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  Roman Holiday

  Roman Holiday

  I’m Todd Matthews. If I’m bothering you,

  just tell me to shut up.

  I would never do that, even with Hardcastle’s threats running around in my head. Besides, since it would be hard to ignore someone seated so close to me during the long flight—I don’t sit this close to a date in a movie theatre—I thought we might as well be friendly.

  I put out my own hand. Darcy Gibson.

  I gather you’re traveling alone. He took my hand briefly. Business or pleasure?

  Business. I’m researching an article for the magazine I work for. And you?

  I’m on vacation, using my frequent-flyer miles. I missed a flight because my program apparently has more blackout days than a punch-drunk boxer.

  I liked his sense of humor. Yet before I could answer, the flight attendant reappeared, pushed a cart down the aisle, and asked what we’d like for dinner.

  After the flight attendant left, Todd continued the conversation. After a day or two in Rome, I’m going to Lake Como to paint.

  As in pictures? You’re an artist?

  Part-time, more of a hobby, really. In winter, I freelance in computers and electronics, and in spring and summer, I paint and sell my work in galleries in Scottsdale and San Francisco.

  Are you famous? Should I have heard of you? Although impressed, I thought him too young to be famous. However, as a person who never follows art trends, I wouldn’t know anyway.

  He threw back his head and laughed, a rich, throaty sound. Good heavens, no. It’s a nice dream, but I’m not that ambitious. I just like to make enough money to support my lifestyle. I’m somewhat of a loner.

  Roman Holiday

  by

  Phyllis A. Humphrey

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.

  Roman Holiday

  COPYRIGHT 2009 by Phyllis A. Humphrey

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author or The Wild Rose Press except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

  Contact Information: [email protected]

  Cover Art by Kim Mendoza

  White Rose Publishing

  a division of The Wild Rose Press

  PO Box 708

  Adams Basin, NY 14410-0706

  Visit us at rosepublishing.com

  Publishing History

  First White Rose Edition, 2009

  Print ISBN 1-60154-644-0

  Published in the United States of America

  Dedication

  Roman Holiday

  Chapter 1

  I landed the assignment to go to Rome, not because I was the best writer on the staff of L.A. Life Magazine , nor because I had seniority. I was actually the most recently hired reporter. Nor was I picked because I could speak Italian, because I can’t. My incredibly important skill was availability. Time was short, Jason was on his honeymoon, Pamela was very pregnant, and no less than three staff members were out with the flu, or so they said. In May, go figure.

  Even so, my boss, Mr. Hardcastle—the first part of his name should give you an idea of his personality—hesitated before giving his assent long enough to grow mold on my sweaty palms.

  You aren’t going to mess up again, are you? he asked.

  Like I planned to. Like climbing into the window of a strange hotel room on my previous assignment for the magazine had been a well-thought-out decision. In fact, I’d had no intention of climbing into anyone’s window. That was the unavoidable result of making a serious miscalculation. Which, I fervently vowed, would never happen again.

  No, of course not, I said, straightening to my full five feet six inches and shaking my head. Which unfortunately set my ponytail swinging, not a good thing.

  Hardcastle sighed. So go already. And don’t forget this is your last chance. My secretary will give you your tickets and itinerary. Take your laptop and be sure it works this time.

  I’d only made that mistake once, so he had no call to remind me. And anyway, even without the laptop, I’d remembered almost the entire interview from that assignment, and my article was highly praised in some circles. So, I smiled and hurried from his office before he could change his mind about Rome.

  During the next few days, I found my never-used passport; had my hair trimmed; and packed my itinerary, tickets, and laptop. I tucked my personal notebook, into which I planned to record every minute of my very first overseas experience, into my new, seriously oversized handbag and went to bed before nine in order to catch a very early flight out of Los Angeles the next morning.

  However, as so often happens with me, I couldn’t fall asleep for hours. My brain wanted to replay the episode of the window, perhaps to reinforce in my conscious mind that the entire thing had not been my fault.

  I was interviewing a minor local politician running for office in the next election and sat opposite him in an armless chair in his hotel room. I asked questions, and he answered in a soft voice. As I leaned forward to hear him, my skirt began to hike up over my knees. I attempted to pull it down, dropped my notebook and bent to pick it up, and suddenly he was all over me like a case of hives.

  I managed to get out of his clutches and protested in no uncertain terms, but he would have none of it. We did a little cha-cha around the sofa, and then, after slowing him down by pushing an end table in front of him, I grabbed my purse and dashed into the bedroom and slammed the door. I knew that old hotel. The windows were actually French doors and led to outside balconies. My aim was to get out there and call for help.

