fran is baking her family’s famous apple pies for the café. While pie fever spreads through Cape Bay, a world-famous artist holds a special art show in the town’s modest museum in honor of his late mother, who grew up there.
Louis Cliffton’s paintings are encrusted with valuable gems and gold. At the opening night, the centerpiece of the show is stolen. When Fran investigates the case, she receives threats, and someone follows her home and vandalizes her café.
What kind of thief would do this? A crazy outsider—or someone from her very own town
Read an excerpt at the end of this book.
Be the first to hear about 99¢ new book release sales by signing up for Harper's Newsletter.
Recipe 1: Latte without an Espresso Machine
Ingredients
• Espresso or strongly brewed coffee from an Aeropress
• Milk
* * *
Make espresso with a Nespresso machine, or use strongly brewed coffee from an Aeropress, undiluted.
Pour milk into a mason jar or any jar with a lid. Fill no more than half the jar. Screw the lid on tight. Shake jar hard for 30 to 60 seconds, until milk is frothy and doubled in volume.
Take lid off jar and microwave uncovered for 30 seconds. The foam will rise to the top of the milk. Heat from the microwave will help stabilize it.
Pour 1/3 cup of espresso into a wide cup. Using a spoon to hold back the foam, pour warm milk on top of the espresso. Spoon as much foam as you like on top of the espresso.
Recipe 2: Ladyfingers
Ingredients:
• 4 eggs
• 2/3 cups + 2 tbsp white sugar
• 1 cup all-purpose flour
• 1/2 tsp baking powder
* * *
Preheat oven to 400F. Line 2 baking sheets with parchment. Fit a large pastry bag with a plain ½-inch round tube, or a Ziploc bag with the end cut off.
Beat egg WHITES in a bowl on high until soft peaks form. Add 2 tablespoons of sugar and continue beating until it’s stiff and glossy.
In a separate bowl, beat egg yolks and 2/3 cups of sugar. Whip until thick and pale in color.
In a small bowl, whisk flour and baking powder together. Fold half the egg white mixture into the egg yolk mixture. Fold in flour then add rest of egg whites. Transfer mixture to pastry bag.
Pipe stripes, or whatever shape you prefer, onto the sheet. Bake for 8 minutes.
About the Author
Harper Lin is the USA TODAY bestselling author of 6 cozy mystery series including The Patisserie Mysteries and The Cape Bay Cafe Mysteries.
When she's not reading or writing mysteries, she loves going to yoga classes, hiking, and hanging out with her family and friends.
For a complete list of her books by series, see her website. Follow Harper on social media using the icons below for the latest insider news.
www.HarperLin.com
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A Note From Harper
Thank you so much for reading Lattes, Ladyfingers, and Lies. If you were entertained by this Cape Bay Cafe mystery, please recommend it to friends and family who would enjoy it too. I would also really appreciate it if you could write a book review to help spread the word.
If you like this series, you might also enjoy my other series:
• The Pink Cupcake Mysteries: A new divorcée sells delicious cupcakes from a pink food truck, to the chagrin of her ex-husband. Each book includes cupcake recipes.
• The Patisserie Mysteries: An heiress to a famous French patisserie chain takes over the family business, while using her status as a Parisian socialite to solve murders in high society. Each book includes French dessert recipes.
• Secret Agent Granny: 70-year-old Barbara, a sweet grandmother—and a badass ex-CIA agent, is bored in retirement, until someone in her small town is murdered.
• The Wonder Cats Mysteries: three witches and their magical cats solve paranormal murder cases in the mystical town of Wonder Falls
• The Emma Wild Mysteries: a 4-Book holiday cozy series about a famous singer returning to her small Canadian town. Each book includes holiday dessert recipes.
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If you’d like to get in touch with me directly, you can email me at [email protected]. I would love to hear what you think about the books. Do also drop me a note if you happen to catch any mistakes. While each book is edited and proofread by professionals, errors can still slip through sometimes. As an indie writer, I want to provide readers with the smoothest read possible.
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Thanks and much love,
Harper
Excerpt from “Americanos, Apple Pies and Art Thieves”
“What?” I was sure I hadn’t heard her right. Louis Cliffton? Here? In Cape Bay? It made no sense. He rarely even did shows in New York and LA. Why on earth would he have one in sleepy Cape Bay? “Are you sure?”
“Yup,” Sammy replied.
“Louis Cliffton?” I enunciated his name. Maybe she had actually said someone else’s name and I just misheard her.
“Yes, Louis Cliffton.”
“Here?”
“Yes.”
“In Cape Bay?”
“Yes.” Sammy kept her voice exceptionally calm and rational. “The artist Louis Cliffton is having a show here in Cape Bay.” She paused. “Massachusetts. Where we live.”
“Where?”
Sammy looked at me like she wasn’t quite sure if I was all there. “Here. In Cape Bay. Where we live.”
I realized I wasn’t being clear. “No, I mean, where in Cape Bay?” It wasn’t exactly like we had art galleries lining the streets. More like kitschy souvenir shops, and most of those were closed for the season.
“Oh, down at the museum.”
Of course. The Cape Bay Museum of Art. The Shuster family had opened it up back around when my grandparents opened Antonia’s. They exhibited work from artists around New England but with a preference for Massachusetts and the Cape Bay area. I remembered going there with my mom when I was a kid. She’d take me around and talk to me about the paintings, pointing out the themes and the artists’ techniques. It was where I’d learned to love art.
