The Savino Sisters Mystery Series: Books 1 - 3: Savino Sisters Mystery Series, #4

By Loretta Giacoletto

Italy To Die For (Book 1). Too much togetherness spells disaster for these thirty-something sisters vacationing in Italy. When glamorous Margo opts for a steamy romance in Florence, plain-Jane Ellen travels alone to their next destination, a charming hillside villa at La Spezia. The owner Lorenzo, a mysterious widower, insists on showing Ellen around Cinque Terre, five picturesque villages overlooking the Ligurian Sea. Ellen is determined to experience the local culture but instead encounters intrigue in Monterosso el Mare where gypsies are turning up dead faster than Lorenzo can show her the sights. Then Margo arrives, and soon discovers her own life is in danger.

Regrets To Die For (Book 2). Ellen and Margo discover there's more to Italy than the typical tourist destinations when they check out their family roots in the foothills of the Italian Alps, much to the dismay of their sassy grandmother Clarita. Nonnie Clarita, who now lives in St. Louis, was only eighteen when she left her widowed mother in Pont Canavese and immigrated to America after the Second World War. Why she has no regrets about leaving or never returning is a mystery Ellen and Margo are determined to resolve, with or without the obstinate Clarita's cooperation. Could it be the horrific murder of the father Clarita adored? Or the questionable suicide of Clarita's young friend and later the drowning of the boy's grieving father? Or, her ill-fated teenage romance with a persistent Resistance fighter that triggered this series of tragic events?

Not Worthy Dying For (Book 3). What would it take for Ellen and Margo to cut short their Italian holiday and return St. Louis? Their mother Toni's connection to the murder of Val Corrigan, that's what. It seems the widow Toni shared Val's affections with her clueless best friend among other women, one who later winds up dead.

While attempting to prove their mother's innocence, the sisters' amateur sleuthing leads them to the decade-old renovation of a building located in the former St. Louis Garment District. El and Margo soon discover that greed and corruption within the construction industry resulted in deadly consequences for more than one victim. It's up to the sisters to convince hard-nosed Major Case Squad Detectives Sam Reardan and Guy Winchester who resent the outside interference.

If that's not enough, the sisters' Nonnie Clarita's long ago WWII teenage lover has traveled from Italy to St. Louis, determined to renew their romance and to establish a relationship with Clarita's family.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Marelwood Publishing
• Release date: May 26, 2018
• ISBN: 9781386234739

Loretta Giacoletto

Loretta Giacoletto was named a finalist in the 2015 and 2014 "Soon to be Famous Illinois Author Project" for her sagas, Family Deceptions and Chicago's Headmistress. She divides her time between Southern Illinois and Missouri's Lake of the Ozarks where she writes fiction, essays, and her blog Loretta on Life while her husband cruises the waters for bass and crappie. Their five children have left the once chaotic nest but occasionally return for her to-die-for ravioli and roasted peppers topped with garlic-laden bagna càuda. An avid traveler, she has visited countries in Europe and Asia but Italy remains her favorite, especially the area from where her family originates: the Piedmont region near the Italian Alps. Her novels are filled with bawdy characters caught up in problems they must suffer the consequences for having created. ITALY TO DIE FOR, from her Savino Sisters Mystery Series, shows how too much togetherness can spell disaster for two thirty-something sisters vacationing in Italy. In LETHAL PLAY a grieving widow is suspected of killing her son's coach, a man with more enemies than friends. FAMILY DECEPTIONS follows two generations of earthy characters who learn to thrive and survive through a series of misdeeds, the worst against those they love the most. FREE DANNER features a cynical young man whose troubled past and deadly encounters hinder his search for the father he has yet to meet. THE FAMILY ANGEL is an Italian/American saga about the an immigrant family of bootleggers, coalminers, winemakers and priests, and a mysterious black angel who enjoys sticking his nose in the family business. The previously mentioned CHICAGO'S HEADMISTRESS, a prequel and partial parallel to THE FAMILY ANGEL, follows a 1905 Italian street urchin's notorious rise to wealth and power as the headmistress of Night School, Prohibition Chicago's most popular and innovative men's club in the 1920s. Loretta is also the author of A COLLECTION OF GIVERS AND TAKERS, twisted stories about the good, the bad, the self-centered and disillusioned In addition to the horror anthologies, Damned in Dixie and Hell in the Heartland, Loretta's short stories have appeared in a number of publications including The MacGuffin, Futures Mystery Anthology Magazine, The Scruffy Dog Review, Allegory and Literary Mama, which nominated her story "Tom" for Dzanc's Best of The Web.

Book preview

1

On the Beach

The shroud of night had cast its eerie net over Monterosso al Mare, leaving little more than an occasional light illuminating this hillside village bordering the Ligurian Sea. Monterosso’s old section catered to Italians on holiday as well as tourists from around the world, visitors who anticipated the seasonal anchovies, lemons the size of oranges, and the glory of unsurpassed sunsets enticing the more adventurous to linger until their money ran dry, usually around midnight.

At this hour the trattorias and bars sat empty, as did the benches on the concrete boardwalk, a seawall supporting its broad expanse overlooking gray pebbles scattered over Monterosso’s beach, the finest among those villages known as Le Cinque Terre, the five lands. But not the finest on this night, not for the woman whose throat had been slit, her endless flow of blood staining countless pebbles, contaminating them for the moment. In a matter of hours sun worshippers would flock to the beach, spread their towels on those once-contaminated pebbles, run across those pebbles on their way to the salty sea.  Better the sun worshippers shouldn’t know what evil had been perpetrated on those pebbles hours before, in the dark of night.

Until then, more like the discovery daylight would bring, a path of disturbed pebbles indicated the woman sprawled on her stomach. She had been dragged toward the water, perhaps by her arm that now lay at an angle that must’ve been uncomfortable but no longer mattered. Her head was turned to the side, exposing one vacant eye, unaware of the salty sea water splashing into it. Her dark hair fell in wet ringlets, a handful of them pushed behind one earlobe, its tiny pierced hole ripped into an angry tear unable to support the gold earring clinging to shredded tissue. Her clothes, too colorful for resort wear, too gaudy for everyday wear. They distinguished her as a gypsy, making her a person those non-gypsies who value their possessions avoided at all costs.

Whatever the woman’s ethnicity, whatever her taste in clothing or her standards of morality and honesty, she did not deserve to die like this. Or in any other way that defied the natural order of death.

2

Ellen on Margo

Hold on to your cup, Margo said. She peered at me from over the rim of a cappuccino frothed to the perfection we’d come to expect from any coffee bar in Florence. I’ve fallen in love again, this time with an Egyptian mummy.

