The Italian Letters. Linda Lambert

      It was a short walk back down a narrow street, hugged by fourteenth-century stone houses, to the fish restaurant Morgan had suggested. The theatrical owner and chef came from Napoli, and therefore was immediately held suspect by locals. The Ristorante Vladimiro ai Bastioni boasted the best Napolitano seafood outside of Rome . . . and Napoli, of course. Two diners at the table in the intimate room. One was her apprehensive father.

      “Good evening, Dad,” she said in a lighthearted tone. “I see you’ve started on our bottle of wine.”

      The other man turned toward her. She gasped. “Oh . . . Amir! What a surprise! I didn’t know you were here.” Her voice sounded slightly accusatory.

      Morgan looked puzzled.

      Amir met Justine’s questioning stare. “Do you think I’m following you?”

      Justine blushed. “It entered my mind.”

      “Whoa! Hold on here!” Morgan nearly shouted. “If I’d thought there was something between you two, I’d never have hired Amir without talking with you, Justine.”

      “There is nothing between us.” Justine’s voice was confident.

      Amir looked wounded. He turned toward the mustard stucco walls, dotted with framed photos and commendations to the owner as a much younger man. “Quite an array of accomplishments,” he noted, and picked up his wine. “Your father’s offering me a job. Archaeologist on the new dig.”

      Morgan glanced at each of his guests, one at a time. He squinted. “You do know that I’ve known this young man since he was a mere whippersnapper.”

      “Of course, Dad. I was just caught off guard.”

      “Now for the wine. A little celebration,” Morgan said. “Mastroberardino Lacryma Christi del Vesuvio Bianco, tears of the Christ. I thought it apropos. Made from the Coda di Volpe, tail of the fox, to be exact.” He poured them each a glass. “Did you get some rest?” he asked, cautious with his daughter.

      “I couldn’t rest until I went to the museum. Remarkable!”

      “How so?” asked Amir.

      “I visited it on my first day in town,” Morgan interrupted. “Impressive structure, but not much of a museum. At least, it doesn’t live up to the reputation of the necropolis itself.” He sipped his wine, watching them closely over the rim of his glass.

      “You asked why I found it remarkable, Amir,” she said, ignoring her father. “I found it not only informative but moving. Particularly the Sarcophagus of the Married Couple. There seemed to be such an equal, respectful relationship among Etruscan men and women.” Picking up her wine glass, she held it suspended in her right hand until she concluded her impassioned description, then she took her first sip.

      Amir nodded, captivated by her passion.

      “You read too much into things, honey,” said Morgan. A flicker of regret moved through his eyes.

      “Perhaps you’re right.” Her comment surprised both of them. Morgan relaxed into a familiar grin. He didn’t anticipate what was coming.

      “Women are gifted with intuitive powers denied to men. Perhaps men are just defective women.” She saluted the two men with her glass, winked, and suggested that they order.

      Amir laughed wholly, a laugh that Justine loved, and looked around for the menu.

      “So true, Justine. So true.” Morgan also laughed with unrestrained fullness. “We don’t order here. Giuseppe tells us what we want to eat.” He motioned to the owner, who walked toward the table, his majestic stride practiced for a more abundant audience. “What delightful dishes do you have for us tonight, my friend?” Morgan had become a regular patron, one who was treated with the reverence of family.

      “Calamari Ripieni and Pescespado o Tonno Alla Stemperata, signore. Giuseppe’s best. Only for you.” He clustered his chubby fingers into a bud and pressed them to his pursed lips. His smile stretched from cheek to cheek.

      “Squid and tuna?” Justine asked, turning toward her father.

      “Tonight, no tuna. Swordfish, my lovely signorina. Calamari stuffed with pecorino and prosciutto,” Giuseppe said in his rich Genoan accent. “And who is this beauty with you tonight, signore?”

      “Ah, forgive me. Meet my daughter, Justine.” Giuseppe bowed deeply and kissed Justine’s hand. His gallantry charmed her. “And, this young man is my colleague, Amir El Shabry.”

      Amir smiled and bowed slightly.

      “Everything sounds wonderful,” Justine assured him, flashing her most beguiling smile.

      The chef came to stand next to Giuseppe. “My friend here prepares the swordfish with olives and raisins and capers. Delicious,” said her father. The rotund chef hurried back to his open kitchen.

      Two hours later, compliments about the glorious seafood paid, the three of them exhausted from speculating about the work to come in Cerveteri, the evening was winding down. With the second bottle of wine, tensions had relaxed and the three had become playful, recalling the years Morgan had taken Lucrezia and Justine with him on dig assignments in Egypt. Amir had tagged along, fascinated by Justine’s buoyant crinoline skirts, at children’s parties at his family home in Cairo. Morgan’s partner and mentor, Amir’s grandfather, Ibrahim El Shabry, had brought the families together on festive occasions. Being Egyptian, Lucrezia had forever been the guide and the star of any occasion.

      Justine watched Amir closely as he picked at his dinner. Both Justine and her father knew that Egyptians tended to shy away from exotic cuisine. She had almost forgotten how handsome he was with his rumpled, curly black hair and piercing dark eyes. So sensual, so sexy.

      “I’ll walk you back to Anna’s. That’s where you’re staying—right?” asked Amir.

      “Thank you, Amir. Dad—you coming?”

      “I’ll nurse my brandy.” Morgan pointed to the owner. “Giuseppe and I have some lies to exchange.”