Invitation to Italian. Tracy Kelleher

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ well, it’s always good to see one of our own return. Here in Grantham, we like to think our little town has much to offer in the way of scholarly stimulation as well as personal guidance.”

      “A little bastion of academic exclusivity to nurture the soul?”

      “I prefer to think of it as intellectual chicken soup for the heart.”

      Zora wasn’t sure if Iris had just made a joke. She wasn’t really sure if Iris Phox even had a sense of humor.

      “But don’t let me keep you from your class,” Iris said before Zora had a chance to make up her mind. “Do you need my help to find where you’re going?”

      Zora shook her head. “No thank you. I’m sure there’re others who need more guidance.”

      Iris studied her. “You’d be surprised.” Then she dismissed Zora with a serene nod and honed in on a lost-looking man.

      Talk about judgmental! Zora fumed. But she pushed thoughts of Iris to the back of her mind as she headed up the stairs to the second floor of the school. She checked out the numbers above the doors, until she found the right one. She pushed open the door and entered a world in which she felt entirely comfortable.

      During the day it must have served as a Spanish classroom because there were posters of Machu Picchu and a map of Spain.

      Zora maneuvered her way down the first aisle, nodding at her fellow students in the front-row seats. They seemed to be mostly women over fifty, casually but well dressed in cashmere turtleneck sweaters. Zora clutched at the open neck of her green anorak. Underneath she wore an oversize men’s button-down Oxford cloth shirt, its sleeves rolled up. It was still wrinkled from her duffel bag, and ironing was something she avoided at all costs.

      Everyone seemed to be talking loudly, mostly in American-accented Italian, though she thought she detected some other native inflections like Spanish and French.

      Then she saw a face that she recognized. Julie Antonelli, Katarina’s old childhood friend whom she’d seen only the day before yesterday at Babika’s. She was slouched down in a seat toward the back of the room and seemed intent on texting or checking email on her phone. Iris may have recommended the class to her, but it didn’t appear that she had embraced the learning experience with much enthusiasm.

      Maybe she was worried about her language skills? Good, thought Zora, ever the competitor. Julie—and the entire Antonelli family, for that matter—might know more about her daughter’s secrets, but Zora was sure she could surpass her in the classroom. Zora’s Italian might be a little rusty, but she doubted the good doctor had spent a sabbatical stay in Italy like she had. And she marched to the back of the room, no need of anyone’s guidance at all, thank you very much.

      JULIE SLUMPED IN the seat at the back of the class. Rubbing her forehead with her index finger, she glanced without much interest around the room. A dusty-looking piñata hung from the ceiling in one corner.

      Her phone vibrated in the pocket of her jacket and she instantly liberated it, hoping against hope that some emergency needed her attention desperately. She glanced at the message. It was from Katarina, wondering who in her family was bugging her now.

      Julie texted back.

      The family’s at bay, but I’m at an Adult School class. Iris Phox’s idea. Could you have guessed?

      She grinned and wished she’d felt happy instead of irritated at being railroaded into being there—all because of some stupid vase, and…all right…her impetuous behavior. Still, if Sebastiano Fonterra had been a more reasonable person instead of…instead of…frustratingly…ooh! She wanted to scream. How could someone be so pigheaded and so attractive at the same time?

      It wasn’t fair. Life wasn’t fair. Why else had she been forced to go back to Grantham High School of all places? Unless you’re the prom queen, who really wanted to go back to high school. She growled, and this time didn’t bother to keep it inside.

      “I’m sorry. Is this seat taken?” a woman asked.

      Julie looked up. Speak of the devil. No, not Sebastiano Fonterra, but Katarina’s mother, of all people. Julie straightened. “Zora, right?” She held her hand out to the empty seat, trying to be friendly, or at least her best imitation of friendliness.

      “That’s right. We saw each other at my mother’s house.” Zora took a stack of three-by-five cards and a pen out of little pockets in her knapsack. She looked ready to attack any and all subjects.

      “Well, it’s nice to recognize a face,” Julie said. “Everyone else seems to know each other, not to mention belong to another world. Take the woman over there.” She nodded toward an older woman dressed in pressed designer jeans. Her frosted hair was set off by mega-carat diamond stud earrings. “She’s been going on about how sad she was to find out that George Clooney sold the villa next to hers on Lake Como. Apparently, I quote, ‘He’s so down-to-earth.’”

      Zora laughed. “I can believe it. Only in Grantham.” She held out a note card. “Can I lend you something to write on?”

      “That’s okay. I’m here under duress. If I really need to make any notes, I’ll enter them into my phone.” She waggled her iPhone in its black case, in keeping with her black crinkly jacket, black tank top and black pants.

      The class door started to open, then stopped.

      “At last, our teacher,” Julie whispered without much enthusiasm. “I gather from all the conversation that they all lo-ove her. Gabriella this. Gabriella that. They even know that she went back to see her family in Modena over the summer.”

      The door opened wide.

      “Unless our teacher’s had a sex change operation, I don’t think that’s Gabriella,” Julie observed. “On the other hand, if it is, it could really liven up the discussion.” She looked over at Zora, who seemed for all the world like she’d just seen a ghost.

      The “regulars” started chattering away again, and Julie figured it was a false alarm. Just a late student. He looked vaguely familiar, like someone she’d seen at the dry cleaners or the supermarket—not that she had the chance to frequent the supermarket all that much.

      So she stared at him, not quite placing the face and certainly not knowing the name. He was middle-aged, thin, like someone who kept himself in shape. His head was shaved, and an outline of stubble showed his red hair was starting to recede. His face was lined, not so much from laughter as from too much time in the sun, too many worries or too dissolute a lifestyle. Still, he looked pretty good for a middle-aged guy, and in his expensive leather bomber jacket—Julie pegged it for Façonnable—and faded designer jeans, he clearly had more than a passing acquaintance with high-end boutiques.

      She turned to say something under her breath to Zora, but Katarina’s mother continued to appear as if she’d gone into anaphylactic shock. “Zora?” she asked, concerned.

      “Zora?” Mr. Bomber Jacket asked a beat later. He stopped in the aisle and stared at Zora.

      “Paul?” Zora shook her head. “I never expected to see you here.”

      “I could say the same,” he said, still standing.

СКАЧАТЬ