I responded with a blank look I knew Margo would ignore and was not disappointed when she did.

I just couldn’t help myself, Margo went on. From the moment we made visual contact, a burning passion ignited the very depths of my soul. I shivered like a schoolgirl when he wrapped those muslin arms around me.

Oh-h, you mean that mime who works the steps of The Uffizi, the mime I tipped five euros so he’d go into his slow motion routine. I stifled a yawn. What an incredible photo op; can’t wait to print those awesome poses.

Margo expelled an exasperated sigh as only she could. Don’t be catty, little sister. As you well know, Giorgio is a performance artist, the best in all of Firenze.

Which accounts for your staying out until three in the morning, I said in a tone smacking dangerously close to our mother’s. Although I doubt Mom would’ve referred to Florence as Firenze.  But for sure she would’ve said this: The least you could’ve done was to call.

"And wake you up, please. Give me some credit. Besides, isn’t that why we’re touring the land of our ancestors, to connect with the macho Italiani?"

Also to absorb the Italian culture, you may recall. While you were connecting with the greatest performance artist in all of Florence, I honored our appointment at The Uffizi and breezed through every room, inwardly gushing over masterpieces most people only dream of seeing. I paused to catch my breath, moved in closer to Margo. Then after perusing the outdoor sculptures, I hurried to The Accademia before it closed and examined every inch of the real David.

Naughty, naughty, Margo said. She clucked her tongue—also a trait of our mother. Such dedication to marble and canvas, I’m sure all those sixth graders will be impressed by your upcoming travelogue. But a few days of sightseeing can’t begin to make a dent in the total Firenze experience, which brings me to a rather touchy subject: would you mind terribly if—

Don’t say it, Margo; don’t even think it. I leaned back and held up my palms. No way am I sacrificing our trip to Cinque Terre so you can explore the seductive mysteries of Florentine mummification.

Margo assumed a dreamy gaze. In that case you’ll just have to go without me.

You can’t be serious. Without realizing it, I’d clenched my fingers into two angry fists, anything to keep my hands from wrapping around Margo’s skinny neck, my thumbs from digging into her throat. What about our Mediterranean boat tour, those five villages resembling an artist’s palette, our train ride along the coast, and the multitude of quaint shops, our non-refundable reservations at that charming villa in La Spezia?

But you don’t understand, Margo said. How could you, considering your lack of ... never mind.

Go ahead, say what you’re thinking. It’s not a crime, you know, and above all, not a sin. Technically, I’m still a virgin.

Technically, please. Three years in a convent was your idea of romance, not mine.

Nevertheless, I learned the importance of connecting with my inner self, an experience I consider invaluable.

One that stunted your sexual development, get real. You’re wrapped in a cocoon of frustrated repression.

I thought we were talking about Giorgio.

Right, Giorgio. Margo leaned across the tiny table. He lives in a fabulous apartment in the heart of Santa Croce and has assured me we will have the entire place to ourselves. Four glorious days, imagine that.

"I’m trying to. What happens after that?"

Margo lifted her brow with another sigh. His mother comes back from Vicenza.

Giorgio still lives with his mother?

Pu-lease, it’s the Italian way. The poor woman’s a lonely widow.

Who dotes on her only son, I suppose. How old is Mama’s Boy?

Not that age matters but if you must know: he’s twenty-eight.

How old, I said.

Okay, twenty-four.

And how old does Giorgio think you are?

Me-ow. Margo showed me her version of a cat pawing the air. You may be younger, but everyone thinks I’m prettier. Sorry, El.

What could I say? Margo the paralegal, Margo a cougar in the making but way too young, sometimes blonde and always tawny; she complains about her size four clothes being too roomy while I the frustrated librarian will forever be known as a convent dropout. Not to mention carrying the burden of my superior intellect, a fallacy perpetrated by our mother. A beautiful mind she often referred to me, long before the release of that movie by the same name. My beautiful mind also shelters a practical side, which explains why I insisted on meeting the real Giorgio, not his mummified alter ego.

I expected an argument. Instead, Margo opened our shared cell phone and punched in a series of numbers before showing me her back. I took the hint and distanced myself another twenty feet. The call must’ve ended on a positive note because she turned to me, a smug smile creeping across her face.

Giorgio wants us to come over right away, before he prepares for his next performance. It’s a short walk from here, but first we have to stop at the market.

Don’t tell me he needs someone to fix his lunch.

Please, Ellen—

I know, I know. It’s so Italian.

∞∞∞

At the Sant’ Ambrogio market we cruised up and down a maze of fresh produce stalls, all the while my head reeling from the distinctive scents of onions, tomatoes, cucumbers, and leafy vegetables. Sweeter fragrances greeted me in the fruit section where Margo committed a shopper’s no-no—palming this ripe, luscious peach, her fingertips caressing its delicate skin until the clerk admonished her with a searing glare.

Quattro, Margo snapped back, holding up four fingers. And those. She pointed to the bin of perfect apricots and spread out her thumb. Cinque.

It took three more stops before we exited the market with the fruit plus a loaf of crusty bread, three rounds of soft cheese, and enough wine for more than one meal—all distributed between two bags, their strings wrapped around my fingers since Margo needed hers for communicating. We’d almost traveled beyond a pasticceria when she did a quick backpedal.

We really should bring some dessert, don’t you think, El?

Don’t all Italian mamas keep a tin of biscotti on hand? Still, when I gazed into the window, my mouth started watering over the display of assorted pastries—miniature fruit tarts, elaborately decorated tarts, sugary horseshoes. Visions of the numbers on my digital scale wavered before my eyes. It took all my willpower to say, Let’s vote with our feet and keep moving.

I might as well have been talking to the tray of cannoli because Margo already had one hand circled around the shop’s doorknob. I followed her inside, where she pointed out this and that before deciding on a chocolate hazelnut torte covered with chocolate butter cream icing. Minutes later I held the door open with one hip while Margo walked out with the boxed dessert tangling from a string on her fingers.

Aren’t you overdoing it, just a tad, I said as we continued down the street.

"Take it from one who knows, Little Grasshopper. Cioccolata in any form makes for an incredible aphrodisiac."

For you or Giorgio, I said.

Before she could answer, the melodic voice of a tenor called out from overhead.

Caramia!

The smile lighting up Margo’s face erased a good five years from it. Head tilted upwards, she lifted her trim arm and waved. Ciao, mi amore!

Leaning over a third-floor balcony was Margo’s boy toy, bare-chested with a tangle of dark curly hair tumbling over his forehead.

