Her Italian Millionaire (11 page)

“Oh, no,” she said.

“What, 'oh no?'” he asked.

“Can I just stay in the car?” she asked.

“Of course. That's a good idea,” he said, agreeing with her for the first time since she'd met him. “I'll only be a minute. If you notice anything suspicious, just lean on the horn.”

“What do you mean suspicious?”

He didn't answer. He was already half-way up the walk when the old woman in black came out to meet him. Anne Marie slid down in the leather seat as far as she could. She didn't want his grandmother to think he was consorting with a vegetable thief. Marco seemed equally determined to spare the elderly woman from seeing Anne Marie. She sneaked a quick look over her shoulder to see him kiss his grandmother on both cheeks and turn toward the house.

But the old woman had other ideas. Anne Marie could hear her voice rise and get louder. She couldn't hear Marco answer. A moment later Marco came back to the car, his jaw locked in place, his mouth a straight line.

“She wants to meet you,” he said through stiff lips. “Couldn't you hide?”

“I was hiding,” she said. “What should I have done, gotten into the trunk?”

He opened the door and grabbed her arm. “It's too late. She's seen you. You have to come in.”

The house was crowded with furniture and fabric and pictures on every wall and on every shelf. The smell of bread baking and tomato sauce simmering made Anne Marie's stomach growl. The old woman's eyes widened in surprise and recognition when she saw Anne Marie.

“
Si accomodo, prego
,” she said politely. Then she smiled broadly and took both of Anne Marie's hands in hers.

“
Bella
,” the old woman said to Marco, nodding emphatically. “
Molto bella
.”

Anne Marie smiled at the compliment. No one had ever called her beautiful before, not Dan, not even her parents. It didn't matter if Marco didn't agree; it was the old woman's opinion that counted.

“
Buongiorno, Signora
,” Anne Marie said, happy to be able to practice her Italian. She then asked his grandmother how she was and they exchanged pleasantries that were straight out of Lesson One in her beginning Italian text book. It was very satisfying to have someone to practice with, someone who said all the right things and in the right order. By the end of the conversation, his grandmother instructed Anne Marie to call her Nonna and Marco was standing with his arms crossed, his expression pained. Maybe he'd think twice about bringing a stranger to his grandmother's house again. Not that he'd wanted to bring her in, but he should have let her go to the bus station on her own. But then she would have missed this opportunity to see the inside of a real Italian house.

When Nonna turned and spoke to him directly he shook his head and pointed to his watch. His grandmother said something and disappeared into the kitchen.

“She wants us to eat lunch with her,” he said. “I told her you have a bus to catch.”

“That's right,” Anne Marie said, but the sauce smelled so good and she was so hungry. “Besides it's too early for lunch.”

“It's never too early for lunch in this house. She thinks I don't eat enough. She says you like her tomatoes. How does she know that? For some reason she thinks she knows you. She wants you to taste her
puttanesca
sauce.”

“I'd love to. She's very kind,” she said. Her mouth watered. If only she could just have a piece of that fresh-baked bread before she left to soothe her stomach and fill the void between her ribs. A taste of that tomato sauce wouldn't be bad either.

“What time is your bus?”

“Uh, I'm not sure, but there will be another. I hate to hurt her feelings. I'd like to stay if you think it's all right.”

“All right? You can't leave now, and neither can I. She's gone to cook the pasta.”

Marco leaned against the wall and stared moodily out the window. He seemed more displeased about this delay than Anne Marie was, though he was the one who'd brought her here. She wasn't displeased at all. This was the kind of thing she wanted to do in Italy. Get off the beaten track. Meet the real people. Talk to them. Eat their food. That was why she'd contacted Giovanni. She thought he'd be her ticket to seeing the real Italy. Whether Marco was real or not, she didn't know, but his Nonna was.

Anne Marie went to the mantle above the tiled fireplace and looked at the framed photographs there. In a moment, Marco had joined her.

There was a picture of a young woman with long dark hair and a dazzling smile.

“My sister,” Marco said.

“She's beautiful,” she said. “Where does she live?”

“In Rome. She has joined a convent.”

“She's a nun?” she asked.

“Not yet. We are hoping she will change her mind.”

“Why? I thought it was an honor to have a priest or a nun in the family.”

“Not this family. Not for the wrong reasons.”

“Is she doing it for the wrong reasons?”

