Amore and Pinot Grigio - a Guido la Vespa Christmas Tale [Guido la Vespa] (BookStrand Publishing Mainstream) (3 page)

“Glam?”

“Short for ‘glamorous’.”

“I see. I learned English at school and I use it in my business, of course. I did a one-year exchange in Boston, but some slang is still strange to me. Please explain, though, you call Guido by a masculine name, but I saw your Vespa and it is pink!”

“Guido is at home in his masculinity, and he doesn’t need to prove anything to anyone,” said Sigrid, again woefully aware that she was anthropomorphizing a motorized bicycle.
I really must miss having a man in my life.
“Anyway, I can’t imagine owning a car anymore, although this one is lovely.”

Sandro laughed. “Lancias are more than lovely. They are the classic car of Italy.”

“So, of course, you own one. That and you also own a vineyard.”

“And a Vespone.”

“A Vespone?”

“A big Vespa, a 250 cc. They are for men.”

“What, is it a law that women can’t own them? That is sexist.”

“Of course, women can own them, but usually it is men who do, while women and teenage boys have Vespas, like yours.”

“So you have a Vespone, then?”

“Yes, but it would not have been suitable for our drive tonight. And also I have a restaurant, don’t forget.”

He was barely stifling laughter.
He is just looking far too pleased with himself, boasting about all his successes and his possessions
.

Pinot Grigio was really stirring now. “Oh, baby, almost there.”

“Actually, we are there,” corrected Sandro, as he pulled into a parking space behind a rather dull-looking, at least by Roman standards, squat and modern building. Sigrid realized that it looked like something back in Toronto. They were obviously in a part of Rome that had been built up after the war. The modern architecture, which back home didn’t seem to look so bad, appeared ugly after weeks of winding Guido la Vespa around the Piazza Navone and the Colosseum. But Sigrid was grateful that the emergency animal hospital was there.

As though he were reading her mind, Sandro said, “This part of Rome is not so pretty. But we are fortunate to have a place like this for animals.”

“Do you have pets? I mean, how did you know about it?”

“I told you. My father is soft-hearted. He is always taking in strays. It can be quite a problem.”

That last comment sounded cryptic to Sigrid.

“Your dad sounds great! Why do you sound so negative when you talk about his soft heart?”

“No reason. And I’m certain you would like my father and he you. You obviously have a weakness for strays, too.”

Isn’t that the sorry truth? Stray men and straying men.

The inside of the animal hospital wasn’t much prettier than the outside, though at least there were some Christmas decorations in the waiting room, and the people on duty were caring and friendly. Sigrid’s heart broke as she saw one young couple cradling their cat, who looked as though it had had a worse encounter with a car than Pinot Grigio. Just as she and Sandro sat down, the couple were called in to see the doctor. She wished the best for them, but had a sick feeling in her stomach that they would be saying good-bye to their pet tonight.

Sandro touched her arm. “You know it is for the best if that animal does not continue to suffer, don’t you? It looked in terrible shape. And that couple no doubt love him and will understand that, as well.”

“I know. I just feel bad for all three of them.”

“Sometimes, you seem very sweet.”

Sigrid gave Sandro a sideways glance. “Sometimes?”

“So far, only sometimes,” said Sandro, as he stood up and went over to the desk and spoke in rapid Italian with the pretty lady answering phones. She flushed as he leaned into her, smiling and whispering. Flirt, thought Sigrid, feeling uncomfortably jealous.
I guess he is making this woman’s night.
Here she has been seeing hurt animals and weeping people all night and now this hunk comes over and charms her.

The hunk looked over at Sigrid and said, “We’re in luck,
cara
. There are two veterinarians on staff tonight. We can take Pinot in to see one right now. No waiting.”

* * * *

Sigrid’s Italian was fairly good, and she understood most of the conversation between the young veterinarian and Sandro. Poor Pinot Grigio was pulled reluctantly out of the carrier and a close-up look at him revealed a flea-ridden, scruffy sweetheart with a badly broken front right leg. It also revealed, most definitely, a male cat. Sigrid was pretty sure Sandro and the vet were joking about its balls. She heard the word
pallone
so unless they were discussing soccer, which she really doubted, Pinot’s manhood was under discussion.

