Amore and Pinot Grigio - a Guido la Vespa Christmas Tale [Guido la Vespa] (BookStrand Publishing Mainstream) (6 page)

“She talks about something other than rescuing animals, Sigrid,” he said.

That last comment had hurt Sigrid more than the actual infidelity. What was so wrong with the volunteer work she did? What was so wrong with being an animal-lover and a vegetarian and with wanting to help the defenceless? A lot of men would have admired that in her, and Doug seemed to have when they first met. But now he deemed her boring. It didn’t help that Sigrid was a teacher at a community college, and learning that Doug had fallen for a lawyer who wore sexy lingerie made her feel all the more dowdy and plain. She hardly ever wore sexy underwear or even sexy outerwear.

But she loved teaching and she loved her students. She taught adults to read, mostly immigrants who had not even learned to read in their own languages, and it was so rewarding to see them smile when they could finally read or write a paragraph about themselves or, more importantly for them, fill out a job application in English. If they were ever going to make a better life for themselves or their children in Canada, Sigrid liked to think she helped them find that path. After all, her mother had come to Canada from another country without knowing a word of English and Sigrid treasured any opportunity to help people in a similar position.

Doug saw no importance in what she did for a living, because she did not make a lot of money or spend her time with the kind of people society deems important, people you read about in gossip columns or the business section of a newspaper. He hadn’t wanted to fight for her, simply confessing to the infidelity and all too happily and quickly agreeing to abandon their wedding plans. On some level, she knew she was lucky to have discovered the truth before the wedding, but she was still heartbroken and the painful experience left her with little faith.

It was actually her mother who suggested Sigrid still go on her honeymoon to Rome—but alone. “It’ll help clear the cobwebs out of the attic, honey,” her mother had said, tapping her daughter’s left temple and using one of her favourite expressions. “And you might meet someone there, someone who owns a castle and then your father and I can come and visit,” she added.

“Oh Mom, you watch way too many chick flicks,” said Sigrid, shaking her head. Sigrid’s mother was a hopeless romantic, an eternal believer in happy endings. Easy for her, thought Sigrid.
She met dad and they’re still married, decades later. Most of us don’t have it like that.

Still, the idea of going to Rome was hard to resist. She had studied some Italian at the University of Toronto and wouldn’t be at a complete loss over there. So she turned in both her and Doug’s tickets for one first-class fare. Sigrid figured it was the least he owed her and again, he did not fight her on it. Instead of staying at a luxurious hotel for a short period of time, she decided on something different: a three-month stay in Italy based in Rome and specifically, based in an inexpensive but clean and well-managed B&B near the Universita Sapienza. She gave two weeks’ notice at her place of work, not much of a problem for her since she worked on contract. That was something else of which Doug disapproved.

She sublet her apartment, said a teary good-bye to her students, and opened up her savings account. Why save for retirement, she thought, when your heart has been broken?

She left Toronto on November first and planned her return on January thirty-first. Her father agreed that spending the Christmas holidays in Rome would be a sure-fire way to take her mind off Doug and Anna. “We’ll miss you, though, sweetie,” he said. Sigrid smiled remembering that moment—that was about as mushy as her dad ever got. And ironically, he was right. The trip to Rome was taking her mind off Doug.

Now, she thought, I’m obsessing about that stupidissimo and full-of-himself-issimo but unfortunately also bellissimo and great-in-bed-issimo Sandro.
Well, he can have casual sex and parade around in his Lancia till the mucche come home. I’m not going to weep over one night with an arrogant Italian. He can take his Vespone, his restaurant and even his fancy white wine and stuff them. That’s what he can do.
I am in the most beautiful city on earth, she thought. The Eternal City. And Christmas is just over two weeks away. There are worse things than having experienced sexual pleasure with a gorgeous man. And most important of all, we saved that poor kitty. He will now have the loving and secure home all of us deserve in this life.
If Sandro Totti thinks I am going to waste one second thinking twice about him, or expecting him to chase after me, or even wanting that to happen, he is sorely mistaken.

