Wanderlost (17 page)

Sam knows. He
knows?

“You . . . you do?” I sputter. What does this mean? Is he saying he knows I'm not Elizabeth? Does he know I'm not a college graduate? Does he—

“It was totally obvious from the first day.”

The first day. What the heck is he talking about? I must look confused because he puts his hand on my arm and says, “Look, I know you don't speak Spanish, Dimple.”

The breath goes out of me in a whoosh. Oh. Spanish. Right.

Wait.

“You do? How?”

“Oh, please. You never reacted when I talked to Bento, never joined in. Then you confirmed it for me when you had me write out the directions to Bento for the
Sound of Music
tour.”

And here I thought I'd been all subtle about that.

“I figured you were embarrassed, though why you lied on your application is beyond me. Mom was desperate for a guide and that would never have put you out of the running. To be honest, her choices were you or . . . you.”

I hang my head and pretend to be ashamed of my résumé fraud. “I'm sorry. I don't know why I did that. Your mom mentioned knowing a second language as being a job requirement, so I just checked the box. I didn't think it meant the driver would
only
speak Spanish.”

“Don't worry about it. Bento's totally cool with everything. He really likes you.”

“He does?”

“How could he not?” Sam murmurs. He catches my eye and then ducks his head, and the words “I really like you too” hang in the air between us, even though he doesn't say them out loud.

I'm so flustered I forget where I'd been going with this line of conversation and say, “Yeah, Bento's great. Do you happen to know where he goes when he's not driving us? Like today, for instance, when we don't need the bus. What do you think he's doing? Is it rude of us not to invite him along to do stuff?”

Sam snorts. “I wouldn't worry about Bento. You know that expression ‘a girl in every port'? That's what Bento has. Only in his case they're men.”

“Oh. Ooooooooh.”

“Yeah, oh,” says Sam, waggling his eyebrows up and down.

“Okay, then. Well, his secret is safe with me,” I say.

“Pretty positive he's not keeping anything secret. But I'm sure he'll be glad to have your blessing.” He gives me a conspiratorial wink. “You, on the other hand,
are
keeping secrets. And yours is safe with me.”

I bring my eyes up to meet his. They're staring back at me with such complete trust that I consider saying “Thanks” and calling it a confession, but it isn't the one I need to make. Because I really like him too. Oh, and plus, we're in Italy and the pasta dishes look unbelievably amazing since, hello, it's
Italy
. I'd be lying if I said that wasn't factoring in here.

I drop my eyes again.

“I wasn't talking about the Spanish. Even though it's a huge relief to not have to try to hide that from you anymore. I think Bento was at the end of his acting rope, so it was only a matter of time.” I manage a laugh, but Sam is now studying me with scrunched eyebrows.

“If it wasn't the Spanish, what was it?”

I blush. “So, the thing is, you have to understand that you're super worldly and all and I didn't want you to think I was just some typical American girl from the suburbs who doesn't appreciate foreign culture.”

I look at Sam, but he just waits for me to continue.

I take a deep breath. “I don't have celiac,” I rush out.

“You . . . ? What?”

“I don't have celiac disease. I'm just a ridiculously picky eater and I was embarrassed, but there was no way in hell I was eating goose brains or whatever else was on that menu and I
didn't want you to think I was some brat, so I lied.”

“You made up a disease because you didn't want to tell me you don't like Austrian food?”

“Um, yes?”

I expect him to get angry or maybe roll his eyes, but instead he blinks at me a few times and then starts laughing. Loudly. A few passersby glance our way.

“Sam!” I tug on his sleeve. “Sam, you're making a scene.”

“I'm making a scene?” he says between gulps for air. “Are you telling me we gave a waiter in arguably the best restaurant in Vienna a total line about you not being able to eat gluten? That is priceless.”

I don't think it's
that
funny. But his laughter is kind of contagious and at least he's not mad, so that's something. In fact, he's handling this all surprisingly well. He says he has trust issues over the stuff with his mom lying to him about his dad, but wow. He's being very mellow about all of this. I help him straighten up and hold him by the arms as he collects himself.