The vet said that Pinot would be given pain medication overnight, put on intravenous fluids, and that x-rays would be taken in the morning, since the x-ray technician was not available until 6 a.m. Depending on the severity of the break, the cat’s leg could be set or might have to be amputated. If the latter were the case, the option of euthanizing was to be considered. When Sigrid heard that, she started to cry.

“
Cara
, please,” said Sandro. “It is just a possible outcome at this point. If this cat has to have his leg amputated, who will look after him? He cannot be put back out on the street, and I doubt he is very amenable to indoor living.”

“I’ll take Pinot in.”

“And take him back to Canada?”

“Why not? We have cats in Canada,” she protested, knowing full well that it would be preferable to find a good Roman home for the cat.

“Well, we can talk about it once the x-rays have been taken. Now, we should leave. He will be fine overnight.”

Sigrid reached for her credit card and headed for the front desk, only to feel Sandro’s hand on her wrist. The feeling was not unpleasant and she hoped he hadn’t noticed her fine, blonde arm hairs standing on end. “Let me,” he said, reaching for his wallet.

“No, no, it was my idea to rescue the cat.”

“It was also my father’s idea and since the cat was found on my family’s property, it is our responsibility to pay.”

“I’ll agree to that only if you won’t make a decision about its future without talking to me first.”

“
Madonna
, you are stubborn, woman. But I think you mean ‘his future.’ I think you can call Pinot ‘he’ now. We’ve seen the evidence,” he said, winking at Sigrid.

Oh, what he does to me, she thought.
Macho jerk
.

“Oh, by the way, I have something for you. I noticed this at the front desk,” Sandro said, handing Sigrid a pamphlet. “Have you heard of this place: the Torre Argentina Cat Sanctuary?”

“No, I haven’t,” said Sigrid, looking at the pamphlet, which appeared to advertise a no-kill cat shelter situated among some excavated Roman temples.

“These ladies are famous in Italy, famous
gattare
or cat ladies, for the wonderful work they do, all on a volunteer basis, doing what you did tonight, helping street cats. They are always looking for others to help them, even if only for a couple of hours a week. While you are in Italy you might like to go and at least visit them. They are not far from the Pantheon, so easy to find.”

“Sure. Sounds fun.”
And a better use of my time than obsessing about what drove me to Italy in the first place.

The ride back was quiet, much quieter than the ride to the animal hospital. Pinot wasn’t meowing, but Sandro could also sense Sigrid’s sadness for the cat, her preoccupation. He was preoccupied, too, finding himself distracted at every red light by the sight of her long legs sheathed in those black, stretchy leggings clinging to every curve —legs she stretched out in front of her as much as the front seat would allow—and blonde hair, now falling out of its messy ponytail.

“Stop worrying. Our friend is in no pain tonight. He is being hydrated and fed and he is in a warm cage with blankets and people to care for him. In spite of his leg, he is probably feeling better now than he has in a while.”

“True enough,” said Sigrid. “For Pinot, it is probably like the kitty Hilton.”

“So tell me, Miss O’Herlihy, why are you in Italy for this long vacation? Are you here to find a lover? I know you laughed about that suggestion earlier.”

“Excuse me?”

“You would not be the first American woman to come to Italy looking for a man. After all, we are famous…”

“Canadian.”

“
Che cosa
? I beg your pardon?”

“I’m Canadian.”

“Oh yes, of course. But it makes no difference, because Canadian women also come here looking for romance. We Italian men are famous, as I was saying, famous the world over for our bedroom skills, not to mention our cooking skills.”

Even in profile, Sigrid could see that he looked pleased with himself.

“You’re pretty sure of yourself, aren’t you?”
And contemptible in an undeniably attractive sort of manner
. “I have to wonder if that much bravado and puffery isn’t just for show.”

“I am not putting on a show. And I am not particularly conceited. Just realistic about women and about life. Of course, each would be pointless without the other.”

