Page 54 of The Cruiser
Like I did with the smells of hot bread from the bakery, he’s sniffing down a path, looking for the true source. I keep my gaze straight, my voice level. “I did. Sorry for ducking out early. I feel much better.”
“I was concerned,” he says. “Your fatigue came on so suddenly.”
In my peripheral vision, his face betrays no emotion, but I hear it. His disbelief. I want to tell him how thrilled I was with his win. Tell him our kiss in front of a ballroom of strangers was a moment I’ll never forget. Tell him I was ready for messy. But if I tell him what happened, I’m not sure how he’ll react. I don’t want to relive the incident so for now, I keep it under wraps.
The pensive lines around his mouth will eventually go away.
For a few miles we drive in silence, and I watch the road signs whip past. Names of cities I recognize from the drive down—Arenzano, Savona, San Remo. I like that we’re not heading straight back to Monaco. I’m not ready to go back. But I also don’t know where we’re headed.
“So … where are you taking me?” I ask.
His smile warms the car. Warms all of me. “To a fairy tale.”
* * *
It most certainly is.
Fit for a princess, Dolce Aqua is a picturesque hamlet nestled along the Nervia River. The town is tiny and cobblestoned, with the magnificent ruins of a castle perched high on the hill above the river’s east bank. After parking the car, we meander along a narrow street to reach the famous bridge. It arches over the Nervia and morning sun dapples the river underneath, the water clear and slow moving. The sky is pure cobalt, not a cloud to be seen.
“The air,” I say, taking it in. “So pure.”
“The castle is one of the oldest in Italy. And famously painted by Monet. Here, take a look.”
We’ve crossed to the other side of the bridge where a weather-worn placard of Monet’s painting mirrors our identical view of the castle and bridge.
“Wow, 1884,” I say, reading aloud. “And it looks the same. So pretty. Do you mind if I snap a photo of us with the castle?”
“Sure.” He stands stiffly beside me, and on my screen his smile is forced and uneven.
“You have to at least look like you’re enjoying yourself.”
“I am,” he insists. “I just hate having my photo taken.”
“You have great angles. I doubt you ever take a bad photo. Let’s try this. On the count of three, we’ll both smile.” I hold up the phone and tickle his belly after the count of two, getting a laugh out of him just as I snap.
I show him the screen after. “See? Now that’s a smile.”
He shades the phone with his hand to assess. “Nick trick. You’re a natural. Thank you for making me look good.”
I study the screen, his mathematician’s dream of a face. We both look amazing. Him in a cornflower-blue dress shirt, the cream of my dress a balanced counterpoint. Natural smiles with beauty behind us. It’s a perfect capture.
“Can you send it to me?” he asks.
Across the street, a small plaza ringed with mom and pop restaurants starts to hum with locals and tourists on the lookout for a meal. Hard to believe it’s already noon.
“Only if I can buy lunch. I’m starved and could use a glass of wine.”
“If you prefer,” he says, “my friend Jean-Claude has a vacation home in the hills. It’s small and cozy but always stocked, and I know where the key is. He won’t mind if we drop in. The view is fantastic.”
I text him the photo and tuck my phone away. “Sold, as long as there’s wine.”
“It’s Italy,” he says. “If there’s water, there’s wine.”
