Stick Shift. Mary Leo

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      “It’s not like it’s a big wedding. Just a hundred or so people. My fiancé is handling everything. And my mother is ordering more flowers, a girl can never have too many flowers…red carnations. I love red carnations.”

      Okay, so she lied, but she was going for some kind of response here. She didn’t exactly know why, but she wanted a response.

      Still nothing.

      He drove the car around the parking lot, squealing through the turns, then slowing on the next guy’s bumper. He drove like a maniac.

      Nutso.

      He finally said, “I got to make a couple stops. We take Appia, you will like it better. I am Vittorio, Vittorio Bandini.”

      “Lucy Mastronardo,” she told him, tensing as he hit the brakes, almost hitting the yellow Mini in front of them.

      He turned to look at her. “Then, you are Italian!”

      “Only by blood. I was born in America,” she said.

      “You don’t like your blood?”

      “No…yes. It’s fine blood. What I mean is, I’m marrying an American.”

      “That’s nice, but you will still be Italian.”

      “You don’t understand.”

      “Perhaps, but you cannot change who you are by marrying someone you are not.”

      She stared at him for a moment, then at her map and said, “The Appia will take too long. I can’t afford the time.”

      “Lucia, this is Italia and you are Italian. All you got is time.” He shifted gears and drove the car out into the morning sun.

      Lucy could never understand the fascination men had with a stick shift, all that movement, up and down, back and forth. It seemed like such a waste of energy and time. Such a dated way to drive a car. Maybe you had to have a penis to understand the connection.

      “I have to attend a meeting at a company,” she told him while fastening her seatbelt. She had to admit that the interior of the car was lush and comfortable compared to her Camry. This whole thing was beginning to get to her. She folded her map and shoved it into her brown Coach purse.

      “Ah, Lucia, you think they care if you are late? If you stop to enjoy the ambiance of Italia? No. I do not think so. Maybe in America you must not be late, but Americans are silly people. They work too much. Can’t enjoy life.”

      “Isn’t there a train I can take? Maybe you should drop me off at a train station.”

      “Sure. There are trains, but why take a train when you can take me?” he said, smiling. “I am better than a train. No?”

      Okay, so he’s better than a train, she thought. Better than almost anything, with that candy-talk and enticing smile, but she came to Italy for work, not play. And, she was getting married on Saturday.

      This Saturday.

      She took out her phone and called Subito. No one answered. She hung up and dialed again, thinking she had pressed the wrong number. Still no answer. She didn’t understand. The project had to go out in a week. There were customers and demos, and money to be made. They should be practically living at work, sleeping under their desks on futons, showering only when absolutely necessary and ordering in.

      As Vittorio drove away from the airport, he said, “See, I was right. You should listen to me, Lucia.”

      Lucy left a message for Giovanni, excusing herself for missing the morning meeting. Then she ordered a mandatory meeting for the entire team at one o’clock sharp, thinking that would give her plenty of time to arrive. She wanted everyone to be ready for a “show-and-tell,” complete with pen plots, schematics, and simulation results for every block on the communications chip. “Plan on an all-nighter,” she said into the phone. “Have your secretary order a couple pizzas.”

      She snapped shut her phone and sank into the comfortable seat and tried to enjoy the view—the countryside, not Vittorio.

      Once they were on the road to Naples, Lucy relaxed and let her mind wander to what she had learned about Italy, her Italy. As they drove, windows down, wind caressing her body, she knew she was finally home.

      The view was spectacular, more breathtaking than she had ever thought it could be—the expanse of sea to her right and the terraced hills to her left. The air, clean and sweet.

      Lucy’s mother had wanted to return to Italy several times, but her dad always came up with an excuse why they shouldn’t. Besides, high-school summers needed to be spent taking extra classes, preparing for college.

      Her dad, who was a third-generation Italian and had no bond to Europe, had taught her about getting ahead in the world, about working hard for what you wanted, and about keeping one’s voice at a calm, low pitch.

      “Lucia,” Vittorio said. “You like Italia?”

      She nodded. “I’ve heard a lot about it. My mother’s from Positano.”

      “Que bella! A beautiful town by the sea. And your mamma, her family, they still live in Positano?”

      “No. When my grandparents died everyone moved away. I guess I’d like to see it someday.”

      “You want, we can go. Positano is no far from Napoli. I know where to buy homemade Limoncello. The best!”

      Lucy didn’t like his intrusion into her personal life, as if he had some kind of right because they were both Italian.

      “No, thanks,” she said, trying to dismiss the conversation, but his words kept nagging at her, making her feel guilty, the way her mother always did. She didn’t have time to visit ancient villages. She had a chip to get out. Maybe some other visit, like for her first wedding anniversary. Maybe then, she and Seth would come back for a real honeymoon since there was no time for one now. They had planned a weekend in San Francisco, but Monday morning was work as usual. They were both on hot projects.

      Perfect, she thought. She would return to Italy for their first anniversary and visit her mom’s hometown.

      Definitely maybe, if there wasn’t a project in the way.

      “Then, why are you here?”

      “For business,” she said, and sat upright in the seat, hoping he would get the body language and turn off the fountain of questions.

      “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 СКАЧАТЬ