Love and Limoncello

By Patricia Gilbert

"Let's not trick ourselves into thinking that this was more than a lovely weekend," Robin said. "I have to go back to my life – in the States – and you have to go back to your life right here.  The sooner we both do that, the better for all concerned."

• Language: English
• Publisher: Wings ePress, Inc.
• Release date: Jul 26, 2023
• ISBN: 9781597052047

Book preview

Dedication

To Laurien and Robin

for all the proofreading and support.

One

Bleary eyed with jet lag, Robin Clarke stood by the door to the restaurant. She had planned to check it out as part of her assignment for Traveling Smarts magazine during her whirlwind trip to Rome, but it looked closed. Disappointment and frustration welled up inside her. It had been such a long day that all she really wanted right then was a hot meal. It didn’t even have to be a great, memorable meal, deserving of much praise and much note taking between courses so that she didn’t forget a thing when it came to writing the article. It just had to be hot and served in the next few minutes.

She consulted her notes again to make sure that she had the opening time correct. Then the door swung open, letting out a shaft of warm, golden light and even better aromas. A man with his back to her briskly whisked away a few stray autumn leaves from the welcome mat.

"È chiuso?" she asked in her best Italian. Now Robin’s best Italian was not very good, even when she wasn’t jet lagged. Instead of asking if the restaurant was closed, she should have asked if it was open. She was just about to correct herself when she was suddenly struck mute for the man had now turned toward her. Tall, dark, and handsome didn’t even begin to cover the territory. The man had intensely blue eyes, a deep cleft in his chin, and a smile that revitalized her right through to the marrow of her bones. Tired? Had she been tired?

Speaking in a rapid flow of liquid Italian, the man had simultaneously held open the door for her, led her across to a table in the completely empty restaurant, helped her off with her coat, and seated her. Robin blinked when she realized that the flow of sound had come to an end and that some response was now required of her.

"Che cosa bere?" he asked very slowly, as though speaking to a half-wit, but still smiling that melting smile. Robin’s brain was slowly beginning to function again. She could almost hear the wheels in her head grinding as they started to turn. She could handle this. She could order something to drink while simultaneously and surreptitiously wiping the drool from her chin.

"Ac-ac-acqua minerale frizzante, per favore," she managed to stammer. The Roman god was gone. Before her wits were fully re-gathered, he was back at her side pouring sparkling mineral water into her glass. He presented her with a menu, smiled again, and left her to ponder what she would have for dinner.

Fortunately, the menu’s many selections were translated into several languages underneath each entry. Robin began to regain her confidence as she read through the rather mangled English translations. She giggled to herself when she came to an entry for eggs that promised to serve Ggs, fried in a frying pan, at pleasure. She wasn’t the only one struggling with a foreign language in Ostaria da Nerone that evening. She selected Pasta Fagiole to start with, artichokes and a veal cutlet in lemon sauce for her main course, and silently practiced placing her order, so she would sound somewhat coherent when the insanely handsome waiter returned.

The Roman god, more commonly known as Tony Cianelli to his friends, casually leaned his tall frame against the dark, paneled wall and studied the only patron in the restaurant so far this evening. Well, it was only seven, and things didn’t get really going until nine. If he had a choice, however, he would lock the door and not allow anyone else to enter, so he could just look after this one lovely guest without any distraction. She was beautiful!

The first thing he had noticed about her was the most amazing luminous green eyes he had ever seen. He wondered if they were really hers or the result of tinted contact lenses. He hoped they were genuine. He didn’t like to think that she would stoop to such artifice. Then he had noticed her red hair. Red hair was not commonly seen in Roman women, real red hair, that is, and hers was clearly what nature had bestowed upon her. Her short hair seemed to glow like a polished copper pot in the subdued candle and lamp light of his restaurant. She had fair skin that glowed with a faint pink hue. Her long, black lashes shaded those amazing green eyes as she studied the menu. Short hair showed off her pretty ears. She wore delicate, small, gold hoops. Her left hand played with an earring, while the other flipped the pages of the menu.

