Bella Cigna Page 3

  When she’d finished both her real and fictitious tea and cake, Sarah returned to the kitchen, where Meredith was busy chopping vegetables for what appeared to be a stew. Sarah sipped her tea, washing away the buttery frosting and sweet vanilla cake. “Are you sure it’s okay to leave now?” she asked. “I mean, with things so up in the air?” She picked up a knife and a bunch of celery.

  “Oh, stop worrying. The house is under contract, and the two of you are in agreement. What could go wrong?”

  The contract could fall through, or the separation papers could get lost in the mound of documents on her lawyer’s desk. Sarah hacked at a stalk of celery. “I don’t know. I haven’t signed anything yet.”

  “Would you relax? Everything will be fine.” Meredith put onions in a pot and smiled. “Now, let’s get on to the more important details. Pictures.” She waved her knife at Sarah. “You’re to send me pictures of every place you go.”

  Meredith taunted her with the knife, and Sarah leaned away. “Yes, Mother.” She added her diced celery to the pot and returned to enjoying her freshly poured tea.

  Meredith slammed the knife on the cutting board. “I assure you I am not keeping you on a short leash. I’m encouraging you to go out and have fun.” She lowered her voice and leaned across the counter. “To have more nights like you know what with you know who.”

  Uh-uh. She did not just bring up that incident. Sarah put down her cup of tea with a heavy hand, the china clinking on the saucer. “Meredith! I thought we agreed never to bring that up.”

  “Come on, Sarah.” Meredith snorted. “At least fifteen years have passed. Don’t you find it the least bit humorous?”

  Sarah pursed her lips. How was a one-night-stand with the infamous Ben Carter funny? “No,” she grumbled.

  “Ugh. Well, I would have taken your place. He was by far the cutest guy on campus. I still daydream about him sometimes.”

  “Meredith, would you stop?” She caught Amber spying from the den and lowered her voice to a whisper. “I told you a thousand times, I don’t remember what happened.”

  Meredith cocked an eyebrow. “Oh, we all know what happened. He wasn’t shy about telling everyone how he laid the beautiful, goody-two-shoes Sarah Miller.”

  “And that, my friend, is why tea is now my drink of choice.” Sarah sighed, picked up her teacup, and raised it in a toasting jest. She brought the cup to her lips and paused. Would tea still be her drink of choice in Italy? She shrugged. She’d find out in a few days.

  ****

  A week later, the sun streamed through the arched glass entrance of Dulles International Airport. Amber and vermilion hues reflected off the metal International Departures sign. Suitcase wheels whirred, and the heels of business-women clacked. A tingling rushed through Sarah’s fingers—was the rush excitement or trepidation?

  The rolling suitcase in front of her inched forward, and the line of passengers followed like a row of dominoes. But Sarah’s sneakers felt more like steel-toed boots. Perhaps the ten-minute cab ride hadn’t been long enough to say good-bye.

  “Next!”

  Sarah lifted her bags onto the conveyer belt and handed the agent her passport. She glanced over her shoulder, catching the last of the sun’s rays before the orange disk melted into the horizon. She stared through the wide, sweeping glass wall. The sky of the city—a city that held so many memories she wanted to forget—was a mixture of colors as alive as Vermeer’s painting. Her eyes dampened with tears, but Sarah squeezed them away. She faced the counter and looked at the clerk.

  “Do you have any questions?” The woman behind the counter handed her a boarding pass.

  Questions? Sarah slumped her shoulders, and she struggled to see through the welling tears. She had too many questions. Was she making the right decision leaving D.C.? Would she ever forget Philip? Again, she tipped her head in the direction of the sunset—the brush-stroked sky. And would she ever attain Vermeer's idealized balances?

  Sarah turned back to the attendant. “No questions." She forced a smile, kept her back toward the sunset, and strode forward into her future—whatever that might be.

  Chapter 4

  Half a day later, Sarah disembarked in Rome, her legs stiff. The gangway from the plane was no different than any Sarah had experienced—creaky floorboards and scuffed walls. The bathroom, where Sarah took note of her grimy clothes and filmy teeth, was alike those in the States, too. But the allure of a new city and a fresh beginning beckoned.

