Gram goes out the front door, takes the banister, and goes down the stairs. Dominic waits for her on the last step. I quickly skip around Gram to give them a private moment.
I go to the car, which is parked at the side of the inn, load her suitcase into the trunk, and wait. Through the thick boxwood hedge, I can see the two of them embrace. Then he dips her, gives her a kiss, backbend style, the likes of which I have not seen since Clark Gable kissed Vivien Leigh, in the commemorative DVD of Gone With the Wind.
“Papa is very sad,” Gianluca says from behind me.
I’m embarrassed to be caught spying. “So is Gram.” I turn to him. “Thank you for everything you did for us on this trip.”
“I enjoyed our talks,” he says.
“Me, too.”
“I hope you visit again sometime.”
“I will.” I look at Gianluca who, after weeks of traveling around with us, has become a friend. When I first met him, I was judgmental, all I could see was the gray hair, the big car, and a daughter nearly my age. Now, I can appreciate his maturity. He is elegant without being vain, and he has excellent manners without being grand. Gianluca is also generous, he put Gram and me first throughout our stay. “I’ll bet you’re happy to see us go.”
“Why would you say that?”
“We’ve taken up so much of your time.”
“I enjoyed it.” He gives me a slip of paper. “This is my friend Costanzo’s number in Capri. Please stop and see him. He’s the finest shoemaker I know. Besides you of course,” Gianluca says and grins. “You must watch him work.”
“I will,” I lie. I don’t plan to look at shoes much less wear them while I’m in Capri. I want to make love, eat spaghetti, and sit by the pool, in that order.
“Well, thank you.” I extend my hand. Gianluca takes my hand and kisses it. Then, he leans forward and kisses me on both cheeks. When his lips brush against my face, his skin smells like cedar and lemon, very cool and clean, reminding me of the first time I climbed in his car, the day we went to Prato. I check my watch. “We’d better be going.”
Gianluca and I walk to the foot of the stairs below the entrance of the Spolti Inn. Gram and Dominic are laughing, doing their best to make their good-bye a happy one. I touch Gram’s arm, but they keep talking as they walk to our car. Dominic helps Gram into the car, while Gianluca holds my door open. I climb in, and he closes the door, checking the handle just as he did when we went to Prato.
Gram sinks into the front seat as I start the car. She’s moving in slow motion, when all I want to do is blow this Tuscan pop stand (my father’s words) and get to the airport, drop off Gram, and pick up Roman, and at long last, let the fun begin.
I peel down the hill to the main street of Arezzo, check the signs, and head for the edge of town to take us to the autostrada.
I look over at Gram, who seemed like a peppy teenager during our stay and now shows every day of her eighty years. The white roots peek through her brown hair, while her hands, folded over her lap, seem frail. “I’m sorry,” I say, trying not to sound too chipper while she is so sad.
“It’s all right,” she says.
I pick up speed on the autostrada and we sail along at a good clip. The highway is ours today, and I take full advantage. When Gram nods off to sleep, I think that it’s better this way. The more she naps, the less she’ll miss Dominic.
My phone buzzes in my pocket. I fish it out and open it.
“Honey?” Roman says.
“You landed?”
“No, I’m in New York.”
“They canceled your flight?” My heart sinks. I hate the airlines!
“No, I didn’t make the flight. And I didn’t want to call you in the middle of the night to tell you.”
“What happened?” I raise my voice.
Gram wakes up. “What’s wrong?”
“We got a tip that the New York Times is coming to review us this week, probably Tuesday night, so I’m going to fly out Wednesday and meet you in Capri. I hope you understand, honey.”
“I don’t understand.”
“A review in the Times could make or break me.”
“A vacation in Capri could make or break us.” I’ve never threatened a man in my life. So much for being adorable; what does Katharine Hepburn know about men anyway? She never dated Roman Falconi.
“This is just a delay. I’ll be there as soon as I can.”
“Save it. I’m tired of waiting for you to show up when you say you will. I’m tired of waiting for us to begin. I want you to go on vacation like you promised.”
He raises his voice. “This review is really important to my business. I have to be here. I can’t help it.”
“No you can’t, can you? It shows me what’s important to you. I’m a close second to your osso buco. Or am I even in second place?”
“You’re number one, okay? Please, try and understand. I’ll be there before you know it. You can relax until I get there.”
“I can’t talk to you. I’m about to drive into a tunnel. Good-bye.” I look straight ahead; there is nothing but a clear ribbon of autostrada and blue Italian sky. I snap the phone shut and throw it into my bag.
“What happened?” Gram asks.
“He’s not coming. He’s going to be reviewed by the Times and he has to be there. He said he’d fly over Wednesday, but that hardly gives us any time once he lands, gets to Capri, and gets over the jet lag.” I begin to cry. “And I’m going to turn thirty-four years old alone.”
“On top of everything else-your birthday.” Gram shakes her head.
“I am done with that man. This is it.”
“Don’t be hasty,” Gram says gently. “I’m sure he’d rather be with you than at the restaurant with a critic.”
“He’s unreliable!”
“You know he has a difficult professional life.” Gram keeps her tone even.
“So do I! I’m trying to hold it all together myself. But I needed Capri. I needed a break. I haven’t had a vacation in four years. I could almost face the nightmare back home if I could just rest before I had to deal with Alfred again.”
“I know there’s a lot of pressure on you.”
“A lot? There’s too much pressure. And you aren’t helping.”
“Me?”
“You. Your ambivalence. I half-think you’d like to stay in Arezzo and just forget about Perry Street.”
“You’ve read my mind.”
“Well, guess what? We’re both going home today. I am not going to lose everything because of Roman. At least let me keep my job.”
I fish for my BlackBerry to e-mail our travel agent Dea Marie Kaseta. I pull over on the side of the road. I text her:
Need Second Ticket On Alitalia 16 Today 4 pm to NYC. Urgent.
I pull back onto the road.
“I’ve never seen you this angry,” Gram says quietly.
“Well, get used to it. I’m going to stew all the way home to New York.”
The woman behind the counter at Alitalia looks at me with a lot of understanding, but very little hope. There isn’t an extra seat available on flight 16 from Rome to New York. The best Dea Marie could do was get me a hotel room and a ticket to fly out the following morning.
I put my head down on the stainless-steel desk and weep. Gram pulls me off the line so the impatient passengers behind me can pick up their boarding passes. “I’ll go with you to Capri.”
“Gram, please don’t take this the wrong way, but I don’t want to go to Capri with you.”
“I understand.”
“Why don’t you go with Dominic? The hotel is all set. And I’ll take your ticket and fly home.”
“But you should have a vacation. And Roman said he’s coming on Wednesday.”
“I don’t want him to come at all.”
“You say that now, but Roman will be here soon and you’ll make up.”
Gram opens her phone and calls Dominic. I survey the long line of passengers. Not one look of understanding or sympathy comes my way. I cry some more. My face begins to itch from the tears. I wipe my face with my sleeve. I remember my father’s words to me: Nothing ever seems to go right for you. You have to work for everything. Well, now I have a new revelation-not only do I have to work for everything, but the work may go totally unrewarded. What is the point?