He swipes at a tear of laughter in the corner of his eye. “You are completely adorable, do you know that? When I read your résumé back at the office, I thought you were some classic overachiever, a Goody-Two-shoes know-it-all who'd be bossy and snobby. And then we talked on the phone and you weren't like that at all. At all. I don't know if you felt it too, but it was like we just . . . clicked.”

I nod.

Sam bites his lip. “As long as we're making confessions, I have one. I wasn't annoying my mom around the office. In fact, I had to spend three hours
begging
her to send me here instead of a home health aide. All because I was dying to meet you in person.”

“You were?” A laugh tickles my insides and burbles out of me, but Sam is very serious as he tucks a strand of hair behind my ear.

“Yep. Best use of three hours ever, too. C'mere.”

He tucks me under his arm and gazes down at me. “You are so cute.” His finger hooks beneath my chin again and he tilts it up. His presses his lips against mine and I happy-sigh into them.

His reaction to my confession is not
at all
what I
expected. But I will for sure take it.

“Is there anything else I need to know?” he asks, breaking away but not releasing me. “Are you actually a spy for MI6? Part of the Witness Protection Program? Any other dark secrets hiding in your closet?”

Um . . .

I shake my head. “Not a one,” I say, keeping my eyes on his lips.

Okay, so in spite of all the happy feels I'm having, underneath it all, the avocado pit is still there. Which I sort of suspected would be the case. On the upside, Sam seems to roll with things pretty well. Maybe I can find some way to confess to him once we're back home. Maybe he won't see a need to tell
his mom everything. He'd have to really like me a lot for that, but that could totally happen, right? All's well that ends well? And at that point, this whole trip will be a (hopefully) happy memory in our rearview mirrors.

It could happen.

Right?

Aside from Emma
looking ridiculous in the glittery mask she bought in a street market and insisted on wearing nonstop, Venice was a hit. Three days of wandering churches and museums and piazzas and strolling along canals. And pizza! And pasta! All things I can now safely eat out in the open, versus PowerBars in the confines of a ladies' room stall.

But now we've left all the mystery of the foggy city behind for sparkly sunshine on the Mediterranean and a couple of quiet days of lounging in the small hill towns of Cinque Terre.

Cinque Terre is really five towns (hence the name, which in Italian means—drumroll, please—“five towns.” Well, “lands,” actually, but same difference) connected by train and mountain passes. There are no cars allowed so we had to leave Bento behind in La Spezia and hop a train for this stretch of the journey. Thankfully Sam was along to help us navigate buying tickets and show us where to get off, because I may be getting better when there's a driver escorting me door to door,
but there's nothing like an Italian train station to put someone in her place.

The towns are all small collections of brightly colored villas built into the terraced hillsides. The best part about Cinque Terre is that you can soak up tons of atmosphere by barely moving. You can pretty much explore the entire town of Vernazza, where we're staying, in under an hour, which means we have some much-needed lazy, hazy summer days of relaxation in our future.

I'm thinking it might be my new favorite (I
know
!) as I stretch my legs out to the side of the café table. I close my eyes and tilt my face up to catch the warmth of the morning sun.

Now
this
is the life.

A shock of cold hits my back and I jump ten feet in the air, knocking my chair over and nearly falling on top of it myself, if not for the strong arms that catch me. A slew of ice cubes tumble out the back of my shirt.

“Sam Bellamy!” I screech.

Emma, who is (or was, that is) seated beside me, tsk-tsks him. “You are a wicked boy, Sam.”

He grins at her and kicks aside a few cubes. “Emma, my capacity for tomfoolery is unsurpassed.”

I snort and punch his arm a little more aggressively than I intended. He yelps and rubs it. “Hey, I was just trying to help wake you up. I thought you might be sleepy after all that hiking yesterday.”

Sam, Mr. Fenton, Emma, Mary, and I walked the two hours
of hillside trails carved between Vernazza and Monterosso and then caught the train back. I'm feeling those climbs today, but I can't exactly complain about my stiffness if the people three times my age aren't. So much for my stereotype about frail, helpless senior citizens just waiting at death's doorstep.