He noticed that she wasn’t wearing any rings, though he had no rational idea why this pleased him so much. Her slim frame was clad all in black in some sort of soft, knit pant and shirt combination that clung to her trim shape most alluringly. A scarf with a pattern of scattered autumn leaves softened her sober attire. He found himself wondering what she would look like in a brighter color—or perhaps in nothing at all.

Tony shook himself mentally and straightened to his full six feet two inches. This would never do! He may now be the owner of the restaurant where he had worked since he was a boy, but he couldn’t afford to close its doors to gaze at one guest, nor could he afford to terrify that guest into never returning by keeping her captive for the evening! He strode over to take her order.

Robin carefully enunciated each practiced phrase. It was all so much easier when she had listened to language tapes while working out at the Y back home in New Jersey. On the CD, the waiter answered with the right phrases, instead of asking questions that departed from the script. She spoke good French, and passable German, but the Italian words and phrases just did not want to stick. The order finally taken, the waiter smiled at her again,

È americana? he inquired.

Si, si, Robin said, nodding and smiling back at him like an idiot. Why couldn’t she have said something a little more intelligent, such as, Yes, I’m an American, I’m single, and I don’t have any plans for the rest of my evening, or my life, if you prefer. He was gone again, disappearing through the arch into the next room. She could hear him calling out her order and then an answering rapid exchange of Italian from a man and a woman and the familiar sounds of pots and pans being called into action.

The door opened, and a German-speaking couple was assisted in the getting seated ritual by the gorgeous waiter. He placed them at the table next to her, so she had lots of opportunity to observe him out of the corner of her eye. It amused her that, in an empty restaurant, he had seated his only patrons beside one another at tables separated by just inches. Why did waiters do this?

What an effect this man had on her! She seriously needed to get a grip. She was no child after all. Robin was forty-two years old, a widow for the past two years. She was a freelance writer and photographer on her good days and a miserably unhappy divorce lawyer on the bad days. She would love to eliminate the bad days and go for more good days by quitting her part-time job at the prestigious law firm in Haddontown, New Jersey, but she had responsibilities that held her back.

Her daughter and best friend, Emily, was a senior at the Mooresfield School, a fine private school that did not come cheaply but was worth every penny. Emily had applied to several top universities, including Princeton and Middlebury, and she had an excellent shot at getting into Princeton, her first pick. While that would be a dream come true, it would also entail some pretty heavy expenditures. Emily planned to become a physician and then join an organization such as Doctors Without Borders. A noble career plan, but hardly a lucrative one. Robin tried to never let Emily see that the weight of tuition bills caused her a great deal of anxiety.

The anxiety was frankly unnecessary, since Paul had been well insured and they had always lived carefully within their means. Paul’s sudden illness and rapid decline had shaken the foundations of her safe world to its core, and Robin worried about all sorts of things that were either very unlikely to occur or completely beyond her control. Locust plagues, home invasion, and mad cow disease consumed more of Robin’s thoughts than was entirely needful. Creating a secure world for Emily was very high on Robin’s list of priorities, even though Paul’s illness should have taught her that there was simply no way to create this fantasy world.

Robin had started working part-time when her husband, Paul, first became ill with cancer, so that she could take him to and from his various appointments and treatments and spend as much time with him as possible. She had remained part-time even after Paul’s death two years ago, reluctant to increase the stress in her life by returning to work full-time. She filled the void in her days and her heart by launching a second career as a freelance travel writer and photographer. She had found on their various happy family vacations to Europe over the years that she had a good eye for photography and a knack for finding off-the-beaten-trail places to stay and eat.