He’s so adorable I could just take a bite out of him, she said.

I rolled my eyes to offset the tinge of jealousy I couldn’t help but feel.

In the short time it took Margo and me to climb two flights of stairs, Giorgio had added a form-fitting T-shirt to his designer jeans and was waiting barefoot in the doorway of his apartment. Margo held out the pastry box as if it contained precious gold.

For you, mi amore, she purred.

Giorgio lifted the lid and surveyed its contents. He smacked his lips with the fingertips of one hand. After setting the box on an antique credenza, he swept Margo into his arms and together they twirled around. She giggled like the cheerleader of long ago. He could’ve passed for a soccer all-star. Or as they called soccer everywhere but in America: fútbol. When the dancing stopped, Margo took a minute to catch her breath before relieving me of the groceries still wrapped in my fingers. Only then did she introduce me to her glorified mummy.

Giorgio and I exchanged the usual Italian greeting of kisses to both cheeks. His two-day growth of whiskers caressed my skin like sandpaper against new wood. As a rule the scruffy look didn’t appeal to me but in this case it stimulated interest to a face otherwise lacking character. That would come with age and a few disappointments. As for now, he and Margo were all but panting in anticipation of their upcoming romantic interlude, one destined to end with the last day of her vacation.

Before we get comfortable, I must show you my home, Giorgio said. He took Margo’s hand and she took mine. This apartment has belonged to the Molina family for almost five centuries, he said.

The ceilings were fifteen feet high, the stucco walls two feet thick, and the furniture massive but understated. Two large bedrooms separated a ceramic-tiled bathroom boasting a claw-foot tub so deep had it been filled with water, I could’ve floated in it, plus a shower with multiple heads strategically placed to tickle fantasies I’d yet to experience. Modern appliances surrounded by an intricate design of tiles made the small kitchen warm and inviting, as did the long, wooden table where I pictured Mama Molina rolling out thin sheets of pasta dough.

We must have some of Margo’s wine, Giorgio said after completing the tour. He uncorked one of the Classico Chiantis, sniffed the cork, and with a satisfied grin poured three goblets. We each took one, clicked them together.

Salute, he said, alla vita.

And to the next four days, Margo countered.

To Cinque Terre, I replied before taking a sip to steady my shaky hand.

Giorgio gathered plates and utensils from a hutch so old its finish had been worn to a fine patina. I arranged cheese and fruit on a tray while Margo sliced bread on the same angle Mom insisted we do at home. Then Margo cut her finger, which gave Giorgio an excuse to play doctor by sucking blood from her wound while I finished the bread. Duties accomplished, we carried our lunch to a table on the balcony, sat down, and from this divine perch observed the bustling scene below.

The never-ending buzz from countless Vespas zipping through the street drifted upwards, along with the rapid snippets of Italian dialogue, most of which escaped my understanding, not that I cared. At that moment I felt more Italian than at any time during the previous two weeks of my holiday. Giorgio must’ve sensed the magic too, in a peripheral way since he leaned over the table and pressed Margo’s hand to his lips. Looking at me from over his shoulder, Margo puckered her lips into a cupid’s bow, leaving me little choice other than sticking out my tongue. A burst of giggles dispelled the moment. Margo’s hand slipped away from Giorgio’s and slid over to the cheese at the same time mine did. We both went for thin shavings of pecorino, its salty bite enhancing the sweet peaches and apricots.

The three of us ate with the gusto of a Roman orgy, or in this case Florentine. Giorgio wanted the lowdown on American movie stars so Margo and I dished out thirty minutes of tabloid gossip as if we actually knew the red-carpet celebrities whose lives we discussed in such precise detail. When he left to open more wine, Margo asked what I thought of her mummy now. I could’ve lied or given her a smarmy response but instead tempered my answer with a bit of uncharacteristic diplomacy.

I can understand your wanting to stay in Florence. Giorgio is quite the hottie.

Good, then it’s settled. Tomorrow we’ll move our things over here.

Whoa, this time she’d gone too far.

"Your things, Margo. As for me, I’m sticking to our original plan. Ready or not, Cinque Terra here I come."

3

Margo and Giorgio

El, you have got to be kidding, I told her.

You know I’m not.

Okay, we both knew she’d made the right choice, which said a lot considering the ho-hum existence that defined her. Had it not been for me suggesting this trip, we’d’ve gone our separate vacation ways, just as we led separate everyday lives. When I got too busy for the minor details, El being Ellen took over, planning every Italian hour of every Italian day, down to when we’d stop for potty breaks and how much time we should allow for shopping that didn’t appeal to her but sent me into an orgasmic fashion orbit. Hello, can you say Feragamo and Gucci in the same breath. As for what El considered orgasmic, don’t get me started. How many duomos, cathedrals, fountains, and museums can one person ooh and aah over before slipping into a touristic coma. Need I say more?

After Giorgio finished bottle of wine number three, El and I followed him back into the apartment. El eased onto a stiff brocade chair from the nineteenth century. She pressed her lower back against the chair’s lower back and held it there by planting her feet firmly on the carpet. Giorgio and I went for the sofa—me at one end, him at the other. He stretched his arms overhead and winked at me. I kicked off my shoes and circled my tongue over my lips. They tasted salty from beads of sweat that had popped out while we were on the balcony.

Leather, El, need I say more.

What about that awesome handbag? El asked.

I meant for you. Check out that leather shop near Ponte Vecchio.

We already did, more than once. I can’t afford those prices.

Check it out again. I’ll catch up with you later.

El shot me a look of disapproval. I shot one back that told her to bug off. After an awkward silence, Giorgio got to his feet, held out both hands and pulled me up to stand beside him. We were walking toward the bedroom door when I heard the front door close. A twinge of guilt crossed my mind but only for a nano second. Nature was calling in the most primitive of ways and all I could think about was a delicious roll in the hay with this Italian hunk. My first in his apartment, in a bed so old it must’ve supported some incredible positions over the past century or two, maybe three considering its length, too short by today’s standards, even those for Italian men who oozed sex whether they stretched out to five feet, four inches or six feet, four.

Giorgio wrapped his arms around me, kissed me with such passion my scalp went tingly and my toes started to curl. He asked permission before undressing me, beginning with my blouse and bra and ending with my capris and panties. I did the same for him, top to bottom, and paused to marvel over the size of his proud soldier. I’d lifted my leg onto the mattress, giving him a sneak preview of our next move when the ringing of a phone interrupted a moment so magical I almost cried from the frustration.

While he dug around in the pockets of his jeans to find the phone, I plopped onto the bedspread embroidered with birds and flowers, spread my wings and teasing legs, only to stop mid-air when he shook his head and said, "No, no, not on Mama’s paradiso."

