Chapter 19

I know, I know... I am a lousy blogger. It's true. But I've been spending every free second pounding on my keyboard trying to finally FINISH a whole book.

So, since I have been seriously neglecting my blog, here is something to tide you over. The following is a brief installment from my book "When All Else Fails".

Oh... and if you speak Italian would you be so kind as to correct my pathetic usage? Seriously... I won't be offended.

When All Else Fails

Chapter 19

“Ciao, Luca?”

“Si.” His voice sounds gruff with sleep.

“It's Claire.” I take a deep breath, then my words come tumbling out. “I kind of need to ask you a favor. I'm lost and not quite sure where I am or how to get home. And I was wondering if you could come pick me up? I'm so sorry to bother you and, if it's too late at night, I totally understand. It's just that I didn't know who else to call, and I lost my phone, but I happened to have your number in my purse. And well...” Yeah, I am just plain rambling now. “Well, I thought maybe you would be willing to help?”

“Piano, piano.” (Slowly, slowly) “I do not understand half of what you say to me. You are not hurt?”

“No, no. I'm fine. Just... lost.”

“Okay. Tell me where you are and I will get you. No problem, okay?”

“I'm at Giada's on Venti Quatro Maggio. Do you know where that is?”

“No, but I will find you. Do not go anywhere. I will be there in less than one hour.”

“I promise, I won't even step outside. And Luca? ...Thank you.” I breath a sigh of relief as I hang up the receiver.

The man behind the counter takes his phone back, and I nod my thanks. “Grazie mille.”

“Your man, he comes for you now?”

“Si. But he isn't really mine.”

“He is not your man but he comes at 3 AM to find you? Maybe you should have him to be your man, no?” He leans over the counter and pats my cheek. His face is weathered and rough but the dark eyes that are half hidden beneath his bushy eyebrows are warm.

Sigh. “I don't really deserve a man like Luca.”

“No? And why for not?”

“I'm a coward and he's too good for me.” I plant my elbows on the counter and sink my chin onto my fists. “I think I broke his heart.”

“You like the pizza, no?”

Random, but okay. “Si, I like pizza very much.”

“Good. Then I will make you the pizza, and you will tell me about why you are no good for this boy and how you think you break his heart.” He plops a lump of dough on the counter. “If there is one thing I know, Italian men they know a thing or two about love. If you really have break his heart, he will not have been coming to get you.” His thick fists work the dough back and forth on the counter and, for a moment, I am mesmerized by his movements.

“There are glasses next to the sink and vino in the rack. Help yourself, per favore. The vino, it will be good for you.”

“Grazie.” I walk behind the counter and make myself at home. “Would you like a glass?”

“No. I am fine.”

“Okay.” I search the bottles. Not knowing much about Italian wines, I pull out the prettiest one and pour some into my glass. After replacing the cork, I return to my place at the counter and perch back on my stool.

“Va bene. Alorre, now, you tell Sebastiano everything.”

A take a sip of the wine. Bluck! Swallowing, I try not to choke. It is the most terrible, awful wine I've ever tasted in my life. Disgusting.

Sabastian turns away to look for something and I take the chance to completely down the glass. Better to just get it over with. I don't want him to see how gross I think it is, and I don't want to offend him by not drinking it at all. The liquid burns all the way down, and I think I'm going to be sick. He finds whatever he was looking for and turns back towards me. I smile, tears rolling down my cheeks from the burn of the nasty liquid.

“Bella, you cry.” He uses the back of a floured hand to wipe the tears from my face. He grabs a different bottle and refills my glass. “No more cry. Now you tell me what is so for bad.”

For the next forty-five minutes, I proceed to tell Sebastiano everything that has happened in the last year. As I talk, he hands me a tomato to cut, then a basil plant to pluck leaves from, a bowl of marinara to hold, fresh mozzarella to slice.

“So that's how I ended up here.” I squeeze my eyes shut and rub my temples. “I don't love Gino, but I've made such a mess of things with Luca.” Sigh. “I don't know what to do.”

I hear the oven door open, the scraping of the wooden paddle as it slides under the pizza. I can smell the melted cheese, feel the heat of the fire.

“Is okay, mi amica. All things work together for good.” Cornmeal scrapes across wood as he maneuvers the pizza onto the counter.

I wipe away a tear and open my eyes. “Wow.”