  He didn’t follow me—maybe he fell over the end table—but it was dark and the balcony was two stories above the street, too far for jumping, even if I were an Olympic athlete instead of a person whose only exercise is changing the sheets on her bed.

  However, the next balcony being merely inches away, I decided to swing over to that one, enter the next room by way of that French door, and make my way back to the hotel hallway. The next room, which I could only see through a crack in closed drapes, seemed dark and empty. I paused and reasoned that even if someone were staying there, chances were slim it would be another man bent on hanky-panky.

  So I hiked up my skirt, swung my legs over the balcony railing, and gently tried the handle of the door. It was jerked open from inside, and I was face-to-face with a fledgling actor in town to audition for a part in an upcoming film.

  Of course, I didn’t know his occupation at the time; that was revealed in the next day’s newspapers. Even so, this could all have ended unobtrusively except that someone had apparently called a paparazzo, who flashed a bright light at me. I froze like a safecracker with his hand on the dial, Mr. Actor pulled me into his room, and I found myself among a dozen people who had been watching a film clip on the room’s DVD player.

  I was labeled a groupie, handed an eight-by-ten glossy autographed by the actor, and laughingly sent on my way.

  Except someone had taken pictures, and, as a result of the sudden publicity, Mr. Actor got a role in an action-adventure film. On the other hand, while I was climbing over the balcony, my handbag had slipped off my shoulder, and the photographer found the magazine’s business cards. Mr. Hardcastle was not amused.

  I wrote up the interview as if none of this had occurred, because I preferred to think the politician had perhaps never behaved that way before. Also, I’m a Christian and lean toward forgiving tho
se who trespass against me.

  ****

  I flew from Los Angeles to Washington, D.C. several hours after I expected to. Some of the first class seats had developed problems requiring the ministrations of a maintenance crew, and we were unable to board for some time. As usual, my luck had decided not to be a lady that day.

  The airline generously offered us coupons for Starbucks Coffee while we waited. Nevertheless, I missed my connecting flight, so evening arrived before I landed in Washington, boarded a Boeing 747 to Rome, and plopped into a window seat in coach.

  Almost immediately after stowing my suitcase in the overhead bin and tucking my laptop and purse under the seat in front of me, I realized the man standing in the aisle of the plane spoke to my seatmate in French. I couldn’t speak Italian, but I had studied French in school and mentally translated, Vous êtes français? as the English, You are French?

  Having received a Oui, in response, the man—who was slender, sandy-haired, and dressed casually in khaki pants and a knit pullover—spoke again to the shorter, dark-haired man currently sitting in the aisle seat next to me.

  Voulez-vous à changer de place avec moi? Sandy-hair said next. He accompanied it with gestures pointing first to the seat the Frenchman occupied and then the one in the center five-seat row ahead.

  The Frenchman bobbed his head, said, Merci, and immediately retrieved a brown tote bag from in front of his feet and rose to make the switch. After which, Sandy-hair dropped into the just-vacated seat next to me and put his own bag under the seat in front of him. He turned to me and, as if he felt the need to explain, said, in American English that he’d obviously grown up speaking, He’s traveling with his wife and daughter, and I thought they’d prefer to sit together.

  How very nice of you. I smiled briefly and turned toward the window, where my vision took in only the sight of the currently-unmoving Jetway.

  Sandy-hair seemed compelled to offer more explanation. I noticed they didn’t have seats together in the first place. Maybe they booked late or, like me, they prefer the bulkhead row and couldn’t get three seats together.

  I thought his earnest speech made some reply necessary, so I said, But now you’ve given up your own seat in the bulkhead row.

  He grinned. It seemed like a good idea at the time. You know, ‘Do unto others—’

  He looked embarrassed that his generosity had been appreciated, and I admired that. I also found him quite good-looking and younger than I had first thought, maybe early thirties or even late twenties.

  He was also quite tall, which made his giving up his seat even kinder. I suppose you like the extra legroom?

  Plus the fact that there’d be no one sitting in front of me to put the back of his seat down in my lap.

  I know what you mean, I said, although I hadn’t done as much traveling by air as this man apparently had.

  It can be claustrophobic, he added. These coach seats are narrow to begin with, and when that happens I feel as if I’m sitting in a coffin. He shrugged as if he’d survived worse.

  I felt rapport building then checked myself. I was not there to get acquainted with a good-looking man. Hardcastle had meant it when he said this assignment might be my last. I mustn’t blow it.

  Do you speak French? Sandy-hair asked next.

  Un petite peu. I put my forefinger and thumb together, like holding a pinch of salt.

  He grinned again, a really sincere, friendly grin. In France perhaps?

  No, in high school about a thousand years ago.

  If you’re like me, a hundred anyway. Do you also know a wee bit of Italian?

