Amore and Pinot Grigio - a Guido la Vespa Christmas Tale [Guido la Vespa] (BookStrand Publishing Mainstream) (8 page)

“I’m not saying that, but you said some awful things.”

“And I am sorry. I did not mean them. They were said in haste, without thought. Look, I imagine you know all the tourist sites in the city. Let me show you the Villa Borghese…unless you have seen it?”

“No, I haven’t.”

“The rain has stopped and it would be a nice bike ride over there. It’s very green and there are swans and ducks and probably some cats. He smiled and lifted his eyebrows at her.

“Okay, as usual, you get your way.”

“As it should be. Just follow the man with the good hair on the Vespone.”

Sigrid laughed.

“Ah, she laughs. I perform miracles.”

* * * *

They stopped along the way to the Villa Borghese and picked up some bread.

“Who’s the bread for?” said Sigrid.

“The birds. It is to feed the birds, of course,” replied Sandro. He truly thought of everything, she marvelled.

Once there, she was treated to something she may not have found on her own in Rome: a park where Italian families rented bicycles and Segways and bought
gelato
for their children, a park full of ponds and birds and busts of famous Italians. What a history. She stared for a good long time at a bust of Michelangelo.

“What are you thinking?” asked Sandro.

“I’m thinking that I love Canada and all, but that we really have no history compared to you people.”

“Ha, yes. And if great artists and emperors were not enough, we invented the Vespa. Do tell me, you said it was a ‘long story’ how you got your Vespa. Now might be the time to tell me.”

“It isn’t really a long story. That’s just what English-speakers say when they don’t want to tell a particular story.”

“That is good for me to know for future reference,” laughed Sandro. “But I still would like to hear about how Guido la Vespa came into your life.”

“Sure, well, the people who own my B&B—the Palumbos—had this Vespa and weren’t using it. It belonged to their daughter who got married and moved to New York with her husband. We got to talking one night and I said I had loved riding my brother’s motorcycle in Canada and that I’d love to have one here. They said they would love English lessons because they would like to visit their daughter in New York at Christmas and be able to get around more on their own. So we struck up a deal. I give them tutoring sessions three times a week and I basically got the Vespa at a discount price, which is good since I can’t see bringing it back to Canada, though I’ll definitely buy one when I’m back there.”

“You must have learned well on your brother’s bike then.”

“Yes, though I admit that it was scary driving it the first few times in Rome. Italian drivers have the reputation they have for a reason.”

“Indeed. Listen, I am a bit thirsty. Can I get you something? There are kiosks all over the park.”

“I could use some water.”

“Good. Two waters coming up,
cara
.”

Sigrid sat on a nearby bench and watched him. He called me
cara
again, she thought.
And it gave me chills.
And he looks so good walking away in those jeans. Sandro sat next to her—right next to her with his left thigh leaning into her right thigh—and handed her a bottle of
aqua minerale
.

“
Grazie
.”

But before she could open it, he took her free hand and pulled her to him, even closer. He leaned in and his mouth was on hers.

Sigrid hadn’t thought any kiss could match their first kiss, back at the restaurant. And this one didn’t. It was better. He parted her lips with his tongue, exploring her mouth as she responded in kind, until he pulled back abruptly, almost gasping for air.

“I’m sorry. This is not a good spot for this, is it?” He nodded in the direction of the Italian families walking by. “It would be okay if I could kiss you and leave it at that, but I can’t.”

“Me neither.”

“I know.”

“So what shall we do?”

Sandro let out a sigh and said, “Why don’t we walk some more through this park, it is very large, and maybe get a light lunch along the way. There are many food stands, as you can see, though as my father is expecting us for dinner, we should not eat too much. Trust me, he will make sure something wonderful—and filling—is prepared. He doesn’t believe in snobby, five-star food. He likes old-fashioned, Italian cooking. What we call ‘
terrone
’ food, food of the peasants.”

“I’m a vegetarian though. I hope that isn’t a problem.”