Somehow, through the course of my story, he has birthed, from one lump of dough, the most beautiful pizza I have ever seen. It's in the shape of a heart; cheese, basil, and tomato all melting into ooey-gooey goodness.

“You believe in God, yes?”

I nod and swipe at another tear as Sabastiano refills my glass for the third or fourth time.

“Then believe that He will take care of you.” He leans across the counter, bottle still in his hand, and kisses the top of my head. “You are a good girl. Now eat your pizza. Your man, he will be here soon.”

Not five minutes later Luca comes barreling through the front door.

My normally sweet and polished friend, looks like he's been through a hurricane. His hair is sticking every which way and his eyes are bloodshot. He's wearing a regular old t-shirt, something I have never seen him in before, and his rumpled jeans fall haphazzard over a pair of flip-flops. If I didn't know better, I'd think he just came off a week-long bender.

“Claire? Are you okay?” He rushes over kisses both of my cheeks.

“Yeah, I'm good. Thanks for coming to get me.”

“Why are you out so late? Alone? I have been so worried for you. All the time here I think there is something wrong that you did not tell me. That something bad has happened to you.” He voice is gruff and about as close to yelling as he has ever come with me. “Che cosa! You are eating pizza?” He looks at me like I've turned green and grew a third eye. “I thought you were lost? Not out for a midnight snack!”

It's obvious Luca is upset but he didn't sound like that on the phone so I'm not sure what has happened since then. All I know is that I just should have figured out how to get home by myself.

“I-I'm sorry. Sebastiano made it for me while we were waiting for you. But nothing bad happened.” I feel so awkward right now. Tears are filling my eyes again, and I'm sick to my stomach.

At the mention of his name, Sebastiano steps forward and Luca seems to notice him for the first time. He stretches out his hand, “Grazie per aver cura di Claire.”

I think Luca just thanked him for taking care of me, but I'm not sure. Sebastiano doesn't seem very interested in his appreciation. The two start speaking in rapid fire Italian and I can't keep up so I just sit and watch their interaction.

Sebastiano looks like a protective papa bear. Both of his meaty hands are balled into fists and jammed into his hips. Well at least until he is the one doing the speaking. Then his hands launch into the air to punctuate every sentence.

It never ceases to amaze me that Italians can have such heated conversations with people they've just met. I mean, really? It's 4 AM people!

Sebastian is half as tall and twice as dark as Luca. He has all of the classic features of a Sicilian; short, stocky, dark, clipped accent. He reaches up and pokes Luca in the chest.

“Si comportano come lei è una principessa.” You need to treat her like a princess? I giggle. Luca is the only man in my life who ever has treated me like a princess. Well other than today.

I'm not sure why but I keep giggling. It's almost as if I'm drunk on lack of sleep. And I'm dizzy, so very dizzy. I slide off my bar stool and plop onto the floor, holding my head in an effort to make the room stop spinning.

The floor feels nice, cool, so far away from the noise. In fact I can't hear the boys at all anymore. I give myself a congratulatory smile at discovering such a clever seating arrangement.

Oh boy, my head is really spinning now. I'm beginning to empathize with Dorothy in the sea of poppies. I'm so tired.

“Poppies, poppies, poppies will put them to sleep.” Did I just say that out loud? Maybe if I could just rest for a minute I would feel better. Sinking my head down onto the tile floor, I close my eyes.

“Claire?” I hear my name calling through a tunnel. A very loud tunnel. “Claire? Svegliati per favore...” Too much Italian. Make it stop. “Svegliati piccolina.”

“Basta.” I try to shout it. Enough! But I think it comes out more like a creepy whisper. “Stop!” I open my eyes. Both Luca and Sebastian are hovering over me. Luca sitting beside me and Sebastian standing behind him.

“Are you okay?” Luca places his warm palm on my forehead.

“Yeah.” I roll onto my side, knocking his hand off in the process, and curl into a ball. “I'm just sleepy.” I feel something start as a gurgle in my belly, rumble through my chest, and erupt into a huge belch. I giggle again.

Luca clears his throat. “Si. I will take you home now.” He stands up, pulling me along with him. “Come.”

Sigh. I wrap my arms around his waist and slump my head onto his shoulder. “I like you. You smell nice.”

“Grazie.”

“Like a man.”

He grunts. “You smell terrible.”