I opened my palms, gave him a look that said, Huh?

Instead of answering me, he answered the fifth ring of his phone. "Ciao, Mamma, ti amo, Mamma."

Okay, I got it. He loved his mama. Having pulled back the Paradiso spread, I rolled over on one side, assumed my most seductive position and waited. And waited some more, all the while watching Giorgio’s mighty soldier assume an at-rest position. For the next fifteen minutes he listened to his mama’s every word, interjecting his own with an occasional, Si, si, before ending with another, Ciao, Mamma, ti amo, Mamma.

"Mia madre, such a worrier, he told me after kissing his phone. She cannot go but four hours without making sure I am okay."

In that case we shouldn’t waste another minute. I crooked my finger, patted the sheet I’d been warming for him.

Giorgio, on the other hand, checked his watch. "Madonna mia, where did the time go? I must prepare for my next performance."

Can I help?

Si, my one and only angel, thank you for asking. Alas, I require solitude, an hour or more to focus on no one but myself—if only your sister hadn’t overstayed her welcome.

He leaned over and kissed me. When I returned his kiss with a wet and wild one that promised more, he pulled away and headed toward the bathroom. Would you mind leaving the bed as you found it, he said from over his shoulder, out of respect for mia madre.

This is her bed?

She does not mind although I have never asked permission.

And you expect me to spend the next four days with you?

But, of course, do not be offended, mi amore. Come see my performance and afterwards I will make love to you like no American has ever done. In my own bed, if you prefer.

A smarter me would’ve walked away and never looked back. Instead I remade his mama’s bed, tucking in every corner to perfection before taking a shower I didn’t think necessary. That is, until those shower heads made up for what Giorgio had denied me.

Back on the streets of Firenze I avoided El by hitting certain places she never would’ve gone. For one, the lingerie shop where I splurged on a black lace bra and matching panties instead of hiking back to the pensione to select from my existing stock. Nor did I encounter El outside the Ufizzi, where I stood enraptured by Giorgio’s repeat performance as the Egyptian mummy. Not once did he step out of character. Nor, did I do anything that might’ve distracted him, even though I wanted to tell everyone that those dark eyes surrounded by linen wrappings were meant for me and only me.

After Giorgio collected his basket filled with coins and paper euros he acknowledged me with a single blink of his eyes. I walked away from the pedestrian area, hailed a taxi, and waited until he joined me in the back seat. Given the short distance to his apartment and the constrictive binding, there was only so much one mummy could do and yet he managed to turn me on and upside down. One giggle led to another, and another that extended to the driver who was still giggling when I paid him, along with a nice tip, while Giorgio hurried into the building.

By the time I got there, he’d already begun to unwind his binding, a lengthy process that would’ve gone on and on had I not given him the added incentive of my mini-striptease. Later in the bed he swore belonged to him and no one else, he made love to me in ways no American ever had; hopefully I did the same for him.

Never have I experienced such beauty, were Giorgio’s exact words to me, words which made me feel more beautiful than those two beauty contests I’d won in my late teens, not counting second runner-up in the state pageant, a heartbreaker if ever there was, one that eliminated me from traveling to Atlantic City for the final round. History now, if only I could move on.

Four glorious days with my more-Italian-than-Egyptian mummy was all I wanted to think about on my return to the hotel. As for El, if she really, really needed to see Cinque Terre, it would have to be without me. If only she could connect with her own special guy, if only she could dump the anal retentive attitude she’d been feeding for years. Easier said than done, all those if onlys; just ask the voice of experience.

4

Arrivederci and

Benvenuto

Without Margo was how I spent my last evening in Florence, walking the historic center’s pedestrian area as if hurrying to meet a special someone who only existed in my head. I even called out to no one in particular, telling an imaginary person to go on without me. On one of the side streets I stopped at a lively trattoria. The waiter seated me at a table of complete strangers who conversed in Italian and expected the same of me, a struggle to say the least. I ate what they ate—creamy risotto, grilled veal chops, and roasted red peppers. I drank what they drank—a robust red wine from a carafe our waiter didn’t allow to go dry. I nodded and smiled, even threw back my head to belt out a laugh or two with my new friends, over clever expressions that somehow got lost in the translations they attempted. When the party started to break up, I opened my purse, expecting to pay my share, but the Italians wouldn’t hear of it. So, while they were piling their euros in the middle of the table, I found the waiter and paid the entire bill myself, a small price for a memorable evening I didn’t have to endure alone.

Back at our pensione the sweltering heat forced me to open the room’s only window, an invitation for the River Arno mosquitoes to enter and feast upon my flesh. Hungry parasites be damned. After a quick switch from street clothes to T-shirt and boxers, I climbed into bed and pulled the sheet over my head. Hours later the dawn of a new day invaded my space, along with Margo dancing around the room in her black lace panties and push-‘em-up bra.

Wake up, sleepy head, she all but sang. You were dead to the world when I came in.

The mosquitoes were brutal.

She stuck her face into mine. Ooh, those are some nasty welts you’ve got, really, really nasty. What a relief the little bloodsucking shits don’t like me.

Uh-huh.

So, how was your evening?

Incredible. I sat up, hugged my knees to my chest and stifled a yawn. I made friends with some of the locals. We had dinner together.

Terrific! Then you’ve decided to stay after all.

And miss Cinque Terre? Not on your life.

∞∞∞

I’d never traveled alone in a foreign country but refused to change my plans for Margo, not that she was even aware of the anxiety I was experiencing—so much for la famiglia, especially when it took precedence over romance. Neither Margo nor I had much to say at breakfast, although we did agree that she’d take the cell phone and I’d take the iPod. Later, while she settled our bill with the manager, I rolled my single piece of luggage and one of her three down five flights of marble stairs and then waited for her to bring the other two, all because the elevator had taken its own holiday. We continued across Via Lungarno to where a string of cars were parked, including our rental, and piled our belongings into the Fiat.

Having assumed our usual positions, me behind the wheel and Margo to my right, we drove along several blocks of riverfront stores before slowing down near the Ponte Vecchio in deference to a gang of shop-‘til-you-drop tourists determined to let nothing interfere with their pilgrimage to the covered mecca of pricey gold shops. A strained silence permeated the car as we continued on Via Lungarno, but when I stopped near Giorgio’s apartment, Margo hugged me as though our separation might last for months instead of a mere four or five days.

Pay attention to the map and directions, she said. Already her mind had left me as her eyes wandered the street. Just stick to the Autostrada and stay clear of any gypsies along the way.

