Stick Shift. Mary Leo
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“You make lots of money in this business?”
She shot him a look, then realized it was just an innocent question.
“I’m comfortable,” she looked over at him as he drove, shifting gears to slow down behind a bus, then shifting again to speed up to get around. It looked easy enough. She thought she probably should have taken the rental car right off. She just had a momentary panic, that’s all. She wouldn’t let it happen again.
“You no look so comfortable. You look, how you say? Tense,” he said, looking over at her.
“It was a long flight,” she mumbled.
Vittorio drove the car off an exit. Lucy asked, “Why are we getting off? We still have a long way to go.”
“We are in Frascati. The white wine is like nowhere else in Italia. Delizioso!” he drew his fingers together and kissed them. Lucy hadn’t seen that gesture for so long she had forgotten all about it. And there it was again. Vittorio had a way of making it look sultry, sexy, as if he were kissing a woman’s lips. “Sweet and exciting,” he said.
“I bet,” Lucy answered, smiling in spite of herself.
He parked his car behind a row of colorful stucco buildings: green, yellow, pink and blue. He walked over to her side of the car and opened the door before she had time to unfasten her seatbelt.
“Thank you, but I can get my own door,” she told him. He dismissed her comment.
Lucy stepped out of the car onto the cobblestone street and felt as if she had been swept away in a fairy-tale. At once she could hear the village as it came to life around her. She didn’t know how anyone might have ignored the sounds of Italy.
As she stood up and looked out over the hills behind the car, she could see the steeples and rooftops of Rome and the dome of Saint Peter’s Cathedral. The ancient city had a pink glow all its own. The vast expanse of architectural and artistic masterpieces took her breath away and brought a momentary rush of excitement.
“Magnifico, no?” Vittorio said, as he gazed at the unbelievable view.
“Yes,” was all Lucy could manage to say as she turned away from the spectacle of Rome and walked toward the colorful buildings of Frascati, a village she had never heard of.
“You will feel better after a little wine, some bread, a little prosciutto.”
“I can’t drink this early in the day.”
“There is no right time for wine. Wine keeps your blood flowing.”
“My blood flows just fine, thank you.”
“A small glass of wine and a little food, perhaps,” he said, tilting his head, smiling at her.
She caved. “Okay. Maybe a tiny glass, but only because my internal clock is messed up anyway. But I’m not the least bit hungry,” she said, lying, wishing again she had rented the stick shift when it was first offered, thinking that by now she would have mastered the damn thing and been halfway to Naples, alone, thinking about work rather than a Roman holiday.
“Whatever you want,” he said, smiling.
Sigh.
Vittorio came up behind her and guided her through the back door of Cantina Fienza, a dark, musky-smelling winery with three walls covered in wine barrels stacked on wooden shelves. There were a few small tables clustered in the center of the room, and wine-making tools littered the floor. The ceiling, a fresco, depicted naked men and round naked women clutching bunches of purple grapes in evocative positions. She wondered if the artist had used live models.
For some reason, Lucy blushed.
A short, roly-poly man came toward them, smiling. He yelled out Vittorio’s name with his arms outstretched and a look of delight on his deeply tanned face.
They hugged and kissed each other’s cheeks and spoke in Italian. “Vittorio, my nephew, it’s been a long time,” the man said as he stepped back from him.
“Ah, Antonio, it’s good to see you,” Vittorio answered.
“And who is this beautiful woman?” Antonio asked.
Vittorio spoke in English. “This is Lucia. My friend.”
Antonio leaned in and hugged Lucy. Her tiny body pressed up against his soft chest. For an instant, she felt safe, warm, welcomed, but the moment passed and she pulled away. She was getting far too sentimental.
“Come, sit down and taste my wine,” he said.
She followed his directions and sat at a small, round table with Vittorio. There were a few other people in the cantina, drinking espresso mostly, laughing and talking with such enthusiasm that it seemed as if the place were crowded, but it wasn’t. Most of the tables were empty.
Soon there were several glasses in front of them filled with different shades of white wine, an assortment of cold meats, cheese and olives.
“First, you try the golden wine.” Vittorio slid a glass toward her. “It cleans the tongue.”
Lucy was a little hesitant thinking about the tranquilizer she had taken. Vittorio insisted. She took a sip—a musky-tasting wine, dry, with an almond aftertaste.
She liked it and took another drink, a big one.
“Perfecto, no?” Vittorio beamed. He handed her a slice of prosciutto wrapped around a piece of melon. She took a bite. Totally terrific.
“Perfecto! Yes,” she declared, beaming.
Somewhere, music played, mixed with laughter. Lucy liked the way the place made her feel. Festive, she thought as she wrapped her red Chanel scarf around her shoulders.
Next, she tried the more yellow wine, crisp, clean, the kind of wine that warmed the palate. She tore off a chunk of bread and ate a few green olives.
“Have some cheese. It’s good for you. Makes your bones strong,” Vittorio said, cutting off a chunk big enough for a family of four. But it was wickedly creamy and melted in her mouth.
More wine. She needed more wine.
“I really shouldn’t,” she said after she downed another glass. When they’d finished off the two white wines, she decided to try the blush. It was sweet, a little floral tasting and went down easily along with the cappocolo, one of her favorite Italian sliced meats. She carefully folded each tender slice inside a crust of bread, spread open a couple olives and removed the pits, then placed the olives on top of the meat, then a drizzle of olive oil, a thick slice of cheese, another gulp of wine and Lucy had reached cuisine bliss.
“It’s good to watch you eat. I like it,” Vittorio said sitting back in his chair, swirling his wine in his glass. “As if you cannot get enough.”
Lucy felt red heat spread across her face. She tried to calm herself as she wiped her mouth with a cloth napkin.
She had forgotten how incredible Italian food could taste. Most of the time she ate out of the vending machines at work. Chef Boyardee was one of her closest friends.
She had also forgotten how fantastic a torn piece of bread could be when its crust was sweet and warm from the oven, and the meat, sharp with spices, the melon, perfectly ripe and luscious, the olives, pungent with garlic.
Lucy had eaten everything and drunk all the wine until she felt so full she had to unbutton the top button of her pants.
She sat back. “I must have been hungry.”
“You are starving,” he said, and stared at her.
Lucy suddenly felt uncomfortable, as though he could hear her inner thoughts. She didn’t like it. Didn’t like it at all.
Antonio walked over. “The wine is ready, Vittorio.”
“Scusi,” Vittorio said to Lucy and got up from the table, picked