“Grazie.”

“Like you've been distilled. What were you drinking?”

“Just something from a pretty bottle on the counter.”

Suddenly I'm floating in the air, his arm locked under my knees. I snuggle my face into his t-shirt. He really does smell nice.

“Is this what you drank?” He shakes me a little and I peek open one eye to look in the direction he is pointing me.

“Yep. It was dee-sgusting!” My whole body revolts just thinking about having put that inside of me.

“How much?”

“The whole stinking, lousy glass.” The room is spinning so I bury my face back into his shirt . “All at...” My words feel funny in my mouth. “All at onsh. Nashty wine.” Hiccup.

“Not vino. Grappa. How much did you have in your glass?”

My world is closing in and I can barely hear him anymore, but he jiggles me until I answer. “I filled it. And then,” I hiccup again. “I drank some yummy stuff that Shhha-shhhe... that he gave me.” I try to point towards Sabastiano, but my hand catches Luca smack in the face.

“Mi dispiace piccolina, you are going to feel terrible in the morning.”

Prologue

Okay so this is the rough (really, really rough) version of the prologue to my book... What I need to know is, if you read this would you be intrigued? Would you want to know what happens? Or would you just be so utterly confused that you'd close the book and walk away? Thanks for being my guinea pigs!!!

My eyes burn with tears I won't allow to fall, my body's numb with pain I can't fight, and my jaw clenched in anger I can barely control. I let my eyes slip shut for a moment of escape. In some strange and ludicrous way this day seems so perfectly normal. Children laughing at a nearby park. The hint of lilac in the air. The way the warm sunshine feels in my hair. Everything is so perfect. Everything is so wrong.

My eyes fly open. What am I doing here? I want to run, escape, find anywhere to be but here. But I can't. I need to be here and I need to get through this. I look directly at the man standing across from me. Everything about Gino is so familiar to me. My gaze fixates on him as I take in his dark suit fitted to his muscular body, his chiseled jaw and black curly hair, the sparkling stud in his left ear lobe. Every inch of his body perfectly crafted like a mythical Roman god.

I hate him.

I hate everything about him. He stands there so stoically as if he wasn't at all to blame for what has happened. But I know the truth and I know that deep down inside he must hate me as much as I do him. And if he doesn't now, he soon will. I pull the diamond from my left ring finger and squeeze it tight in my right hand. The ring is as much his as it is mine. I hate it.

The sound of the priest's voice pulls me back to reality. His voice is monotone, droning on and on. Where did he come from? Who found him? I hardly remember being asked if I had a preference in who preformed this ceremony. But I do and it's not him. I assume from the way he is dressed that he's Catholic and so are we in name. But we aren't religious people. In fact, right now I don't even know if I believe there is a God.

The priest is reading from a small black book but I can't focus on what he's saying. Everything is so wrong. The children are still laughing, the breeze still blowing, the sun still shining. I feel like I can't breath. My lips are parted, my mouth sucking in huge gasping breathes, but my lungs feel like they aren't absorbing the oxygen.

I hear an amen and the priest closes his book. Out of habit I cross myself, touching forehead, chest, left and right shoulders. Six men step forward and I watch them as they heft the solid coffin, slowly lowering it into the freshly dug grave. Scattered murmurs and sniffling erupt throughout the crowd. Then a long silence. Someone's hand guides me from behind and I know what they want me to do but I'm just not ready. I won't ever be ready. I love the man in that coffin. I love him and I hate him. I love him for all of the memories we shared, for the steady rock he was in my life, for the love he gave me. But I hate him for the lie he was living, for the agony of betrayal, and the sting of disappointment. I hate him for leaving me. I hate him, but I love him too much to let him go.

I take a steadying breath and bend down, I use my left hand to scoop up a fist full of dirt. Straightening, I step up and look directly across the grave into Gino's eyes. With both palms upturned, I slowly unfurl my fingers and tilt them down toward the ground. Dirt, pebbles, and Gino's diamond ring tumble from my hands and fall onto my father's coffin. Numb I turn and walk away leaving everything I thought I once loved.

Eggs Please?

Gulia and I have been at the grocery store for over an hour. Our shopping cart is full, my head is aching, and my four year old companion is loosing what little patience she had. There is only one thing left on my list, eggs. I've searched each cooler and every refrigeration unit in this lousy place and so far I have had no luck. Do Italians not eat eggs? I contemplate this for a moment. No, not possible. The main ingredient of pasta carbonara is eggs. Sigh. There is just no way I could have missed them.