  After a quick swish of mouthwash and a wipe-down with wet paper towels in the ladies’ room, she tucked her purse under her elbow and made a beeline for immigration.

  From behind a glass enclosure, a handsome young immigration officer spoke in a thick Italian accent, calling her forward.

  As he flipped through her documents, Sarah scanned the room. The soaring ceilings, constructed of exposed metal, swallowed the sounds of the travelers corralled by ropes. The floors, ceilings, and walls were all white. The only bursts of color beamed from the hanging directional signs in shades of green and red—the colors of the Italian flag.

  Even the people were different. The young immigration officer, the policeman at border control, and the attendant directing passengers were all tanned with dark hair. Their features were so dissimilar from Sarah’s pale skin and fair hair, and they all gestured flamboyantly as they spoke in Italian.

  Wondering if she should pinch herself, Sarah smiled. She was in Rome, Italy!

  “Long stay.” He looked up.

  The immigration officer gave a gentle flip of his ‘l.’ Grinning, she nodded. Yes, her year-long trip was longer than a week-long stay of tourists passing through the city. Her trip was long enough to see all the city’s architectural feats, explore all the art museums, and—she eyed the man in front of her—enjoy the handsome Italian men who looked nothing like Philip.

  “I’ll need documentation.” He furrowed his thick brows.

  Sarah stared at the hard line of his brow. Her work VISA wasn’t enough documentation? Well, maybe she wouldn’t enjoy this man. She extended a slip of paper through the opening in the glass. “Of course. I have a job as an English grammar teacher at the Saint Theresa School in Balduina.”

  His gaze stayed on the paper.

  “If a problem exits,” she added, “I have a contact number here.” She offered him another sheet.

  “Un momento.” He reached for the nearby phone.

  His tone was curt. His movement was swift. Sarah inched her shoulders closer to her ears and tapped her fingers against the glass. Who was he calling? The US Embassy? The deportation office? She should have paid closer attention when the placement agency filled out the visa application. Maybe they’d forgotten the “h” at the end of her name. And the little card the airline attendant asked them to complete—would they ding her for writing one line in lower case?

  As the man grumbled on the phone, he shot a glare at Sarah, flicking his gaze to her fingers on the glass.

  Sarah flushed and pulled back her hands. She turned her back toward him and busied herself with her cell phone. She had no signal, but the home screen image of Amber giving Steven a noogie drew her back to her last visit. Meredith said nothing could go wrong. A loud smack sounded behind her. Sarah jumped and turned.

  “All clear.” The officer lifted a metal stamping device from her passport and handed it through the glass. “Enjoy your stay.”

  Sarah relaxed her pinched shoulders, placed her phone in her purse, and smoothed her palms against her legs. She took her passport, reveling at the first stamp in her book. Meredith was right. She had nothing to worry about.

  An hour later, scanning the arrival hall, Sarah couldn’t help but admit she had a lot to worry about. For starters, her luggage was lost. Okay, her bags weren’t really “lost”—the airline knew where they were. Somehow, knowing her stuff landed in Dubai didn’t exactly make her feel any better. What if she never received her fuzzy, teddy-bear slippers or her volumizing shampoo? And her je
ans! Her favorite jeans, special ordered in a size eight tall.

  A man brushed past, knocking her purse strap off her shoulder. She gripped the strap—the contents of her purse were now the only belongings she had—and took a deep breath. She still had her passport, her money, and her toothbrush. She would get by.

  Stepping into a room crowded with hired drivers holding little white signs, Sarah searched for her name. She didn’t find it. She made a second pass around and this time spotted a petite girl in a short skirt and a midriff top who was engrossed in her cell phone. Hanging at an awkward angle, shoved under the girl’s bare arm, was a sign reading “Ms. Miller.”

  Ms. Miller. How could she have forgotten she’d applied in her maiden name? Sarah made her way through the crowd. The girl sported a boyish hairdo. Unfeminine spikes plastered her hair all over her head. If not for the skirt, Sarah might have passed her for a boy. She extended a hand to the girl, who chomped on gum. “I’m Sarah Miller.”

