middle of the restaurant.
“Grazie, signorina,” he muttered.
“You are most welcome. What is good to eat?”
“Here, the fish.”
“Ah, of course.” No concerns here that the fish had sat in the back of a delivery truck for a dangerous amount of time. “You like pulpo?”
His eyes lit up and he nodded. A fellow octopus devotee. She loved it, too, but hadn’t wanted to order it in front of Giorgio since eating the chewy seafood was less than sexy.
“Okay, why don’t you order pulpo and whatever else you think is good.”
The octopus was cut into rounds and deep fried. Renata and Paolo chewed their way through an order. Really, she didn’t understand why people hated octopus. When it was fresh, it was almost tender.
“Good octopus, right, Paolo?”
He nodded.
“Does your boss like octopus?”
He finished chewing and gave her a considering look. Probably he’d been pumped for information before about Giorgio, but decided his master’s preference for invertebrate seafood was not a state secret and nodded. The few days she’d spent with Giorgio were much more juicy than his eating habits but she wouldn’t be one to blab.
The soup was tomato based with seafood and herbs with fresh garlic toast rounds plopped right on top and the main course was a whole fish cooked with white wine, lemon and herbs.
“He like this soup,” Paolo offered. “We make this at home.”
“It’s very good.” She noticed how Paolo never mentioned Giorgio or Vinciguerra by name and figured it was part of security. “What else do you eat at home?”
“Our part is more del nord—north. We like polenta, sausage, much butter and crema. Meat roasts and risotto. Good food.”
It was the longest speech she’d ever heard. Food was close to his heart. “You should write a cookbook for recipes from—” She’d almost slipped and mentioned Vinciguerra. “From your home.”
He made a self-deprecating sound. “Nobody need a cookbook. Everybody know how to cook.”
“Oh, no, we don’t.” Renata had to be the only Italian-American girl in New York who could goof up a pot of pasta. “Think about it. Everybody thinks Italian food is spaghetti and meatballs. You could do something different.”
“Okay, signorina.” He was humoring her.
“Look at me, Paolo. Does New York need another dress designer?”
He shrugged in puzzlement.
“I’ll tell you—it doesn’t. But I didn’t care. And now the, um, other signorina has a nice dress and is very happy.”
“Yes, is true. She tell me so. And tell me, and tell me.”
Renata snorted with laughter. Ol’ Paolo had a sense of humor after all. “I’m glad to hear it. A beautiful girl.”
“Si, si.” They smiled at each other at their mutual fondness for Stefania.
Renata took a sip of coffee but declined dessert, having filled up on the delicious focaccia in addition to the rest of her meal. If she stayed in Italy much longer, she was going to get a shape like her grandmother, who resembled a Magic 8-Ball in her black dresses.
Ah, well, all the walking and romping around with Giorgio would help. He’d shown no signs of slowing his pace, so she was running out of new lingerie to show him. She’d passed a pricey boutique earlier—maybe that was the place to go.
She set down her cup. “One more stop and then we can go back.”
Paolo nodded placidly, as if it were his life’s dream to follow her around Vernazza like some giant shopping cart with arms. There was a brief tussle when she tried to pay for lunch but apparently having a woman pay for his meal was more humiliating than carrying her packages. Renata gave in, figuring Giorgio would reimburse him.
She found the place she was looking for a couple blocks away. Paolo gave the display of bras and panties in the window a wary look.
“Don’t worry. You don’t have to go in.”
“Grazie, signorina.” He parked himself against a wall across the way where he could see the entrance.
Renata walked into the shop and immediately saw a bunch of possibilities. Racy, demure, corsets, nightgowns, garters, lace, satin…she pulled out her phone. “Hey, Flick, I’m standing here in a lingerie store and don’t know what to buy.”
“Something sexy, of course.”
“Well, duh, but what?”
“What did you bring with you?”
“A bunch of fancy bras, all my garter belts and a corset.”
“Okay, so you’ve got the slutty look covered, let me think.”
Renata made a sound of protest at the “slutty” bit but in the end had to agree.
“How about the total opposite?”
“They don’t sell flannel nighties here, Flick.”
“Not that. You’d sweat to death. How about a nice demure pure white nightgown, as in the ‘please be gentle with me, it’s my first time’ look.”
“Ah, the virginal wedding night, but isn’t that a bit cliché?”
“No more so than running off to Europe with a hot Italian guy. Trust me, ‘Virgin Princess’ is the way to go.”
Renata snorted. “Guys do love that, even if they know better.”
“It lets them pretend they’re breaking new ground, so to speak.”
“Okay.” Renata moved to a billowy rack of white garments. She pulled one off the rack. “Honestly, Flick, this first one here looks like I should be fleeing the manor on the moors in gothic-y terror as the brooding lord chases me.”
“That’s the idea, dummy. If the gothic-y chick has any sense, she’ll pretend to twist her ankle on a rock and let Lord Longmember catch her.”
“Really, Flick. Lord Longmember?” she muttered into the phone.
“Or Laird Lang-member, if you prefer the Scottish fantasy. What’s under his kilt gives new meaning to the phrase auld lang syne.”
Renata groaned and reached for another gown. “Hey, this looks promising.”
“Send me a pic.”
Renata hung it back on the rack and took a quick picture and emailed it to Flick. “What do you think?”
“Positively
