She was a road warrior, and she wouldn’t have it any other way.
“I’m off to Ireland, a little place called Dingle, can you imagine? I can’t tell you how many bad jokes I’m already writing in my head about a place called Dingle. I was just location scouting down in Sicily, so I had to stop by and see my girl here, and how great that you’re here, too!”
“How long are you in town?” Daisy asked.
“Leaving tonight, can you believe it?”
“What?” I sputtered. “You just got here!”
“I know, I know, but Dingle is calling. I’ll try and get back here in a few months, or will you be back in Boston by then, Miss Thing?” She looked at me expectantly, no doubt thinking I’d be back home any day now.
Daisy also looked at me, full of the same questions.
“A few months, huh?” I shrugged my shoulders. “I’ll still be here.”
Fiona thumped her fist on the table. “Fuck yes!”
“Dear God,” I said, slinking down in my seat.
“Do you think they sing ‘Dingle Bells’ at Christmas?” Daisy asked.
AFTER WE GOT FIONA OFF to dingle, I spent a good portion of the night—and early morning—tucked away in my bedroom with the Italian phrase book that Daisy gave me when I first arrived.
I needed to beef up my Italian vocabulary—I was meeting Marcello’s parents, for goodness’ sake. People who were important to him, and I wanted to show them that I wasn’t just some American floozy who was only interested in a summer fling. It was more than that. We were more than that.
My heart sped up as I rehearsed in front of the mirror, practicing common phrases in what I hoped was perfectly accented Italian. The harder I tried, the more ridiculous I sounded. When Daisy casually asked why I was speaking Italian with a Russian accent, I decided to call it a night and give it another go in the morning when I was more rested and relaxed . . . and decidedly less nervous.
By morning, the nerves quadrupled.
My bags were packed and waiting by the door while I sat on the couch, bouncing my legs anxiously. Then I moved to the chair. Before long I was pacing. I stared out the window before moving back to sit next to my luggage on the small iron chair that Daisy hung her purse on every day. I glanced down at my stuff and smiled.
I had consolidated everything I needed into my large duffel and oversized slouchy leather purse that I bought one afternoon at La Sella, a family-run store that I stumbled upon after taking a wrong turn on the way to work. Camel colored and buttery soft.
“Stop petting your pretty purse,” Daisy said, strolling into the living room.
“I’m not petting it,” I replied, absently stroking the handle.
“Where’s all your stuff?”
“That is all my stuff,” I replied, crossing my arms over my linen dress.
“You’re kidding. Just one?” She picked up the large bag. “It’s light, too. Are you running a fever?”
I shook my head.
“Ah, you plan on being naked most of the time?” she marveled. “If so, my hat’s off to you.”
I laughed, rubbing at the erratic thumping in my chest. “Not sure naked is the best first impression. You’re forgetting that I’m meeting the family for the first time.”
“Wait, so you think you and Marcello will go the entire weekend without trying to throw a leg around? I don’t believe it, lemme see what’s in here. There’s no way you packed this light.” She laughed, unzipping the bag to peer inside.
I shrugged. “Not having to pack all of my hair products and tools means I don’t need a separate bag just for that. I brought flats, which are rolled up to save space, plus the pair I have on. Every outfit I packed is light with interchangeable separates—”
“Barring any sex or sauce accidents that you may have that’d throw a wrench in your interchangeable separates,” Daisy said, interrupting.
Standing, I jabbed a finger into her arm. “If you jinxed me, I’m coming home and kicking your ass, Daisy Miller!”
My phone beeped, alerting me to an incoming text from Marcello.
I am here.
“Holy shit, he’s here. I’m so nervous. How do I look? What if they hate me? What if they know I’m divorced? Well, practically divorced. Can a Catholic sense that sort of thing? Isn’t that a sin? What if they know we’ve already had sex! Like really dirty, curl-your-toes-and-scream-about-God sex! Oh my God. Is that a sin, too? Yelling God during sex?”
“Oh for Christ sake, calm yourself, woman,” she said, snapping her fingers to break me out of my nervous rant. “Yes, this is a big deal, but they’re going to love you. Who wouldn’t? You make him happy and that’s what they’ll care about. Not that you’re American or divorced or that you play with Marcello’s breadstick. But that you’re obnoxiously in love with him. Just don’t get caught doing the hanky-panky.”
She scooped me in for a hug before pulling me out the door. I stepped onto the small landing and ran into her, dropping my duffel on my feet.
“Hey! What the hell—oh,” I muttered when I saw what she was focused on.
There was Marcello, my Marcello, leaning against a sexy cherry-red convertible. The sun was hitting him just so, and that sight of him took my breath away. He was dressed in light-colored pants and a button-down shirt, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, his tan arms crossed over his chest, and my heart flipped.
How could I ever have thought this was a fling? There wasn’t any doubt in my mind that I was full-blown, hopelessly back in love with him. Actually, I don’t think I ever fell out of love. As much as I wanted to believe that I got over him the first time, I hadn’t.