  The girl stared for a hanging second, her agape mouth revealing a bright-pink piece of gum.

  “Oh, um…” The girl must speak Italian. Why couldn’t she remember how to introduce herself? Mi cimo? Was that it? Apparently devoting her flight to studying basic Italian phrases had proved futile.

  “Sorry.” The girl crammed her phone into her bra, and then squeezed Sarah’s hand. “You caught me off guard. I was expecting someone…well…” She released her hand and blew a bubble. “I’m Anna.”

  Sarah opened her mouth to speak.

  “Most girls”—Anna snapped her gum—“take these kinds of jobs right after college, you know. Veronica and I, we both came last year ’round this time. Only three months after our graduations.”

  As Sarah fought the numbness in her lips, she struggled to form a reply.

  “Veronica’s a nice girl.” Anna adjusted her bra, tugging at the strap to secure the phone tucked inside. “Up and eloped with a German guy she met on holiday. Happened about two months ago. But I guess you figured something like that, for the post to open up last minute and all.”

  Sarah nodded. The taffy-jammed gears in her brain slowly processed Anna’s comment.

  “So, where’s your stuff?” Anna asked.

  “Huh?” Was thirty-three considered old these days?

  “Your stuff.” Anna pointed at the empty space beside Sarah.

  Sarah shifted her purse to the crossover position. They’d have to come back to the discussion of how old she actually looked. “A mix-up with my luggage occurred.”

  “I get you.” Anna smirked. “Happened to a friend of mine who traveled to Amsterdam last year. They confiscated her stuff at immigration after the dogs got a—”

  “No.” Sarah stiffened her shoulders. “That’s not what happened. My luggage was lost. They said I should have it in two days.”

  “Don’t worry.” Anna winked. “I won’t tell Sister Maria.”

  She could protest but the beginnings of jetlag took hold, and if she didn’t find a bed soon, she might fall asleep standing. “Fine,” she said through a deep exhale. “Can we go now?”

  “Oh, right.”

  Anna scurried toward the exit almost as quickly as she spoke. The outside air was thick like a hot, steamy shower, and the sun burned bright in the sky. Fanning herself, Sarah took a seat in the back of a white, four-door minivan.

  Seated beside her, Anna poked her head between the driver and passenger headrests as she spoke in Italian.

  Sarah only caught the words “Balduina” and “grazie.”

  Leaning back in her seat, Anna picked up her cell phone and grinned as she used her thumbs to type. She turned to Sarah, her thumbs still tapping, but kept her gaze on Sarah. “Sorry I’m so jittery. Had three espressos before I came. I’m not used to getting up so early.”

  Sarah checked her watch. Seven thirty p.m. Either Anna was a serious night owl or an honest-to-god vampire. Considering she thought Sarah was old, vampire was off the table. Sarah studied her new co-worker. Anna was like a young Meredith on steroids—or on three espressos. Sarah couldn’t recall Meredith ever taking three shots, but if she ever did, her behavior wouldn’t be pretty.

  The taxi merged onto a highway ramp, and Sarah stared out the window. Buildings towered in the distance. Would they pass any sights along the way? The Coliseum? The Spanish Steps?

  “So, you’ll be teaching grammar in the lower school?” Anna asked.

  “Yes. You?” Sarah kept her gaze on the approaching buildings.

  “I teach maths, as they call it here, in the upper school. You know, trig, calculus, and the like.”

  The taxi hit a bump, and Sarah banged her head against the minivan’s roof. Rubbing her head, she reconsidered Anna. Maybe this tomboyish free spirit had more to her than Sarah had thought. “What brought you to the school?”

  “Well, you know. I wanted an adventure after I finished at MIT.” Anna popped her gum. “I was bored.”

  Bored? MIT? Sarah snapped up her dangling jaw. “Tell me, Anna. Did you know Italian before you came?”

  Anna typed on her phone and shook her head.

  Seeing Anna’s thumbs fly across the screen, Sarah could only imagine how fast the neurons were firing in her brain. “And how long did you take to learn the language?”