As if I needed that reminder, after getting ripped off at Rome’s Spanish Steps—a bait and switch scheme which found me shelling out twenty euros for a ratty scarf instead of the silk one some devious gypsy had waved in my face.

Margo stepped onto the sidewalk, accompanied by an impatient fugue of honking horns, to which I looked into the rear view mirror and responded with an Italian version of the American bird: a flick of fingertips to my chin.

See you at the airport. I said.

Right, Malpensa.

Right, the one in Milan, it’s not like we would be flying out of Rome. We exchanged kisses, the mid-air kind guaranteed not to leave any lipstick traces. Now scoot. I can’t hold up traffic any longer.

After pulling away from the curb, I did not look back. So what if Margo would have four days with Giorgio; I’d have Cinque Terre with ... nobody but myself. Fine with me, I couldn’t think of a better person to hang around with.

∞∞∞

After passing a few more bridges, I crossed over the Arno and entered a crowded residential area of modern apartments and small businesses. Another phase of the unfamiliar, bringing with it the tension of a rubber band stretched between my shoulders that only relaxed when I eased onto the Autostrada. Tuscany’s picturesque countryside of stone houses and orange-tiled roofs soon drifted into mounds of rolling vineyards spiked with the dark green of cypress trees standing proud and tall. No photograph or DVD could’ve done justice to the wow factor surrounding me, the same scene travelers must’ve witnessed for centuries before.

Dammit, I banged my fist against the steering wheel. How could Margo have deserted our two-year dream: the trip I’d planned in minute detail, with Cinque Terre as the maraschino cherry topping off a three-week escape from our humdrum existence in the Midwest, Margo with too many failed romances, me with not one failure or success to my name. Still, truth be told: had I been in her shoes, I’d have done exactly what she chose to do.

Two wrong exits in as many hours was no worse than I’d expected of myself, especially in a country whose natives had little regard for posted speed limits. I stayed my course in the right lane and never exceeded the speed limit. After a while my stomach started to growl, reminding me the mid-day meal time would soon end, which, in spite of the country’s reputation for excellent food, could mean tired pasta and limp salad along the Autostrada. I stopped at the next Autogrille and after checking out the buffet, decided on the deli instead. Stretching my legs at a stand-up table, I indulged in a hot panino: thin slices of ham with melted cheese oozing from a toasted roll. To my left a shorter-than-me Italian leaned back and took his time measuring my rear end with his eyes while I debated as to whether I should totally ignore him or find a different table. He wore the clothes of a laborer and, from my limited Italian I was pretty sure he suggested I follow him to the toilette for a little dolce. Please, as if I couldn’t do without a pre-packaged dessert. Margo would’ve blown him off with a snappy comeback, or depending on how adventurous her mood, might’ve led the way. I, on the other hand, played dumb with a shrug, all the while wishing I could’ve mustered the nerve to play along. Just once, get down and oh-so dirty.

Back in the busy Autogrille parking lot two female gypsies with tacky skirts dragging the asphalt pavement were heading in my direction, flashing unctuous grins with teeth in need of dental work and lacy tablecloths I had no intention of buying.

To make my point while passing by I said, No, no, no, no, no, no, no ... get that crappy junk away from me. A simple no should’ve been enough and maybe referring to the junk as crappy might have been a bit over to the top. One thing was for sure, I should never have looked in the direction of those two gypsies. The older one leveled her forefinger at me, and spit out a threat I didn’t understand. If that wasn’t enough, she crossed her eyes—one blue, the other brown. So weird and yet so intriguing, the sight of them made my feet incapable of taking one more step. Nearby, three or four Italians backed off with a shake of their heads. Except for one man who got between the gypsies and me, configured his forefinger and pinky into a bull’s horn, and pointed it to the ground. The older gypsy hissed like Hannibal Lecter. She grabbed her accomplice, and they hurried off to a nearby van, oversized by European standards and on its side a mural depicting a caravan of gypsies from long ago, complete with colorful wagons, decorated horses and women much prettier than the two I’d recently seen.

Grazie, I told the man who’d come to my rescue.

He showed me the sign again, using his thumb to hold down the two middle fingers. "To ward off the malocchio—the evil eye—and other curses, he said in broken English. He rocked his hand sideways. Maybe work, maybe not. Either way you be careful."

Evil eye, gypsy curses? Unlike my mother and her mother, I had my doubts but thanked him again. Willing my feet to move, I walked away with head held high and one hand clutching the leather handbag that held my money and passport. My legs were still shaking when I slid into the Fiat. Just to be on the safe side, I opened my wallet and made sure the horn-shaped silver amulet Mom had given me was still there, a connection with the Italian and his protective gesture I should’ve made before then. Still, Mom would’ve been pleased to know I’d been so scared I tinkled in my pants, just a little but enough to make me uncomfortable.

Farther along on the Autostrada a road sign indicated I was leaving the region of Toscana and entering that of Liguria. The silence was deafening so I turned on the iPod, listened to Maroon for awhile and ended with She Will Be Loved. At Carrara I couldn’t help but slow down to rubberneck its renowned quarries and hills, snow-white marble destined to someday grace most Italian homes, however modest, as well as some of the finest homes throughout the world.

My head was starting to nod by the time I exited at La Spezia, the southern approach to Cinque Terre. Somehow I made a wrong turn and wound up on the Autostrada again, heading back in the direction I’d just left. Dammit, Ellen, pay attention, I told myself with a slap to the right cheek. Twenty minutes later found me back on course, following a road that wound high above the outskirts of the city. Twice I stopped to ask directions but neither woman understood my choppy Italian or recognized the grainy sketch of a tiled-roof villa I’d printed off the Internet. At last on the third upward trek I spotted my destination. Unremarkable would best describe the distant villa wedged into a hillside. I could only hope its close-up view would be more enticing.

Another five minutes of circular driving passed before I shifted into first gear, sending the efficient Fiat up a narrow, unpaved driveway until braking alongside a white stucco building. I switched off the ignition, got out, and after knocking on a set of double doors tall enough to have accommodated carriages from another era, it occurred to me I might be standing at the villa’s rear entrance. A scowling man from next door confirmed this with a wave of hands that also told me I was blocking his driveway. He stood his ground, hands now cupped to his hips, but retreated into his manicured yard when the carriage door creaked open. A tiny woman with white hair pulled into a topknot pointed to the trunk of my car and gestured a series of uno-due-tre instructions easy enough for me to understand.

