Stick Shift. Mary Leo
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all that secretary’s fault at the Italian office. She had made the travel arrangements. Lucy had told the girl that she wanted to fly directly into Naples, but the girl, probably an airhead, couldn’t get her on a connecting flight. She could book it on the return, but not on the arrival. So this was the result.
Sigh.
San Francisco and Leonardo da Vinci airports might have different names and be on different continents, but the lines were all the same. Long.
So much for hot baths and sandwiches.
It was a beautiful morning, from what she could see out the huge windows surrounding her, but each person in line had to quibble with the staff behind the counter over silly things like the color of the car, or the quality of the radio or the size of the engine. Lucy thought it was insane. Rome waited a few steps outside these walls and all anybody seemed to care about was the color of paint.
She let out a series of yawns. Her ears crackled, then popped. She could hear again. The crowded airport was unexpectedly loud, and the people in front of her seemed to be setting the pitch.
She had to restrain herself from jumping into the fray, from yelling out her own innocuous frustrations, like a cranky kid unhappy about a purple sucker when she wanted a green one.
Was it something about Italy? About the culture? It seemed as though when a non-Italian arrived, and there were plenty of non-Italians standing in front of her, they suddenly developed the Italian instinct to argue. Your normal, average, calm Brit or Spaniard or Frenchman abruptly found themselves whining over every last detail. Every minute inconvenience. And the irony was, everyone seemed to enjoy the banter. She thought there was something wonderfully liberating about public bickering and no one noticing.
When it was finally her turn, Lucy wheeled her suitcase up to the counter, calmly reached into her purse, took out her driver’s license and smiled at the chubby, short woman standing behind the gray counter. “Hello,” said Lucy. “I have a reservation for a compact, automatic.”
“No automatic. Stick,” the woman said as she reached for Lucy’s driver’s licence and read her name out loud. “Signorina Lucia, only stick.”
“I can’t drive a stick shift. I’m sure the reservation was for an automatic,” Lucy replied in a calm, clear voice.
The woman’s voice went up an octave. “We no got no automatic. Just stick. You want or not?”
Lucy spoke in Italian. “I want the car I ordered.”
The woman responded in Italian, “I’m sorry, miss, but they’re all gone. If you want a car, you’ll have to take a stick. That’s all I have.”
“You’re not listening. I can’t drive a standard. I need an automatic. Surely you can understand—”
“You want a car? I give you a car. So you have to learn something new. So what!”
Lucy hesitated, counted to ten and thought of Sister Gregory; stern, unemotional Sister Gregory from ninth grade. It’s time you learned something new, young lady. Time you learned how to swim. Lucy remembered the shock as she hit the cold water and the silence as she sank to the bottom of the pool like a schoolhouse desk. The only good memory of that day was Sister Gregory, brown habit and all, jumping in after her.
“Look, I have to drive all the way to Naples and I don’t have the faintest idea—”
“I can drive you,” someone said in English. It came from behind her. Lucy turned to see none other than Mr. Garlic.
“Not you again,” she said, dismissing his offer.
“Perdona, but have we met?”
Lucy realized just how rude she must have sounded, and how unimportant she must have been to him because he didn’t even remember her. She softened her voice. “No, we haven’t actually met. Not officially, but I remember you from the flight. I was in your seat and you ate my shoe…your shoe. You ate your shoe, not mine…I mean.”
“Ah, I am famous!” he said, full of himself.
“For fifteen minutes.”
He smiled, and once again Lucy felt the heat of his attraction. Her toes itched. She wiggled them inside her shoes, trying to get the itch to stop, but it wouldn’t, not as long as he stood in front of her, smiling.
He was taller than she had first thought, at least six feet, but then she had never been this close to him, at least not facing him. And the scent of garlic was gone, replaced now with the scent of basil. How odd, she thought, for someone to smell of herbs.
“Thank you for the offer, but I can drive myself,” she said.
“Nobody with a brain wants a car in Napoli,” he answered.
She didn’t like the implication. “You have a car. What does that make you?”
“No brains. My mamma, she always say I got no brains, so I buy a car. Please, allow me to drive you to Napoli in my brainless car.”
Lucy had to smile at his innocent chivalry.
“You want the car or not, miss?” the woman roared.
Lucy stood unnerved in the midst of airport chaos and tried to decide what to do with his offer. If this were the U.S. and some eccentric guy volunteered a ride, she would absolutely refuse. He could be some crazed killer. But this was Italy.
Her Italy.
Her heritage.
And for the most part, Italian men were romantics, lovers…she noticed the head of garlic sticking out of his shirt pocket.
“Thanks, but I’ll be fine,” she said thinking this man was some kind of food-kook.
“Buona fortuna!” he said and turned abruptly away. She watched as he joined the mix of travelers roaming through the airport. He stopped to wave goodbye as if they were old friends and he was leaving on some trip. She wiggled her toes and caught herself waving back, feeling sad. There was something intoxicating about him, but she couldn’t think about that now. There wasn’t any time to question her emotions. She’d think about it later, while she was soaking in a hot tub, scrubbing her toes.
For an instant, she regretted never having taken the time to visit Italy, but she was always so busy with work, and before that there was college, then grad school. Not that she didn’t love Italy. She did. She loved hearing stories about it, reading about it, learning the language, but she could never justify an actual visit, and yet here she was. Alone. On a business trip. A week before her wedding. At least she could enjoy the scenery from the car, even if she would have to learn how to drive along the way.
“I’ll take the car,” Lucy told the woman behind the counter.
The woman looked at her and spat, “Sorry, I gave your car away. No more cars.”
“What? You must have misunderstood. I’ll take the car now.”
“All rented. No more cars, miss. Come back tomorrow. I can get you an automatic tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow! What do you mean tomorrow?” Lucy’s voice went up an octave, but she caught herself. She refused to get into a shouting match. “Thank you,” she said in a tight, subdued tone. “I’m sure you did your best.”
The woman behind the counter didn’t reply as Lucy ran off after Mr. Garlic, hoping his offer was still good, when suddenly she realized she didn’t know his name.
3
THE GIRL in the red scarf had so intrigued Vittorio that once the plane had landed in Rome he followed her to the car-rental counter. Fortunately, they were going to the same city, but the beguiling Madonna had turned out to be an elitist.
Her misfortune, Vittorio thought as he waved his goodbye. He was not the type of man to pursue a woman with her nose stuck up in the air when there were so many unspoiled women to choose from, like the girl