Next to me, Gulia whines something unintelligible and stomps her foot. “Really?” I snap back, “Really?”

Super, I'm taking out my frustration on a little girl. Real classy. In my own defense, however, she has been fighting me every step of the way and I have just about reached my limit. Trust me, it's hard enough shopping alone in a foreign country. It's exponentially harder shopping in a foreign country with an angry child who can't verbally communicate with you. Just sayin'.
I have absolutely no idea why Gulia is so upset with me but her angry little body looks like it's about to crumble to a heap on the floor. I need an escape so I scoop up my exhausted companion and head for the meat counter. “Excuse me. Ma'am?” She looks at me like I've grown a second head. Oh, right. English, bad. Italian, good.

I deposit Gulia on the floor and try again, “Mi scusa.” She looks only slightly less disturbed by my presence but I continue. “Where are the eggs? Dove...” Great, I have absolutely no idea what an egg is called in Italian. “Uh, eggs?”

Well that was totally lame.

The woman behind the counter breaks into a string of words that I can't help but feel aren't very nice (though fortunately I can't understand them).

I shrug, wishing I had remembered my pocket translator book. Gulia is still crying and latches onto my right pant leg, tugging at me. Words tumble out of her mouth and I feel so hopeless. I can't even understand a preschooler. I feel defeated. Stupid. I audibly groan.

Gulia stops talking and looks back and forth between me and the irritated woman behind the counter. All I want is a cartoon of eggs but now I am debating how important they really are. The woman is pursing her lips and looks entirely too uppity for my liking. Just because I can't understand what she saying doesn't mean I can't read her body language and right now what she is saying is all kinds of nasty!

I quickly realize I have two options. Option A, walk away and forget about the eggs. Option B, find a way to communicate my need. Right now option A is looking pretty good but no eggs means no chocolate chip cookies. No chocolate chip cookies means, well, no chocolate chip cookies. Need I say more?

I feel a plan hatching (no pun intended) and realize that if I want the eggs it's now or never. Purposefully facing away from Counter Woman, I kneel down and look eye to eye with Gulia. I brush the hair from her wet face. “Gulia,” I say with as much calmness as I can muster. “Como si dice...” (how do you say...) I pause for a split second and reconsider my decision to totally throw my dignity out the window. Oh well, what's a little dignity anyway?

Stuffing my hands up under my arms, I flap like I have wings and make ridiculously bad chicken noises. Guila's teary eyes get huge. “Pollo?”

“No, not chicken.” I gently shake my finger back and forth for clarity. “Non pollo.” I motion for her to wait. Then, pantomiming picking up an egg, I crack it into an invisible pan, and make sizzling noises. Gulia giggles and I half consider joining her. Instead I smile and pretend to eat my fried egg.

“Uovo!” She claps, delighted in our little game.

“Si! Brava mi Gulia!” I congratulate her with a pat on the head and stand up.

Now to face Counter Woman. I tilt my head, summon my most distinguished air, and turn back around. “Dove uovo, per favore?” (Where are the eggs, please?) I could swear she snorts but I maintain eye contact and smile with elegance. After all, I now have a happy little girl to back me, don't I?

“La,” she jabs her finger in what must be the relative direction of the eggs.

“Grazie.” I nod. “Come on Gulia... andiamo.”

I walk towards the eggs and she skips along beside me. Half way there her warm, little hand reaches up and tentatively takes mine. Her tiny fingers nestle into the center of my palm and she smiles up at me. “Molto buona, Zizi,” (Very good, Auntie). My heart melts and I blink back a tear. Eggs are the farthest thing from my mind. Today this sweet little girl and I have finally become friends.

Writing Exercise

Hey guys! So I went to a writer's group today (super fun) and we had to do a writing exercise. Since I don't really know what to do with what I wrote I figured I'd post it here for your reading pleasure (or torment). Enjoy.

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Excited for my first taste of Italian coffee I step through the door and head straight for the espresso bar. Can I remember enough Italian to order? Scusi? Grazie? Per favore? Darn it. Where are the right words when you need them? Working to fasten the tie on my umbrella I continue to rifle through the dozens of words in my head. Giallo? What, yellow? No. I mentally throw it out. Lavoriamo? Seriously? I don't even know what that means or, come to think of it, if it's even a real word.