After leaving the luggage with her, I backed down the driveway and parked in an obscure area near the road’s entrance. This time I started my upward trek on foot, following a zigzag path lined with hydrangeas, daisies, larkspur, and yellow-rose climbers. A trio of butterflies led me through the scent of jasmine toward the villa’s main entrance while in the valley below La Spezia stretched out to the horizon and somewhere beyond there to Le Cinque Terre—those five lands overlooking a part of the Mediterranean known as the Ligurian Sea. Taking a deep breath, I could almost taste the good earth. I relished the thought of tomorrow, knowing it would bring the taste and smell of salty sea air.

In an arched doorway of the villa sat two fat cats, a calico and a white Persian, their eyes narrowed into slits and observing my every movement. I couldn’t help but think of Margo, how she connected with the obtuse creatures. Me, they made ... a-ah-aah-choo. While I fumbled in my handbag for a tissue, the calico turned its rear end to me and lifted its tail erect to expose a taunting anus.

The same to you, I said.

And would’ve said more had it not been for the front door swinging open to reveal a forty-something wearing wire-rimmed glasses. Clean-shaven with straggly hair graying at the temples, a style I’d seen throughout Italy.  

He offered a reluctant smile and spoke in stilted English. Welcome to my villa, signorina.

Hmm ... as with the gypsy rescuer this Italian also considered me a signorina. At thirty-two, I was flattered to have made the cut which at one time ended before the age of thirty. He introduced himself as Lorenzo Gentili and nodded once to my long-winded explanation of Margo’s absence that came to a halt when I realized my somber host didn’t give a rat’s ass whether there was one guest or two since we’d paid for our stay in advance and the date for any refund had long since passed.

I followed him up twenty winding stairs of uneven, worn marble and through the immense living and dining rooms before reaching my assigned suite. Still unsmiling, Lorenzo showed me around the antique-filled sitting room and bedroom, their adorned ceilings and walls similar to those in Giorgio Molina’s apartment. This ceramic-tiled bathroom also boasted a claw foot tub, big enough for two, not that I had anyone in mind, certainly not my host even though he towered over me by a good six inches.

Lorenzo opened the shuttered windows, presenting the view of a garden below brimming with flowers and buzzing insects. A background of soft music filtered through the rooms, filling my head with a welcomed serenity after Margo’s iPod selections.

I do hope the medley is not too distracting, he said. It is a combination of classical, jazz, and opera.

Perfetto, I replied, circling my thumb and forefinger in the Italian way.

In fact, the entire ambiance of this villa spelled perfection. I wanted to fly solo, transform myself into another time, and slip into a flowing gown of peach chiffon. And like the entitled socialite I should’ve been, float through the rooms with a glass of sparkling Spumante in one hand, a cigarette in the other. Unfortunately, my suitcase contained an assortment of practical knitwear and I’d never learned to inhale without my eyes watering.

Lorenzo left but before I could bounce on the thick mattress, Tiny Woman showed up, bearing a stack of white bath towels. Not the fluffy terry cloth we Americans prefer but more like kitchen linens, only bigger and more absorbent than they appeared. Through a series of hand and facial gestures plus a smattering of Italian she identified herself as Lorenzo’s aunt and insisted I call her Zia Octavia, as if we were distant kin meeting for the first time. Zia backed out of the room, at last leaving me to revel in my surroundings. Exhausted, I plopped on the bed, sank into a mound of down pillows, and allowed myself an afternoon siesta.

When I woke up, an exotic scent of spice drew me to the open window. Leaning over the sill, I noticed a dark-haired woman down in the garden. A light breeze pushed her white gauze dress into her slender frame as she tended the roses, snipping and pruning with palm-size shears. She looked up and with nothing more than an enthusiastic wave, invited me to join her.

Uno momento, I called out, patting down my hair.

After checking out all of me in the cheval mirror, I hurried down the stairs and from there wandered through the entire garden in search of my potential new friend. The woman was nowhere to be found. Just like that, gone. Disappointed, I settled for a wooden bench and the fat cats—one staring me down, the other again showing its backside. What the hell, I lifted my face to the Ligurian sun and closed my eyes. New friend or old cats, could a lazy afternoon in Italy really get any better than this? And tomorrow would be even better.

Time passed in slow motion, reminding me of Giorgio’s mime routine. At that very moment he was probably on the steps of The Uffizi, Margo nearby, basking in his glory. Enough with a romance doomed from the start, enough with my obsession over her latest obsession, my stomach was sending out a hunger alert, one I transmitted to the kitchen. I waited another fifteen minutes before retracing my garden route and once inside the villa I again tackled the winding stairs, which proved an easier climb the second time around. My hunger instincts had been correct: Zia Octavia was waiting in the dining room.

5

Margo and Mama’s Boy

I couldn’t believe I’d lowered myself to this: collecting money from tourists wanting their photo taken with Giorgio miming an Egyptian mummy. His fans were one hundred per cent women, mostly Americans, Brits, or Germans between the ages of fifteen and seventy, only too happy when he lifted his arms and slid them down their now quivering bodies. At least he had the decency not to pinch the ass of anyone who looked younger than twenty-one, an unpredictable estimate at best. All for the sake of art, I told myself, my own body quivering at the memory of our previous night. The passion we shared, the never-ending phone calls from his mama—what are you doing, Giorgio ... are you getting enough to eat ... your shirts, will they hold out until I return ... do you miss me ... do you still love me ... if only I didn’t have this celebration. Et cetera, et cetera, et cetera—it was enough to make me toss the biscotti I only thought about eating.

Your mama must love you very much, I told Giorgio as we lay side by side, our bodies wet with perspiration from a non-stop bout that almost brought both of us to tears.

She cannot help herself, Giorgio said.

Perhaps if you didn’t encourage her ....

He lifted his body, muscles taut as he leaned on one elbow. It is difficult for me to explain. I owe Mama my life.

Uh ... well, uh, don’t we all. I thought about my own mother, thankful she couldn’t have seen me at that moment.

Giorgio’s phone rang again. "Si, Mamma, si. Tomorrow I will perform my greatest role, one I have not as yet attempted, that of the tight rope walker ... you know I will be thinking of you and only you."

Hmm, how about me and only me? While Giorgio busied himself with pouring a single glass of Chianti, I turned off his phone without his knowing it. After we shared half of the wine, I dripped the rest over his chest and licked my way down the fine ribbon of his hair, ending where he waited with a welcome that surpassed any I’d seen before. I took him to the point of near ecstasy but refused to go any further unless he promised to perform as a mummy the next day.

But what about Mama, I promised her the ... tight rope, he barely managed to squeak.

Who’s to tell her otherwise?