  “Three weeks. Well, four if you count written fluency.”

  Sarah opened her eyes so wide her lashes tickled her eyelids. Anna was no different from those quirky, disruptive kids in her classes—the ones who completed their worksheets faster than she could pass them out. Sarah marched those students straight to the gifted classroom. She narrowed her eyes at the spritely character across from her. “And did you find adventure here?” She silently estimated Anna’s IQ.

  “Yup.” Anna looked up from her phone. “I’ve been all over. Not just Italy. Switzerland. Germany. Have my sights set on England this year.”

  Excitement brewed in Anna’s black eyes, and a tingle rushed Sarah’s spine. Anna was exactly who she needed—a translator, a navigator, and most likely a walking encyclopedia of Italian history. “How do you find the time?”

  “We’re done at school by four, and Thursday the school closes at one. We’re supposed to use the free time for planning, but I always take off.” She paused, snuck a peek at her phone, and grinned. “Just watch out for Sister Maria. She’s a real stickler for rules.”

  During their brief telephone interview, Sarah hadn’t given much thought to the temperament of the nun and head of the school. As soon as she’d heard the words “Rome” and “living quarters provided,” she’d been sold. Sister Maria could have pronounced herself the satanic nun from a horror flick, and Sarah still would have accepted.

  “Like the two nights a week you’re on duty,” Anna continued.

  Sarah pressed her eyebrows together. “Duty?”

  “You know…monitoring the dorms. Just make sure none of the girls get in trouble. Oh, and lights out at ten, eleven for us.”

  “Wait.” Sarah held out a hand. “We have a curfew?”

  Anna nodded. “Sister Maria says we should set a good example for the girls. But”—she grinned—“just because your light is out doesn’t mean you have to be in your bed.” She pulled a key from her pocket and dangled it in front of Sarah. “Teachers have a master key, and I make use of mine.”

  Sarah slumped back into her seat and heaved a heavy breath. So much for catching an opera premier or stargazing from a quiet piazza. Anna’s phone rang to a hipster song Sarah didn’t recognize.

  “Excuse me.” She answered her phone and started chatting away in half Italian, half English.

  Leaving Anna to her strange gibberish of mixed languages, Sarah surveyed her surroundings. Meredith wouldn’t believe this. Hell, any American who hadn’t traveled out of the good, ole, barely two-hundred-year-old USA would. The city was a juxtaposition of old and new. Ruins—authentic, millennia-old, crumbling stone structures—stood next to modern, glass skyscrapers. Even the graffiti artists didn’t disti
nguish between the two. Spray-painted words, all indecipherable to Sarah, blemished new and old structures alike.

  The cab made a sharp right and ascended a steep street. The graffiti drifted into the background, and a green road sign indicated they were approaching Balduina, a suburb northwest of Central Rome. Sarah shifted in her seat to see out the rear window. Rome’s skyline at last appeared. Domed roofs, bell towers, and steeples melted into the setting sun. Which dome was St. Peter’s Basilica? Which was the Pantheon? Her heart raced. Did it matter? Soon enough, she would explore them all.

  At Via Massimi, the cab turned. A mix of residential and commercial buildings, as well as vast, green, hilly areas, obscured her view of the city. They were getting close. Sarah made a mental note of the local farmacia and supermacato. Seeing as she had no toiletries, she would need to visit soon.

  The cab stopped in front of a grassy courtyard enclosed by a stone wall. Three buildings flanked the corner lot, one of which bore a wooden sign etched with the words “Scuola Della Santo Theresa.”

  Anna spoke again with the driver in Italian. As she shoved her cell phone in her back pocket, she passed him some Euros. “Come on,” she said to Sarah. “I’ll show you your room.”

  They entered a stone building resembling an old church, with double wooden doors so large, Sarah’s father wouldn’t even have to bend his six-foot-eight frame to enter. She gazed up at a spiral staircase that ascended three stories to a large dome plastered in white stucco. At each landing, two wings spanned to the left and right.

  “One teacher is assigned to each floor.” Anna jutted her chin. “Veronica, the girl you’re replacing, had a room on the first floor.”