One morning, a week later.

Sandro decided to take his Vespone out for a ride, in spite of the unusual snowfall. The city was decorated for
Natale
, Christmas, all tasteful white lights and trees done up with garlands of silk. Fashionable Roman ladies were decked out in winter coats and hats, though still looking sexy in high heels and curled-to-perfection hair, waves tumbling as they jaunted about the city doing their Christmas shopping. Everyone seemed in a happy mood. Everyone other than him.

There was no reason for melancholy, he told himself, no cause for sadness. None. So why did he feel so bad? He had expected that Canadian girl to show up at the restaurant again with some transparent reason to see him. He had been dreading the inevitable confrontation, because he certainly didn’t want any involvement.

But
niente
. She was gone. For the first couple of nights after they had rescued Pinot, he had kept so sharp an eye on the restaurant door that the head waiter, Paolo, who normally never asked anything personal of his boss, said, “
Capo
, have you heard from Flavia lately?”

For Flavia was the only person anyone could imagine Sandro would miss or for whom he would ever be on the lookout. Flavia was the only person who had the power to dramatically change Sandro’s moods. Flavia was the only person who could make Sandro feel or appear vulnerable and everyone in the Totti family itself and in the Totti family’s employ knew as much.

“No,” he barked at Paolo, quickly apologizing. “
Mi scusa
, Paolo. No, I have not heard from Flavia. I am just worried about a little cat I thought I saw out there last night. Maybe he’s hungry.”

“But I thought you trapped that cat and that he was going to have a home?”

“Yes, yes, but this was another cat.”

What had this woman done to him? It was true that he now noticed things he hadn’t noticed before meeting her—stray cats, dogs that appeared to be without owners, injured pigeons in the piazzas of Rome—and he worried about them. He had never been one to be deliberately cruel to an animal before, but now they were on his radar in an unprecedented fashion. What had Sigrid and her exorbitant amount of empathy done to him? All the years with his gentle father hadn’t had this large an effect.

Still, the comment to Paolo had been a lie. He had not noticed a cat since that wonderful night with Sigrid. And he certainly did not want to discuss Flavia. She had been another of his father’s strays, a Christmas stray. Seven years ago, almost to the day, she had shown up at the restaurant, looking for work and claiming to be desperate. Sandro’s father had felt so sorry for her that he had hired her to help in the kitchen, though she had no resume, no references. Before long, she and Sandro had become an item. He turned his life over to her, trusting her with everything, including introducing her to a long-time family business rival at a party one night.

Enrico Della Lucia and Sandro had been boyhood acquaintances in Tuscany, where their fathers were competitors in the wine business. The Della Lucias ran a much bigger business than the Tottis, but they respected each other’s products and business methods. The two boys had gone to school together and played on local soccer teams together and gone on to university together in nearby Florence. Though not friends exactly, they had developed, like their fathers, a grudging respect and tolerance for each other.

They moved to Rome at the same time, both bored with life in the country. Rome was the place, they agreed, to be a bachelor. Meeting Flavia, though, had changed Sandro’s mind about that. Rome was the place to get married. He had even bought Flavia a ring and was preparing to propose on Christmas Eve, a year after they had met, a year after his father had opened up their lives to—unbeknownst to the Tottis—a conniving stray.

* * * *

Sandro never did get to propose, because Flavia dropped him a week before Christmas, announcing her engagement to Enrico. “I’m sorry, Sandro,” she said, archly, “but the Della Lucias have far more to offer. Why would I marry a millionaire, when I could marry a multi-millionaire?” The sting of that cold pronouncement still reverberated for Sandro, as did the cynicism and fear that Christmas had left behind. Flavia resigned from the restaurant and but for a mention or a photo or two in the gossip sections and society pages of newspapers he had not heard from her or Enrico again.