“She's much younger than I. The baby of the family. Loved and petted by everyone. When she fell in love, it was to someone we didn't approve of. For good reason. She wouldn't listen to us. She's as stubborn as she is beautiful. Then she found out he was married and that he was a thief. Her heart was broken and she felt the shame. So she escaped to Rome and the
Suore di Santa Theresa
near the
Palazzo Macino
. They have opened the convent to a few tourists and pilgrims. Isabella is working there, washing the sheets, scrubbing the floors, to prove herself to the nuns or to herself. I don't know. I haven't seen her for a long time.”

Anne Marie heard the bitterness in his voice. Did he refuse to see her or did she refuse to see him?

She turned her attention to the next picture.

“My grandparents,” Marco said. “This is Nonna and my grandfather, who died two years ago.”

“Is that why she wears black?”

“It's the custom.”

“He's very handsome,” she said. She glanced at Marco. The resemblance was unmistakable. The same eyes, the strong jaw and high cheekbones and the wry half smile. Even the same nose. Very dashing, very romantic, even as an old man. Would Marco look like that one day? “How long were they married?”

“Fifty-two years,” he said.

Neither of them heard his grandmother come into the room. When they turned she was standing behind them, wearing a white apron that covered her black dress. She pointed to the picture and said something to Marco. He smiled and shook his head. She shook her finger at him, then she held up ten fingers and went back to the kitchen.

“What did she say?” Anne Marie asked.

“She said the lunch will be ready in ten minutes.”

“I got that. But what else?”

“She says I had better get going if I want to celebrate my fiftieth wedding anniversary like they did.”

“You've never been married?”

“That's right. I've had some narrow escapes, but I did escape, and I have no intention of getting married. She knows that, but she won't accept it. It's a running joke in the family. She loves babies and she wants great grand-children. She wants to teach them cooking, to pass on her recipes. And show them how to grow tomatoes before it's too late. If we don't produce these great-grandchildren she swears she'll have to go to her grave with her secrets.”

Anne Marie was saddened to think of her dying without passing on the family traditions.

“Don't worry,” Marco said, smoothing a worry line from Anne Marie's forehead with his thumb. “She's not serious.”

But his grandmother had looked very serious. She'd positively glared at him. Anne Marie turned back to the photograph. The touch of Marco's thumb across her forehead disturbed her. It was too familiar a gesture for a casual acquaintance. Unless... what had really happened last night?

“You look like your grandfather,” she said.

“So you think I'm handsome,” he said. “Is that why you're following me around?”

“Me... me? Following you?” She was so upset she stumbled over her words.

“Didn't you follow me to the restaurant last night?” he asked.

“No, of course not! The hotel clerk told me about it. If I'd known you were there, I would never have gone there and interrupted your dinner with...whoever that was. You never told me who that woman was and what happened to make her mad enough to hit you.”

“Her name is Adrianna and she's always mad. She wants me to take her here and there. She doesn't understand that I have work to do.”

“What kind of work?” she asked. She'd wondered about that.

“Helping tourists.”

“Like me?”

“Most people are not like you. Most people cause me even much more trouble than you.”

“I thought I was outstanding at causing trouble, crying, making a scene - which reminds me I owe you some money, for the dinner and the wine and the fortune teller.”

“No, you don't.”

“Was that all part of your job?”

“In a way.”

“Even the fortune teller?”

“All right, you can pay me for the fortune teller. But only if she's right.”

“That doesn't seem fair to you,” she said, “since she can't possibly be right. I must say, whatever you really do, it seems like hazardous work. Just having dinner you got slapped, then you had to escort me home and put me to bed.”

“That was a tough job, he admitted. “But it was clear you weren't going to get there on your own.”

“All in a day's work, I suppose,” she said. “Or a night's work. “Tell me more about what you do. Is it always so dangerous?”

“So dangerous I can't talk about it. And it would take too long.”

“We have ten minutes,” she said.

“Sorry, but that's not long enough,” he said. “And it's really not interesting enough.”

“But you said it was dangerous.”

“The most dangerous part is dying of boredom. Most of the time I sit behind a desk and talk on the phone and do paper work. Just the usual, planning trips for people, booking reservations, handling complaints and cancellations. That's the really dangerous part, dealing with disgruntled travelers. They can get very angry. It's an ordinary job with lots of headaches. Trust me, you would not enjoy hearing about it. There's so much, how do you say...bullshit in my business. People asking me questions I can't answer, making impossible demands. This is the good part - getting out of the office, helping people like yourself, making your visit more pleasant, if I can.” He took a breath. “Now, tell me about your job. In the bookstore, I mean...wherever it is that you work,” he said.

“You're close. I work in a library. But I'd like to have a bookstore. Sometime in the future. How did you know?”