“It's Italy. I'm certain I can find some espresso somewhere around here to help with the waking-up part,” I say.

“Yeah, but with all the cream and sugar you add, I'm not sure there's any room for caffeine in those tiny cups.”

I narrow my eyes at him and he laughs again and pulls a chair out for his grandmother, who has been hovering quietly behind him. Luckily for Sam's other arm, Mr. Fenton approaches the table then.

“Pesto focaccia, anyone?” he asks. He's juggling a giant pizza-sized piece of flatbread.

“For breakfast?” Emma asks.

“Local delicacy. Don't think they're too particular on when you enjoy it.”

“At least he didn't bring one with anchovies. That's the other local delicacy,” adds Mary from her seat next to Emma.

“So's limoncello,” says Hank, joining our group, plopping into a seat and pulling Maisy onto his lap. “Don't y'all ask me how I know that one.”

He winces and shakes aspirin from a bottle into his palm before passing the container to Maisy. Oh great. Hank and Maisy, hangover version. That should be super fun on our boat-ride outing this morning.

“Okay, guys,” I say. “You have thirty minutes for breakfast and then we need to meet the charter boat at the end of the dock. I'd say to allow about seven minutes or so to walk there. I clocked it yesterday when I confirmed the booking.”

Look at me, all fancy tour guide. I'm definitely getting the hang of things. I even remembered to walk at senior-citizen speed when I timed the commute.

“Better leave now, then,” Hank says, lifting Maisy back up and setting her on her feet. “Not moving too fast at the moment. I thought all those Lone Star beers I enjoy back home would have meant I could keep up with the shots they were pouring last night, but hooooo-ey!”

They wander away, oblivious to our laughter.

Thirty minutes later we catch up with our Texans on the boat dock. The water below us is the kind of blue-green you only see in the artificial waterfalls at minigolf courses and it glimmers in the bright sunshine. Even this early in the day the deck of the boat we step onto feels deliciously warm beneath my newly bare feet. We settle into seats on the small fishing boat we've chartered for the day. Our captain, who introduces himself as Marcello, looks like a crusty old seaman in a windbreaker and a floppy hat, but his smile is wide and genuine as he welcomes us.

I don't really have high hopes for enjoying the fishing portion of the morning, but after so many hours spent driving on this trip, being out on the water feels like freedom. Marcello pulls away from the dock and aims us along the coastline. We
follow the curve of the coast for a while and I close my eyes, soaking up the sun like a lizard on a rock. When I inhale the pure sea air, it fills my body.

This moment. Right here. This is the one I'll remember when I think back on this trip.

I open my eyes to find Sam looking at me. He smiles his yummy just-for-me smile.

Perfection.

And then Dolores throws up.

Chaos ensues as several people jump up at once, sending the little boat listing to one side. Dolores immediately bursts into tears and Sam races to her side to comfort her.

Marcello wastes no time dipping a bucket into the sea to fill with water and producing a rag to clean the mess. Lucky tour guide me, I get the honors. This was so not in the brochure.

Though I do feel awful for Dolores. I can't tell if her tears are from discomfort or embarrassment, but with the way she's clutching her stomach, it's clear she can't continue. When I finish cleaning up and swishing the rag clean, I move next to Marcello.

“Short of turning around, is there anywhere you could drop the two of us for the next few hours and then pick us up on your way back?”

I'm a little nervous about being stranded alone with Dolores since she's the one on this tour I'm most intimidated
by. I love Mr. Fenton and Mary and Emma. Hank is maybe not the most PC of individuals (by a long shot!) but he and Maisy are off in their own hormone-filled world and are generally harmless. Dolores, though? She's a tough nut to crack, even if she seems much more content now that she has her grandson by her side. Too bad
content
and
engaged with our group
are two very different things. Except what kind of tour guide—much less
person
—would I be if I left her to her own devices in this state? I'm sure Sam would do it, but I know he's been looking forward to the boat trip and I don't want him to have to miss out. I can take one for the team. That's my job and I'm getting pretty okay with doing my job, if I say so myself.