“So why aren’t you married? “ It then occurred to Sigrid that she wasn’t even sure about that. “Or are you married? “

“No, I’m not stupid. I said women were important, not marriage.”

Sigrid thought about Doug and silently admitted that marriage no longer seemed as enticing or important to her as it once had. But she would be damned if she would let Sandro know she shared his world view. “I suppose you think any woman would fall at your feet for a chance to…” She stopped.

“A chance to be in my bed?” At this point Sandro was laughing. “Let me put it this way—I have never heard any complaints.”

She shook her head. “Bully for you.”

“So,
cara
, I gather you are not married. No man who can call himself such would allow his blonde wife to go off to a country full of Latin men without his presence.”

“I’m not married, no. And stop calling me
‘cara
,
’
I have a name.”

“Yes, but your name is impossible to pronounce!”

“Only the last name’s a bit tricky, and even then only for Italians. But even you Italians should be able to handle saying Sigrid.”

“You are really a bit of wildcat yourself, aren’t you, Sigrid? “

Of course Sandro, like most Italians, pronounced it “Seegreed.”

She rolled her eyes. “And it’s not ‘Seegreed,’” she said in an exaggerated imitation of him.

“I will do my best to pronounce it properly if you will do your best to roll your r’s properly, like an Italian. So, Sigrid, you are here to find a man?”

“No, I’m here to get away from one, if you must know.”
Stupid Doug.

“That sounds interesting.”

“It’s not. It’s all too typical. Now can we change the subject?”
Stupid, stupid, stupidissimo Doug.

Sandro could tell she meant it. “
Certo
. Certainly. What would you like to discuss?”

Sigrid looked out the window and noticed they were almost back at the restaurant. She also noticed the gentle snowflakes falling, nothing like the force of winter she witnessed back home. “Snow,” she said. “I mean, it’s snowing.”

“Yes. The Piazzo del Popolo looks very pretty right now, doesn’t it?”

“Yes. But it always does.”

“Perhaps. I guess when you live in Rome you take it for granted.”

“I could not imagine taking this city for granted,” she said, thinking of her own city, Toronto. Oh, it was liveable, clean and mostly safe, but not beautiful, that was for sure.

“
Ecco. Siamo qui
,” Sandro said.
“We are here.” They were back at the restaurant.

“Yes, yes, I sussed that one out by myself. My Italian isn’t perfect, but I know enough to understand what you are saying.”

“On the contrary, your Italian is impressive, like so much about you,” he said silkily.

“
Grazie
.”
Goose bumps. I’ve got goose bumps. Damn. Damn. Double damn. And I’m feeling a lot of heat between my legs.
Triple damn.

Sandro parked the car in front of the restaurant and when she stepped out, Sigrid noticed the restaurant’s name,
La Capanna
.

“Doesn’t that mean ‘shack’ or ‘shed’?” she asked.

“Yes, it does.”

“That is a strange name for a restaurant—makes it seem like it wouldn’t be very classy.”

“Well, it is classy. It’s just my father’s nickname for our home up in Tuscany. He calls it our ‘capanna,’ so that is what we named the restaurant when we bought this building. It’s our home away from home.”

“You have a home in Tuscany?”

“Yes, but nothing special. Like I said, we call it the
capanna
.”

Sigrid followed Sandro into the restaurant’s front door and it certainly was classy inside—beautiful linens and table settings—but also warm with wood, exposed brick, and wine bottles lining the walls. It was somewhere you could dress up, but also have a relaxing dinner and not feel it would be the end of the world if you picked up the wrong fork for your salad.

“
Bellissimo
!”

Sandro beamed and struck an exaggerated catalogue pose in front of her. “Thank you, I thought you would never notice.”

Sigrid couldn’t help but laugh. “I wasn’t talking about you. I was talking about the restaurant.”

“Ah, this is tragic. You do not find me handsome?”

“You’re okay.” She shrugged.

“
Grazie
. And again, I must tell you that when you smile and laugh, it is much nicer than your usual serious face.”