She also had an insatiable love for Europe, and the opportunity to travel there regularly on a tax-deductible basis was very appealing. She had slowly built her writing and photography credits over the past two years with articles in small publications. They didn’t pay well, but the work was a pleasure, and she found her commissions increasing in frequency and dollar value as she established herself as a careful, reliable, and creative contributor. Traveling Smarts was her favorite. Its fee for an article on Rome in the Off-Season, however, would barely cover the costs to have her film developed. She would have to sell a lot more articles and a lot more photographs from her web-site and the little café where she exhibited back home in Mooresfield. While waiting for her soup, Robin pulled out her small, spiral bound, blue notebook and fountain pen and began to summarize the events of the day and her impressions of Rome thus far.

Robin had arrived in Rome that afternoon, having taken the train from the airport to save money as she always did. It was a gorgeous day—sunny and unseasonably warm for early November. She’d stuffed her jacket and sweater inside her suitcase, wondering if she’d packed all the wrong clothes, despite her careful tracking of the weather in Rome. She got her bearings outside the large, bustling train station and started toward her lodgings down via Cavour toward the Coliseum. She was trundling a small, wheeled case, an overnight bag balanced against the handle, with her back pack style camera bag slung over both shoulders to evenly distribute the considerable weight and deter thieves who inevitably hung around most train stations the world over, looking for easy prey.

Rome had not been built in a day, nor had it been built with wheeled cases in mind. As she struggled to negotiate the broken pavement and curbs, she was startled when several men called out greetings to her, telling her she was beautiful, asking to have dinner with her, asking if they could help with her bags.

Welcome to Rome, she muttered. She had heard of the city’s reputation for very bold men, but she had never anticipated men in such numbers, volume, apparent ardor, and persistence!

With relief, she noted that the numbers of her admirers had decreased as she pressed on, but her relief was short-lived when she noticed the presence of riot police in rank after silent rank. The sidewalks were now filled with people of all ages, shapes, and sizes, who were clearly not afraid as they craned their necks to see the spectacle up ahead. Since they weren’t afraid, and since Robin knew of no other way to get to the convent where she was staying, and since jet lag was a very powerful motivator, she kept to her course.

Soon the riot police were replaced by a street demonstration. It was unlike any demonstration Robin had ever seen. There were floats, dancers, loud music, and people blowing whistles and calling from loudspeakers. She had no clue what the demonstration was for or against. It was, however, very good-natured, so Robin’s sense of anxiety faded to its normal state of high alert. The crowds did, however, mask the turn from via Cavour to the street where the convent was located. Robin quickly realized she had overshot her mark. She retraced her steps half a block and turned up a side street where the sounds of the bizarre demonstration began to fade behind her. Rome was certainly unlike anywhere else she’d ever been in Italy or anywhere else in Europe for that matter!

The convent took in paying guests of all religious persuasions for a modest fee. Robin had stayed in a convent before on the shore of Lake Garda in the north of Italy. That property was so gorgeous that it had inspired articles that had been printed in more than one publication. Unfortunately, even Robin’s first impression showed that this convent was not going to rouse a similar muse. Robin registered at the front desk, surrendering her passport for the duration of her stay as is customary in Italy. The dour nun reviewed the house rules: breakfast from 7:00 a.m. to 8:30 a.m., curfew at midnight (when the front door would be locked), surrender the key each time you leave, no guests in the room, no eating in the room. Robin nodded her understanding of the rules and took possession of the room key. She squeezed into the tiny elevator with her baggage, and it groaned and wheezed its way to the second floor. The elevator opened onto a long corridor with tall windows standing open and letting in the warm air.

Robin let herself into her room—or was it her cell? The room was tiny, no more than eight feet wide by ten feet long. The narrow bed, desk, chair, and armoire were angular, graceless pieces of furniture made of cheap materials. Only one picture, a copy of an icon of the Madonna and Child, hung on the wall, but the picture was so small and placed so high on the white wall that it did nothing to relieve the stark, barren feeling of the room. There was no TV on which to try to catch a program in English