Not Mama’s Boy, that’s for sure. Giorgio gave in to me, just as I knew he would. If only his mama could’ve seen him at that moment.

∞∞∞

Later that evening after engaging in another round of lovemaking in which I played the demanding mistress and he my dutiful slave, Giorgio announced he was starving, this time for real food.

Me too, I said, smacking my lips as delicately as possible. Where shall we go?

He lifted his shoulders, opened his hands. Why go out when everything we need can be found here.

How romantic, you’re going to cook for me.

"Mi dispiace, mi amore, he said by way of an apology. When it comes to preparing a meal Mama considers la cucina her domain. Although I help myself to the refrigerator when she is not home, I am not allowed near the stove. Except to make espresso, I must have my espresso. You, on the other hand ...."

But, darling, if your mama is that territorial, she will know a stranger has been messing with her pots and pans, her precious kitchen utensils.

He rubbed his chin for a moment. I hadn’t thought about that. I suppose we could go out. Perhaps a bit of antipasto ....

I had something more substantial in mind ... my treat, of course.

He kissed me then, like a school boy happy to have received an A for effort. "Cara mia, are you sure? It is not as though I, Giorgio Molina, am a pauper, you know."

6

Dinner for Two

Mangia, Zia Octavia told me. One hand shoveled imaginary food into her mouth and the other motioned to a covered terrace outside the dining room.

I took a seat at the table, took in the lush greenery potted in terracotta and the ivy geraniums cascading over an iron railing. To my surprise, the apron-clad Lorenzo had assumed another duty—that of serving a light supper to a table of one, which considering the single place setting, should’ve occurred to me before that moment.

Two couples were scheduled to arrive yesterday, he said, placing a bowl of tortellini in brodo in front of me. But they have postponed their visit.

Which makes me the only guest, I said.

Si, this is not a problem for me. Nor should it be for you.

After he left, I lowered my eyelids and sipped with a decorum befitting the occasion. Using one of my dining-alone techniques, I transformed myself into another dimension and became the focus of a documentary film on Mediterranean dining.

Ellen Savino, gourmand extraordinaire, has traveled the world in search of exotic food befitting the rich and famous; however, she still prefers the Italian approach to enjoying simple meals prepared with the finest of ingredients.

My host continued his service, efficient almost to a fault. Two glasses of savory wine encouraged me to polish off a wedge of cheese and veggie frittata, insalata mista with the correct ratio of olive oil to vinegar, and pears as red as the poaching wine responsible for creating their color. By the end of my Limoncello cordial, I’d grown bored with playing this game of mental solitaire so when Lorenzo brought an espresso tray, I invited him to share the carafe of coffee with me. When he returned with a second miniature cup, his ears had developed a slight ting of red and he’d ditched the striped apron. He sat down, offering me a close-up of his crooked nose which compromised a not-so-bad profile. Round spectacles magnified steel-gray eyes that skimmed over mine before focusing on the wall of decorative tiles behind me.

My compliments to your aunt, I said to break an otherwise awkward moment. She is a fantastic cook.

Lorenzo’s smile did little to cover his embarrassment but his eyes did find mine again. Both Zia and I must take exception. The kitchen is my domain; Zia takes care of the garden.

Of course, I should’ve realized. I bent my head, swirled two cubes of sugar into the thick coffee. The woman I saw tending the flowers, she’s your wife?

Lorenzo bristled at the comment. I am a widower. And no one but Zia tends the flowers.

It was my turn to be embarrassed, better yet confused. Either way, I thought it best to change the subject. Some advice, please, I plan to visit Cinque Terre tomorrow morning. How do I get from here to La Spezia’s harbor for the motorboat excursion?

He paused, contemplating what should’ve been a straightforward answer. If you are ready to leave by nine forty-five, I will drop you off at the harbor. I have business in the city center and later in Cinque Terre, actually Monterosso where the motorboat excursions end before beginning their return trip.

I wouldn’t want to impose on you, Lorenzo. Nor did I want my words misconstrued as sounding coy. My concern merely reflected the amount of time required to spend with someone who did not appeal one iota to me.

Be assured, if this were an inconvenience, I would not have offered, he said, his concern reflecting mine. Monterosso is the largest village in Le Cinque Terre, the five lands—

And has a delightful swimming beach, or so I’ve read.

This is true but during the boat excursion you must first visit the other seaport villages.

Yes, that’s my plan.

In the evening we can return by car from Monterosso, that is, unless you have other plans. Or if you prefer to take the train back to La Spezia and from the station a cab back to my villa.

Please, visions of Disney World danced in my head, the part about getting from here to there being half the fun, only because someone else had resolved the myriad of potential problems along the way. And so I agreed with a cautious thank you.

The coffee is superb, I said after my third cup. It is decaf, right? That’s what I requested in my e-mail.

Lorenzo rolled his eyes behind those wire-rims. He shook his head. "Impossibile, signorina. We Italians love our coffee in its purist form. To desecrate the delicate beans would be an abomination I would not dare consider."

Great, just what I needed: the promise of an all-nighter without good reason and no skin off Lorenzo’s back. He gathered up the espresso service and headed for the kitchen, unaware of me blowing a silent raspberry to that rigid back.

Alone again, I wandered around the dining room perimeter, starting with an intriguing tapestry, a threadbare account of hunters and wild boars from an earlier century. I moved on to the Gentili family coat of arms, an impressive display but beyond my comprehension, and ended at a library table stacked with regional books, all written in Italian and with colorful photos capable of whetting my appetite for tomorrow’s adventure.

Lorenzo soon returned with a map, spread it out over the table, and gave me a mini discourse on the villages of Le Cinque Terre: Riomaggiore, Manarola, Corniglia, Vernazza, and Monterosso. Each village is unique, he said. A one day boat tour really doesn’t do justice to them, especially since Corniglia is not accessible from the water. You should consider at least one more day of hiking, that is, if you brought the appropriate footwear.

I nodded. This had been my original plan with Margo although I didn’t tell Lorenzo. Nor did I tell him Margo and I would’ve reserved accommodations in Cinque Terre had a room been available when she finally made up her mind to stay there. His hand brushed against my hand, prompting me to edge mine away. He smelled European, a combination of Gucci cologne and lemons. Too bad he lacked the earthiness of that Autogrille workman—or the boldness of that GQ Roman on Via Venuta who pinched my butt instead of Margo’s. Margo fumed; I gloated. Even now the mere memory of it, better yet of Margo, makes me giggle.