“It won’t be. There will be many vegetable dishes tonight and many Italian pasta dishes have no meat. But just to be sure, I will give him a call now.” Sandro did so, speaking to his father in rapid, melodic, lovely Italian. He laughed as he clicked his phone shut.

“He’s not upset, is he?”

“No, on the contrary. He said he thinks he should become a vegetarian, too, because he loves animals so much. And I can attest to the truth of that statement. On our land in Tuscany, we have livestock and the original reason for acquiring them was for food. But my father will not hear of it. The pigs all have names, as do the cows. And their deaths will only come from natural causes, believe me. They cost us a fortune, but he won’t hear of any alternatives.”

“I like your dad so much!”

“Yes, well, don’t get too attached. I mean, Sigrid, I like you, and that night together was incredible and I’d like a repeat of it, many repeats. I believe we have great sexual compatibility. But I don’t believe in anything long-term, not anymore.”

“When did I say that was what I wanted from you?” Sigrid replied indignantly, not sure whether she was more bothered by his arrogance and presumption or by the fact that she knew she probably did want something long-term.

“That is what all women want.”

“Really? You’re wrong. We have our needs, too, and they are just as normal as yours and they need to be met just as much as yours.”

“
Basta
, okay. I do not need a feminist lecture. So are you saying you would be willing to see me for as long as you are in Italy, knowing I don’t want anything serious?”

“Yes.”

“
Allora. Va bene
.”

He took Sigrid’s hand and they spent the afternoon in Villa Borghese, stopping to eat sandwiches and
gelato
, in spite of the cool weather. She told him about Doug. He told her about Flavia.

“So,” he announced. “We have both been betrayed. We have both become realistic, as a result, about love.”

“Yes,” Sigrid said, breezily. “Absolutely—I am absolutely realistic about love. But I would like to say one thing about Flavia. I don’t think you should blame your dad for ‘taking in strays,’ as you say. She was the one who was dishonest and selfish. Not him. I don’t think you should become cynical about compassion.”

“You’ll be surprised to hear that I have come to agree with you, at least in some ways. Since that night we saved Pinot, I find myself noticing animals more on the streets and feeling great sympathy for them. A few weeks ago I would have found that foolish. But not now. I see that so many of them are defenceless and at our mercy. We should do what we can to help them. In fact, I have a proposition for you.”

“What’s that?”

“The animal hospital where we took Pinot is hosting a fundraiser. They are selling many items at a Christmas auction and they need help transporting a number of things in the coming days. Would you be interested in attaching some small boxes and items my family is donating to Guido la Vespa one day this week, perhaps tomorrow? I’ll be doing the same with my Vespone. We can go together.”

“That sounds great.”

“I’ll arrange it. And speaking of our bikes, let’s get back to them. We’ve still got time for a ride around the Spanish steps and the Church of Santa Maria Maggiore before we have to head back. What do you say?”

“
Andiamo
!”

The ride was exhilarating. When they got to the back of the restaurant and parked their bikes again, Sandro suddenly grabbed Sigrid and kissed her for the second time that day. This time it was aggressive, impulsive and he pushed his pelvis into her lower abdomen, letting her feel exactly how much he wanted her. Her knees went wobbly and she grabbed onto his leather jacket for support. She heard him muffle a curse in Italian and push her away from him gently. “I don’t need my father to see this,” he said. “He’ll get all kinds of ideas into his head. In fact, I think he already has them.”

“Like what?”

“I’m afraid he is so guilt-ridden about Flavia and bringing her into my life that he is now obsessed with the idea of me finding someone else. If he knows we are involved, he will want nothing less than marriage for our future. And, as we have agreed, marriage will not be the outcome of our time together.”

“Yes, we agree on that.”

Sigrid wondered whom she was trying to convince with her affirmative response, but all she knew was that she would see Sandro for as long as she could.

“Good. As long as for once between us there is no argument, then let’s go in and enjoy what I’m sure will be an Italian feast.”

