Then his door is open beside him. The interior is suddenly flooded with sound. A woman’s voice. A dog bark-howling. Footsteps on gravel. The bleating of—goats?
I panic for a moment, suddenly sure my father’s fears have actually come true. I’m the victim of some farming sex-trafficking scheme, but then I remember I confirmed the license plate with the one my advisor had sent me. And unless my abductor is a brilliant hacker, I am not being sex trafficked to a lonely goat farmer.
I look out the front windshield and take in the middle-aged woman in a long earth-colored dress who is clearly scolding Hot Driver. A dog—no no—the Beast fromThe Sandlotis circling him, his tale whacking against Hot Driver’s thighs as he smiles down at it and scratches its dangling jowls. My head could fit in those jowls. The woman’s gesticulating hands draw my attention back to her—mesmerizing me. She’s the conductor at the Philadelphia Orchestra, but Hot Driver just kneels in the dirt and continues raking the Beast with those impressive hands, ignoring the woman’s symphony over his head.
I open my door slowly and get slammed with a wall of heat and the smell of fresh hay. I open my mouth to assure her she doesn’t need to yell at the driver—that I’ve taken care of that, but before I can make a sound, the angry Italian woman folds Hot Driver into her arms and then pulls away, mussing his hair with a deep laugh.
“I was worried, nipote! You are two hours late. Didn’t Massimo buy me this dumb thing for a reason?” She holds up an old phone and pretends to toss it over her shoulder, then kisses his cheeks before turning her attention to me at the same time the Beast does.
I’m repeating her words in my head, making sense of them like they were said in a foreign language. But they weren’t. My mind is muddy. The heat. The driver. The driver. All adding layers of muck to the swamp, but I know she’s speaking perfect English—heavilyaccented, yes—but perfect nonetheless. She smiles at me just as the dog rams its wet nose up the back of my shorts. I try to push him away, but he just keeps burrowing between my cheeks, sniffing and snuffling loudly enough for all to hear. He’s a horse. I spin, palm over rear, opting for agility over strength.
The driver whistles and the Beast retreats, satisfied with its knowledge of my ass, tongue happily lolling out of its massive jaws. Then the woman approaches with a single brow raised, slow steady steps on the dusty gravel drive. Her palms are out as if to saydon’t run. I’m still covering my butt with one hand. Another goat bleats and I rub my temple with the free hand.
“You must be Ava. I am Nina,” she says, her smile stretching wider. Her hands land on my shoulders and I can see she has the same Italian eyes as Hot Driver—dark and knowing—but hers have fine lines that deepen as she smiles.
“What did you do to her, nipote?” She narrows those eyes at me as she kisses each of my cheeks. “You look a little—what’s the word, James? Che è la parola? Piqued, no?”
I swivel slowly toward Hot Driv—James? Weird Italian name. He shrugs, one side of his mouth twitching as he lifts his brows at me.
“There are quite a few words I could think of to describe her,” he says with a lazy smile.
My blood rushes to my face as he takes his time looking me over before continuing in eloquent, unaccented English, “But piqued works well enough, Zia.”
QUATTRO
James
The American might have a better command of profanity than Zia Nina. And that is quite the achievement.
“What kind of asshole—”
“Stronzo,” Nina provides in Italian.
“Stronzo”—she accepts the provision—“let’s a woman they just met go on and on about the humiliating details of her love life—”
I lose track of the rant when Ava goes to drop the F-bomb and stops herself. Nina is assuring her that her restraint is unnecessary—that the four-letter word is her favorite in the English language. But their voices fade away and I catch myself wondering what filters would capture the coloring on the American’s cheeks in this light.
“Nipote, do you have anything to say to our guest?” Nina asks.
“Hmm?” I pull my attention away from full lips and red-streaked skin and focus on the poorly hidden amusement on my aunt’s face. Her tongue is about to poke a hole through her cheek.
“La donna è un’ospite di tuo zio, Gigi,” Nina says. She’s glaring at me for Ava’s sake, but I can already hear the throaty laugh that will fill the air when she tells my uncle this story.
“I apologize for your misunderstanding and I hope you’ll enjoy your stay here—”
“I’m not staying here,” the American says. Her glare is real, burning my forehead like the midafternoon sun.
I shrug and open my hand toward Zia, who is obviously in charge in her long linen dress and apron.
“No offense, ma’am. But there’s been a mistake,” Ava says, more softly this time as she addresses Nina while reaching into her oversized purse. What is with this woman’s bags? They could fit Verga inside. Where is that dog anyway? I want to give him a treat for the enthusiastic greeting he gave our guest’s ass.
She pulls out a planner as thick as the Bible, with about thirteen colored tabs poking out from the side like rainbow bike spokes, then slides a folded piece of paper from the pages. “This is the apartment I rented. On Via Ma-zzi-ni.”
Her Italian is shit. Who comes to study here with no command of the local language? She shoves the paper toward me and rattles on, her tone tight and angry again since she’s looking my way.
“Modern. In the city center. No goats.”
I take the paper without looking and slip it into my pocket.