The evening as Lorenzo’s only guest ended with a pleasant, Buona sera. After returning to my room I considered calling Giorgio’s apartment but then realized Margo had taken custody of our phone, the one we’d agreed to share at the outset of our trip. A cost-saver I’d suggested because if anybody would be getting phone calls, it would’ve been Margo and not me. What had I been thinking? Better leave well enough alone, as in Margo cooped up with her Mama’s Boy, with nothing to do but make love Italian style and to sip wine and suck up long strings of yummy pasta.

7

Sleep Tight

Around ten o’clock I crawled into bed, only then realizing I’d be sleeping on top of a feather bed covering the mattress, a first for me and one I anticipated like a princess ignorant of the proverbial pea awaiting her discomfort. Those next four hours consisted of me punching pillows and flipping them over, tossing off the covers only to snuggle back into them. I finally pinpointed my unrelenting anxiety to the devil in Lorenzo’s Italian-style coffee instead of my oxymoron version, the simpering decaf.

Somewhere in the night cats were engaged in a vast conspiracy, their screeching worse than babies demanding their next meal. I grabbed a pair of shoes—the sandals that squeeze every one of my sensitive toes—and stomped to the window. But before I could launch the first of my feline attacks, a sudden breeze slapped against my face, so strong it closed both eyes. I opened them wide and on looking down, did a double take. There in the moonlit garden was my elusive woman, this time dressed in a flimsy nightgown and kneeling as she enticed the calico and Persian with a bowl of milk. Along the ledge of a gray stone wall more cats had gathered, a row of hungry spectators meowing as they waited their turn at the milk. The woman lifted her head and again waved for me to join her.

I leaned over the window sill. First, tell me your name, I called out, my voice cutting through the darkness of night.

She opened her palms and lifted her shoulders, as if to say she did not understand.

Nome—par favore, I all but shouted. To which the woman walked away, more like disappeared into the mist. No more games, especially after midnight. I stepped back, retreated to my bed, and burrowed under the covers where my imagination conjured up a newspaper article buried on page three of the La Spezia Giornale:

An insignificant American tourist has died from an overdose of arsenic-laced cream at the villa of the prominent Lorenzo Gentili, coincidentally on the tenth anniversary of his beloved wife’s mysterious disappearance. After completing a thorough investigation, the local carabinieri have confirmed Ellen Savino’s death to be a suicide, for lack of a better explanation. Arrangements for disposing of the remains are incomplete, pending notification of a sister believed to be cavorting in Firenze with an Egyptian mummy in need of a close shave.

8

Cinque Terre

Via the Sea

Seven hours later and still groggy from a god-awful restless night, I still wasn’t convinced that caffeine-induced hysteria had produced the elusive cat woman. To hell with the late hour and creepy felines, I should’ve gone downstairs a second time and made friends with her. Too late now, the sort of story of a life filled with one too many could’ves, should’ves, would’ves. After a solitary breakfast of more caffeine tempered with hot latte and soft tomino cheese patted onto day-old bread heels, I followed Lorenzo down the path leading to the parking area, a walk which made me aware of his sloping shoulders and broad hipline, a far worse negative than the unfortunate nose cursing an otherwise ordinary face.

I found the calico cat perched on the hood of my rental but didn’t see the Persian. Here kitty, kitty, kitty, I called out.

Zero response. The creature was either dead or didn’t capice my English. Next time, if ever there’d be another trip to Italy, I vowed to learn a few more key Italian phrases instead of relying on Margo who listened to language tapes on her drive to and from work.

You like the cats? Lorenzo asked.

Not really, just curious.

He opened the passenger door and I climbed into his Mercedes van. With Lorenzo secured behind the wheel, we circled down the winding road, which afforded me a better view of the houses I’d hardly noticed the day before. None could match the understated pride of Lorenzo’s villa and confirmed I’d made the right choice.

After a few quiet moments I threw out a casual comment, for no other reason than to test his reaction. About the cats, they were very busy during the night, lapping up milk the mysterious lady in your garden provided.

He spoke without glancing in my direction. "Sometimes the moon plays tricks on my guests, especially those Americani who resist changes to their routine."

Did he think this Americana a pushover? I know what I saw, Lorenzo.

What you believe you saw, signorina.

Lorenzo set his condescending jaw into silent mode, hands gripping the steering wheel as he maneuvered the fifteen hairpin curves I didn’t have time to count when I’d been the one driving. He didn’t speak again until we reached the main road. He repeated the particulars of my boat tour and where we should meet that evening: nine o’clock, Church of San Giovanni Battista in the heart of Monterosso. When he dropped me off at the harbor, his last words were a reminder about the glaring rays of the afternoon sun, which at ten-twenty on this morning were hiding behind a mass of hazy clouds.

I bought my ticket and boarded a crowded vessel scheduled for stops at four of the five coastal villages, weather permitting. The motorboat departed at ten-thirty and moved with ease through the calm bay. After reaching the Ligurian Sea, the boat started bouncing over rough waters, forcing me to spread my feet into a sea legs stance and to wrap my hands around a deck rail lined with the more resilient passengers. I did manage to release one hand long enough to snap a few photos of rolling waves battering the coast before a powerful swell drenched my hair and made me consider going below with those passengers having the common sense I lacked. Don’t be such a wuss, I mumbled to myself and resolved to stay top deck.

Our boat approached Riomaggiore’s harbor with determination and after several failed attempts the captain finally executed a successful docking. Waves rocked the vessel as busy crewmen lashed its gangplank to the mooring, and anxious passengers pressed forward, waiting for permission to disembark. I sidestepped one of two metal eyes securing the deck ropes before shifting my weight to accommodate the boat’s erratic rhythm. As soon as I reached my comfort level, the boat surprised me and all of the passengers with a raise of its bow to accommodate the incoming water. The sturdy woman who’d been swaying in front of me slammed her rear end into my stomach and we both hit the deck. She yelled a string of what could only be described as obscenities in an unfamiliar language, her dead weight crushing me into the protruding metal eye. It inflicted pain on my hip and butt so excruciating I wanted to scream but didn’t have enough oxygen for a single peep. The passengers surrounding us reacted with dumbfounded expressions until one man came forward and extended his hand to Dead Weight. After pulling her up, he did the same for me.

It’s an absolute disgrace, said the man whose accent told me he was an okay American guy. He helped me to a seat along the bow, all the while talking about my near disaster. Not a single rail or safety precaution on the entire boat. Back home you’d have good cause for a lawsuit. Too bad those issues don’t apply here.

I nodded although my immediate concern centered on sucking in some much-needed air before attempting to speak.

Dead Weight took one look at me, pressed her hands against chubby cheeks, and sputtered an apology I couldn’t begin to understand yet managed a second nod to show my acceptance. She held