The dinner could not have been better. Giuseppe made sure there were more vegetable dishes than usual, to accommodate Sigrid. They talked about their mutual love of animals and Sandro was warm and witty throughout the evening, showing his father great respect but also teasing him a bit. “And then there was the day
my father brought home an injured owl. He made it a little splint for its little legs with broken popsicle sticks—he kept telling my cousins and me to eat more, more popsicles,
ragazzi
! I made myself sick so that the owl could fly away again.”

“And did it?” Sigrid asked.

“
Certo
, most certainly, but I think my father had to finally ask for a veterinarian’s help. Popsicle stick splints did not quite do the trick.”

“Well it was still more than worth a little self-sacrifice.”

Giuseppe beamed at Sigrid—as he had been doing all night, Sandro noticed with some dismay—and turned to his son, saying something Sigrid couldn’t quite make out in hushed Italian.

“My father would like to know what your plans are for Christmas.”

“Well, I was going to ride my Vespa down to St. Peter’s, I guess, take some pictures, tweet them back to my family. After Bethlehem I would guess St. Peter’s would be the Christmas-y-est place on earth, right? Then I figure I’ll call or Skype my parents, of course. Stuff like that. It will be a nice, peaceful day—my landlord and his wife will be away as well. They’re off to New York to visit their daughter.”

Giuseppe looked upset. “That is not acceptable. You must come up to Tuscany and spend Christmas with us. You simply must. My wife will love you and I can show you our animals and our vineyard. And Sandro here will be moping about if you aren’t there, wondering about all the men in Rome chasing after the pretty blonde lady alone on Christmas Day.”

“
Pap
à
!”

Sigrid giggled. But she didn’t want to be in Tuscany with the Tottis if Sandro didn’t want her there. It would be horribly strained. They had agreed their relationship was of the fun-and-sex-and-no-commitment variety and spending holidays together seemed like something serious couples do.

“Well, I think Sandro and I should discuss it and…”

“Nonsense. You will spend Christmas with us. Sandro wouldn’t have it any other way. In fact, he suggested it, earlier, when we were in the kitchen together getting the—”

“
Pap
à
!”

Sigrid looked over at Sandro, who was blushing. “I only wanted to make sure you weren’t alone at Christmas. So yes, I suggested it. Just so you won’t be alone but for no other reason. No one should be alone at Christmas.”

Giuseppe smiled at his son and winked at Sigrid. “My son will drive you up to Tuscany on the twenty-third in his Lancia. But since I know how you two love your Vespas, I will arrange to have them brought up separately by train. You will stay a few days, after all, and Tuscany is a perfect part of Italy to see on a motorcycle, as there are open spaces and greenery—well, not so much green in December but at least nature—and far less traffic than in Rome.”

“I guess it’s settled then,” said Sigrid.

Sandro looked embarrassed. “I should take Sigrid home now. It is getting late and tomorrow we are taking some auction items out to the animal hospital.”

Sigrid thanked her host and, with Sandro, walked out back of the restaurant to where their bikes were parked.

Sigrid reached for the keys to her Vespa and Sandro stopped her. “You have had three glasses of wine. You should not drive. Leave Guido la Vespa inside the restaurant patio area—you can pick him up tomorrow—and I’ll take you back to your B&B on the Vespone.”

“You had wine, too!”

“I had one glass and I am taller than you, bigger and I certainly weigh more. And I certainly ate more, though you gave me some competition.”

“Well the food was wonderful and I didn’t want to offend your father and…”

“No need to make excuses. I like a girl with healthy appetites.”

Sigrid took the bait.

“Then you’d better take me home,
subito
.”

“Get your helmet on and sit behind me, and above all, hold on tight.”

Even through his winter coat, Sandro smelled like excitement, like spice, like sex, like a real man, not like status-obsessed, boring, lawyer-y, Anglo-Saxon, cheating, lying Doug. Sigrid was slightly tipsy and grateful for the extra size of the Vespone’s seat. It didn’t feel as precarious as being a passenger on a Vespa. She leaned against Sandro’s strong back and tight buttocks and drank him in. As he requested, she held on tight, putting her arms around his chest, though she would have done the same, she had to admit, without the request.