My feet keep walking towards the coffee as my mind keeps searching. BAM! I stumble back as blinding pain explodes in the bridge of my nose, filling my eyes with tears. What in the world? I groan and blink trying to clear my vision.

“Mi scusa,” a smooth baritone breaks through my haze and I feel a hand slide up my arm settling on my shoulder. Ugh, a touchy Italian male to console me. Great.

“Va bene. Va bene. It's okay.” I try to brush him away but so much good that does. He not only keeps his offending hand on my shoulder but he grabs my other shoulder as well and firmly turns me towards himself. My nose still throbs but my eyes are clearing up and I finally get a good look at Mr. Baritone. Oooeeee... and a good look it is.

Up until this moment I have never believed in a jaw "dropping”. But right here, right now, my jaw turns to Jello and wobbles open threatening to fall to a gelatinous puddle on my chest. If Christian Bale had suddenly become taller, darker, and more Italian I was looking at him right now.

“Uh... um... non parlo Americano.” Wait, what? 'I don't speak American?' No, that's not right. “Uh... I mean I... I don't speak Italian.” I feel the red rushing up my neck and settling in to stay. “No I mean... Non parlo Italiano. I think.” I wish I could smack myself in the face but I don't think my injured nose could take it.

Baritone smiles and massages my shoulders with his thumbs. Ugh, Italians, always in your personal space. I decide that just this once I won't mind.

“Is okay, Principessa. I speak 'Americano' too.” He chuckles. “Or as most of the world says... English. No?” His accent is charming. Dangerously so.

“No. I mean yes. Si.” I feel so lame right now. “Okay, well I guess I should go now.” I turn to go. Correction. I attempt to turn to go, but Baritone's vise like grip on me hasn't loosened and try as I might I just can't make myself move.

He ignores my declaration of departure. “Mi dispiace. I am sorry for hitting you with...” he pauses looking slightly perplexed. “With this.” He points to the back of his forearm.

He hit me? Now I am perplexed. “Say what?” Baritone's eyebrows draw together at the use of my idiom. I rephrase, “you hit me?”

“Si. And you ran into me. It is very... how do you say? Complicated.”

Not so complicated. He clothes lined me. “Like I said va bene. It's all good. I'm sorry to have bothered you I can just leave now.” Again I turn to go and again my body refuses to budge. This man has me entirely too flustered and I do not like feeling so out of control.

“No bella. I insist, I shall buy you a macchiato and perhaps something sweet? Si?”

I sigh my defeat. How can I say no? I can't. “Si.”

"Support Raising"

I stumbled across this email I wrote way back when I was support raising. I thought I would share... (and yes this really happened to me)


Okay, so I just heard some interesting news that I thought might give you a chuckle. And since “a merry heart doeth good like medicine” I thought I would share.

The pastor’s wife from a church I just spoke at gave me a call this week. She told me that during their services there’s a translator for the Spanish speaking members. The week I shared they had a brand new translator. The new translator was slightly nervous because she only grew up in a bilingual home, Spanish was never her first language.

Well it turns out that she did a superb job the entire time… except when I got up to share. Yes, that’s right I was the only one to stump her. The reason? I used the word “support.” Not having much time to ponder the proper Spanish word for support, the girl said the first word that popped into her mind (though she thought it sounded a little off). Not knowing of course that the translator didn’t know the proper word for “support” I kept saying it over and over and over again, emphasizing how important it was for me to get more support. As I kept saying “support” the translator kept translating and thinking to herself, “This doesn’t quite sound right.” So about half way through she switched to saying that I needed money instead of support.

That week at a ladies Bible study another bilingual woman asked the translator how she had done on Sunday. The girl replied that it all went well, except for one word that had stumped her, and she proceeded to explain. “What word did you use?” The woman asked. When told, she burst into laughter. The translator had used the Spanish word for bra. Yes… I shared in a Sunday morning service in front of an entire congregation and it was translated that I couldn’t go to Italy unless people helped me get more bras. How embarrassing.

Then the pastor’s wife who called to tell me this, sweetly informed me that if I started getting gift cards to Victoria’s Secret I would know why.

So I guess you never know what might happen while “support” raising.

~Heather