After Flavia, he had devoted himself to active bachelorhood in Rome and had made the decision that if he would marry it would be to have a family, to merge the family business with another, to get his parents off his back about grandchildren. It would not be for love because love was pointless and ultimately resulted in hurt and humiliation.

Though he had slept with many women, none had stayed in his mind past a night or two. None until that Canadian woman showed up and climbed a fence right onto his property and into his bed and right into his thoughts now, too, it seemed.
Well, enough of that, Sandro. Time to take this Vespone back to the restaurant and get some administrative work done
. Even if he wanted to see Sigrid, he admitted, he couldn’t, because he did not know the name of her B&B. He didn’t even know in which neighbourhood of Rome it was located and there were thousands of B&Bs in the city.

When Sandro returned to
La Capanna
, he was surprised to see his father there. “
Ciao, papa,
” he said, kissing him on both cheeks. “Why are you down from Tuscany?”

“There’s been a problem with our alarm system since last week, so Paolo called me to come and take care of it.”

“Why didn’t he talk to me about it?”

“He says he did. And he said that he brought it up with you again and you didn’t seem to know what he was talking about or have the slightest memory of his having tried to get your assistance with it. He says you have been horribly distracted and frankly, son, I have noticed it, too, just by talking to you on the phone. Is Flavia back in your life? Because I cannot think of anything else that would devastate and preoccupy you so…”

“No!
Dio, pap
à
! Why does everyone keep asking about Flavia? No, no Flavia. And I am not distracted or preoccupied or anything. I am fine. Now what about the alarm system? What is the problem, exactly?”

“You do not need to be so harsh with us. We only ask because we care.”

“I apologize. Now what is it about the alarm system?”

“It is not working properly and I’m rather surprised you have not noticed it yourself. You are in the restaurant every night. Have you not remarked that the alarm has sounded spontaneously three times this week and yet, in spite of that fact, the signal is not sent to the police station? This doesn’t seem likely to provide our business, our family, our neighbouring businesses or our customers much protection, or much peace. Does it to you?”

“Well no,
pap
à
, I am sorry but I noticed none of this.”

“The last time it worked properly was when I was here last week, that day we saw the little cat, the one you rescued. Do you remember we tested it that morning?”

“Yes, I do. And it hasn’t worked since?”

“No. So we just called a technician who looked at the wiring and said something had pulled one of the wires and the sensor box out of place. Because the fencing around the patio is covered in ivy and branches, the position of the wiring is not something that is easily noticeable. But these systems are very sensitive, of course, so I wondered if maybe when you were rescuing that cat you might have done something unintentionally. It was worth it, of course, but I would just like to understand what happened, so it won’t happen again. It will cost us a fair bit to have the system put properly in place again.”

For the first time in a week, Sandro smiled a real smile, not the fake one he managed for customers or staff or the pretty ladies who worked in the stores nearby. “I know what happened,” he told his father. “And I’ll make sure it never happens again.”

“What was it, Sandro?”

“I’ll tell you later. I’ll explain it all later. But I know exactly what happened.”

Looking around the adoption centre inside the Torre Argentina cat sanctuary, Sigrid believed that this must have been why she met Sandro.

He was the one who handed me that pamphlet that night
.

In a fit of despair she decided that she would not mope around Rome worrying about how hopeless she was with men.
Two male-related disasters in a twelve-week time frame!
She was going to do something useful. It was almost Christmas and helping others was the most important thing, whatever one’s religious beliefs.

With that in mind, she hopped on Guido la Vespa one afternoon and introduced herself to the cat ladies, the
gattare
, at the shelter located beneath street level at the excavation site of several Roman Temples. The
gattare
did precisely the kind of volunteer work Sigrid did in Toronto, only with a much more beautiful backdrop. The shelter had an indoors with a welcome centre for visitors, cages for injured animals or those waiting to be spayed or neutered. It had an adoption centre with cats of all ages, sizes and colours.