“
Si, si
. We have
bellissimo
beach near Riomaggiore. Few minutes by boat.” Marcello turns the boat back toward land and aims us at another terraced town with houses stacked on top of one another up into the mountains.

I fill Sam in on the plan, who in turn whispers it to Dolores. She nods, still swiping at her eyes with a handkerchief Mr. Fenton produced.

A few minutes later Marcello pulls alongside a tiny stretch of rocks that form a deserted beach. The mountainside comes right to the edge of the water, surrounding it on three sides with cliffs of jagged rock. To our left, there is a waterfall spilling over the top and into the sea below. It's breathtaking.

When Marcello has gotten as close as he can without bottoming out, he cuts the engine and he and Sam hop out and
gently pull the boat in until only their knees are submerged in the ocean. Then Sam does something better than one thousand of Mr. Darcy's
Pride and Prejudice
proposals. He
carries
his grandmother to shore. Like, in his arms. Total swoon. When he sets her down on the rocky beach, it looks as though she'd like to kiss the ground. Me, I'd like to kiss Sam. I hop out behind them and splash over, which is not easy with the slippery rocks below.

“I'll stay with her,” I say. “I could care less about fishing and you said yesterday you were excited for it. If you don't mind keeping an eye on everyone else, I'll make sure your grandmother is comfortable.”

Sam is glancing over at his gram when Emma's voice rings out. “Can we stay too?” She and Mary are standing in the boat.

“What?” I call.

“This beach is one of a kind. I'd far rather stay here and explore than catch stinky anchovies.”

“We will likely not be catching any anchovies, señora.” Even as he shouts to keep those of us on the beach part of the conversation, Marcello sounds amused.

Still, what the guest wants, the guest gets, right?

“Hop out,” I answer. “We'll have a ladies' day. Maisy, wanna join us?”

I'm expecting her to say yes on account of her hangover. Quite honestly, I was expecting
her
to be the one booting up her breakfast. But she's a stand-by-your-man kinda gal. She shields her eyes with her hand and shakes her head.

“Okay, well, Plan B, I guess,” says Sam. “And thanks, Lizzie.” He squeezes my arm before wading back through the water to grab Emma's hand, then Mary's, to help them pick their way toward the beach. When they've reached shore, he pushes the boat into deeper water and hoists himself over the side. All the men—plus Maisy—wave as the boat turns and races for open water.

“Well, this is perfectly delightful,” says Emma. “I feel like we're shipwrecked. Which is much nicer knowing you're guaranteed a rescue in a few hours.”

She's right. The beach is totally remote. I can see some of the rooftops of homes far off in the distance but this cove is protected from both the open water and the village. I find a grouping of rocks that look more smooth than jagged and nestle myself into them as a sort of makeshift chair.

“Dolores, is being on solid ground helping?” I ask. She still seems a bit shaken up.

“Oh, I feel fine now. More ashamed than anything else. My behavior was so unladylike. I apologize.”

Mary snorts and Emma laughs.

“Ladylike? Oh, pish,” Emma says. “Who cares about that anymore? I could certainly do without the tattoos on every which body part, but this younger generation is far smarter than ours, with their ‘I'll be who I want to be and you'll just have to like it' attitude. When I think of all the stockings I rolled on and the girdles I wore, just to vacuum the house and make casseroles for my husband, I could scream.”

“Well, I believe there's something to be said for the way we conducted ourselves, don't you?” Dolores asks, looking to Mary for backup. “We knew how to be modest, which is more than most young ladies these days can say.”

I try to slink deeper into the rocks as I mentally walk through the hemlines on the outfits I've worn so far this trip. I
think
they've been okay?

“Modesty is for the birds,” Emma says. “I am quite through being a proper lady. Would you like to know how through with it I am?”

She doesn't wait for an answer before struggling to her feet and stripping off her sweater (what is it with old people and their sweaters in the middle of summer, anyway?). Her blouse is next and her pants quickly follow. She stands before us in her bra and underwear.

And then those are gone.

She gives us a defiant look and begins wading—buck naked—into the water toward the waterfall.

The rest of us are too shocked to say anything.