An American Girl in Italy: HarperImpulse Contemporary Romance. Aubrie Dionne

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      ‘The real-estate agents are here again.’ Her voice was hushed as if she muffled her mouth against the phone. ‘They’re eyeing the northern vineyards.’

      Merda! Since the new American company took over their lease, all they’d ever wanted was to get them out of there. It seemed that condos overlooking a token vine patch in Tuscany were more profitable than a real winery. He balled his fist. ‘Tell them they’re going to have to talk to my lawyer.’

      ‘But, signore, you don’t have a lawyer.’

      Oh right. That’s what happens when you can’t pay people anymore. As it was, he had no idea how long he could pay Isabella to manage the office. ‘They don’t know that. Tell them he’ll be in contact in the next week or so. It will buy us some time.’

      ‘Si, signore.’ She sounded defeated, resigned. The weight in her voice dropped like a bomb in his heart.

      He changed the subject, trying to cheer her up. ‘How are the little ones?’

      ‘Good. Anna can say bubblegum now, so that’s all she talks about. Camelia’s fighting with her brother, like always, and the littlest one’s kicking like he’s on his way out!’

      Michelangelo laughed, trying to imagine them all. ‘Hopefully he’ll wait another month, eh?’

      ‘You know I can’t control these things.’ She sighed.

      ‘And how’s Rodolfo?’

      ‘His back’s feeling better. He’s in the distillery moving crates now.’

      ‘Good. Glad to hear it.’ Isabella’s family had been working for the vineyard even since he was a little boy. He needed to give her some hope she wouldn’t have to relocate. ‘I’ll be back in two weeks, and I’ll have more than enough to keep the real-estate sharks at bay for a while. Then I can figure out how to purchase the whole property so this won’t happen again.’

       Sure, it’s as simple as a few thousand euros. That’s all.

      ‘Va bene, signore.’ Isabella’s sweet voice rung a little more cheerfully.

      ‘Hang in there. Send my well wishes to Rodolfo.’ He hung up, feeling as though the weight of the bus rested on his shoulders. So many workers relied on him, and he couldn’t disappoint his father, may he rest in peace.

      Michelangelo buried his face in his hands and massaged his forehead with his fingers.

      ‘What was all that about?’ Alaina’s penetrating voice woke him up. He’d forgotten all about her.

      Mio Dio. Would I have to explain all my problems to her? Not that she’d listen. Then, he realized the whole conversation had been in Italian. So many Americans only spoke English. However, Ms. Amaldi was a vocalist, trained to sing in multiple languages. He appraised her. ‘Are you fluent in Italian, signorina?’

      She squirmed in her seat as if he’d asked her what her grades were in trigonometry. ‘German and French are my specialties.’

       She must suck at Italian. Thank God.

      He waved it off. ‘Just something about a family matter. It’s not important.’

      ‘Well, as I was saying…’ She continued as if she’d already forgotten about his call. ‘After high school, I was accepted at both Juilliard and the New England Conservatory. Let me tell you, that was a tough decision.’

      Out of the corner of his vision, he saw the stone arches of the Coliseum and breathed with relief. ‘Oh look! What do you know? We’re here already!’

      As the members of the orchestra stood and took pictures, Michelangelo consulted his notes. The conversation with Isabella had shaken him, and he had trouble focusing on all of the details. Sure, he knew some things from his schooling, but exact dates and names stayed in the murky area of his memory. He’d much rather be pruning his grapevines.

      Ms. Maxhammer gave him an encouraging look, and he nodded and turned on the intercom. ‘The Coliseum was built in—’ he coughed, ‘AD 72 under the emperor…Vespasian and was completed in AD 80 under Titus.’

       Isn’t there something in my notes about the original name?

      He glanced at Ms. Maxhammer, who watched him with interest. He couldn’t sneak another peak at his notes, so he bought some time with what he did know. ‘Contrary to popular thought, the movie Gladiator was not filmed here. Most of those images were computer-generated.’

      A few members of the orchestra chuckled, enjoying his momentary excursion into popular culture, but Ms. Maxhammer pursed her lips and tapped her fingers on the top of the bus seat. She had probably never seen it. He should have made reference to 1950s movies like Julius Caesar and Cleopatra.

      Then his memory came back to him in a rush of relief. ‘Originally called the Flavian amphitheatre, it is the largest ever built in the Roman Empire, made of concrete and stone. Capable of seating fifty thousand spectators, it is considered one of the greatest works of Roman architecture.’

      The doors opened, and Michelangelo jumped out to help unload the larger instruments from the storage space underneath the bus. Hopefully, they’d arrived intact. He’d sworn his life away convincing the musicians to store them there in the first place. One dent and he’d have a problem for the rest of the trip.

      He opened the storage compartment and prayed. Cases had shifted during the short ride to the center of town, but nothing looked damaged or out of place. As the orchestra members filed off the bus, he started with the cellos first.

      He had to pull things together. He’d be a pretty lousy tour guide if his vineyard troubled him too much to recount the exact dates and details from his notes. If he couldn’t think straight enough to conduct the tour, than he wouldn’t get the big check at the end.

      After he set up the orchestra and made sure everyone was happy, he’d consult his program notes. As translator, he’d have to announce the Easthampton Civic Symphony in both Italian and English, and he wanted to make an impression on Ms. Maxhammer.

      He checked the compartment. Three instruments were left, along with some percussion equipment. He brought out two violins and turned to see Carly waiting for him.

      ‘Signorina! I trust you had a pleasant ride?’ Even though he flashed his most charming smile, he went into panic mode. There were no oboes under the bus. Had he lost her instrument?

      Carly placed a hand on her hip. ‘I got a lot done, but I wouldn’t exactly call it pleasant.’

      He glanced back at the almost-empty storage compartment and his stomach hollowed. Why else would she come to him if she already had her instrument? ‘It seems your oboe is…’

      ‘Right here.’ She turned to the side, showing off her square black bag.

      Relief trickled over him. ‘Snuck it on, did you?’

      She grinned, looking like a mischievous pixie as the sunlight brought out the freckles on her СКАЧАТЬ