That’s . . . new.
But that was the extent of his reflection, as Francesca was already beside the car, manually unlocking it with the key and slipping into the driver’s seat.
Alessio opened his door on the right-hand side of the car and joined her. ‘So, this is Sophia?’
Francesca grinned proudly. ‘All three divine metres of her!’ She reached behind and set her basket on the back saloon-style seat, before turning the key in the ignition.
The smell of the car was dual-layered; it had the metallic fuel-tainted scent of a vintage model, surely rusting from within, mixed with Francesca’s perfume which had penetrated the cracked black vinyl trim. The engine rumbled contentedly in the boot behind them. There was no radio, no bells and whistles. The dash featured a speedometer and odometer, and a number of rusting switches.
‘Seatbelts?’ he asked, peering over his right shoulder.
‘Pfft! Sophia can’t go fast enough to warrant safety features!’
‘Of course not,’ Alessio agreed with a smile as he popped his sunglasses on. Because you’re in Italy. The Italians are notoriously safe sensible drivers. ‘And Sophia, as in . . .?’
Francesca turned to face him, pulling her curls over one shoulder. ‘Loren, of course! There is no other Sophia in this world.’
Francesca shifted Sophia into reverse and performed a three-point turn to exit the carport, setting off down the road. Her denim skirt pulled higher up her shapely thighs as she drove. Alessio permitted himself one cheeky look before seeking distraction elsewhere. But that one glance was all he needed to reignite the flickering simmer of something that her perfume had triggered moments earlier.
The road. The trees. The engine. The windows . . . Think of anything else!
‘Grab something!’ Francesca warned as she shifted gears.
Grab what? Was that an invitat—?
The car dropped sharply into a dip, and they bounced in unison in their seats. Alessio instinctively grabbed the dash for support.
‘Scusami. I should have warned you earlier. I’ve told the comune about that dip so many times.’
‘It’s all good. Now I know for the future.’ Alessio leaned back in his seat and took in their surroundings. Having left the backstreet which looped around the bottom of Francesca’s property, they continued their descent down the mountainside. To his right, he looked up at the sides of buildings and under the canopies of tall trees. To his left he could see down into gated gardens and over terracotta-tiled rooftops, most moss-mapped and in need of repair. The road itself was unsealed; a loosely gravel-lined maze of potholes. With every bump in the road the two-inch-long red cornicello suspended from the rear-view mirror danced and clinked against the windscreen.
Alessio noticed a hand-sized crucifix of folded palm leaf tucked into the space behind one of the levers on the dashboard. He couldn’t help but give it a flick with his index finger. ‘Nonna always used to give us these,’ he said. ‘The blessed palms from Palm Sunday Mass. We kept them for weeks out of guilt. We just never knew what to do with them beyond Easter. When Mum finally thought the coast was clear, we threw them out.’
Francesca leaned against the steering wheel. ‘YOU THREW THEM OUT?! They are blessed! You can’t throw them away!’ She punctuated her mock horror with theatrical gasps. ‘It’s one of the Italian existential crises: to keep, or not to keep the palms?’
Alessio grinned. ‘So this is also an issue here?’
‘Oh, sì. Very much.’
‘God, this literally caused screaming matches in my house growing up. My nonna would lose her mind over the palms. “Le palme!”’
‘Alessio, irrespective of where you are, this is an issue.’
‘But what do you do with them?’
Taking her eyes off the road for longer than made him comfortable, she reached down into Alessio’s footwell. With an expert tug she opened the stowage compartment under his seat. ‘Take a look . . .’ Her eyes and attention returned to the road ahead.
Alessio fished a hand around and withdrew a dated women’s shoebox.
‘Open it!’
Lifting the lid he peered inside. ‘You’re joking!’ A bright incredulous chortle burst from his lips. ‘A box of palms!’
‘At least twenty years’ worth of Easters in there. The rest, well . . . it wasn’t my fault.’
‘Why are you keeping them?’
‘Because I’m too scared to throw them in the bin. If Nonna Maria ever found them . . .’