  Unfortunately, no. I liked his looks, his smile, and his courtesy, but what I didn’t need just then was a long conversation to distract me from what my boss expected me to do. I was rescued from having to say more, because the flight attendant came down the aisle reminding us to fasten our seatbelts. The jumbo jet began to move.

  That’s too bad. It’s seven hours to Rome, and I have an English-to-Italian dictionary in my bag. Would you like to borrow it?

  Thanks, but I have to read this. I held up the guidebook of Rome, Florence, and Venice I had promised Hardcastle I’d read on the flight.

  He held up a paperback mystery, one of those modern ones where the women practice karate as well as they pronounce it.

  I didn’t comment, and he nodded and turned aside, as if assuming I’d rather not be disturbed. That was the message I needed to send although I was regretting it every second.

  While the plane taxied to the runway and finally took off, I thought of what Mother always said when she knew I headed out on a traveling assignment: that a single woman traveling alone had better be prepared to be hit on by men. As if I didn’t know. In my twenty-five years, I’d had enough encounters with men to know that some did, and usually not because they expected me to be the most witty and erudite of companions. Besides, the memory of the incident with the would-be politician remained only too fresh in my thoughts. He definitely had something else on his mind than wondering if I shopped on Rodeo Drive. However, I hadn’t expected to fend off a male so soon on this trip. I thought I might have to wait until I got to Italy where they allegedly pinched women’s bottoms as a matter of culture.

  I didn’t really feel that this particular man had behaved at all aggressively, especially when we were to be seatmates for seven hours. A little polite conversation undoubtedly goes with that territory. I too believed in the Golden Rule. In fact, keeping unsuitable men from trying to seduce me often made sticking to my religious beliefs a sizeable chore. I sometimes considered myself a misfit: a virgin in the new millennium when Americans are allowed, if not obliged, to be hedonistic.

  The flight attendant appeared again and took drink orders. I asked for 7UP then put my book in my lap and lowered the tray table so she could put a package of nuts and a paper napkin on it. My companion did the same, and I noticed he’d ordered 7UP as well. I couldn’t help feeling good about him.

  The smile must have done it. He offered his hand. I’m Todd Matthews. If I’m bothering you, just tell me to shut up.

  I would never do that, even with Hardcastle’s threats running around in my head. Besides, since it would be hard to ignore someone seated so close to me during the long flight—I don’t sit this close to a date in a movie theatre—I thought we might as well be friendly.

  I put out my own hand. Darcy Gibson.

  I gather you’re traveling alone. He took my hand briefly. Business or pleasure?

  Business. I’m researching an article for the magazine I work for. And you?

  I’m on vacation, using my frequent-flyer miles. I missed a flight because my program apparently has more blackout days than a punch-drunk boxer.

  I liked his sense of humor. Yet before I could answer, the flight attendant reappeared, pushed a cart down the aisle, and asked what we’d like for dinner.

  After the flight attendant left, Todd continued the conversation. After a day or two in Rome, I’m going to Lake Como to paint.

  As in pictures? You’re an artist?

  Part-time, more of a hobby, really. In winter, I freelance in computers and electronics, and in spring and summer, I paint and sell my work in galleries in Scottsdale and San Francisco.

  Are you famous? Should I have heard of you? Although impressed, I thought him too young to be famous. However, as a person who never follows art trends, I wouldn’t know anyway.

  He threw back his head and laughed, a rich, throaty sound. Good heavens, no. It’s a nice dream, but I’m not that ambitious. I just like to make enough money to support my lifestyle. I’m somewhat of a loner.

  I assumed his comment, and the fact he wore no wedding ring, meant he wasn’t married. Not that I considered him an eligible man. I hoped to meet one sometime, just not now when my job was at stake. Still, I liked the fact he wasn’t one of those married men who apparently justified an extra-marital fling as long as he left his wife behind in a different zip code. Of course, once the plane landed, I�
�d probably never see Mr. Matthews again.

  Did you bring your paints and an easel with you on this trip?

  Too much hassle and not necessary anymore. He bent down, unzipped his black nylon carryall, and pulled out a camera. Digital. He offered it to me. I can take as many as six hundred pictures and store them on tiny discs. Then when I get home, I put them into my computer, print out larger versions, and paint from them in my studio.

  While I turned the small camera over in my hands, he joked, Ain’t technology wonderful?

  Although I didn’t own a digital camera myself, practically all my friends had one, and I knew how they worked. But I could tell he liked talking about it.

  Let me show you. He took the camera from me, leaned back into the aisle a little way, and pointed it at my face. He clicked a button on the camera and returned it to me.

  I saw myself in the tiny screen. That’s remarkable. I handed it back to him. So, now you can erase it and take a picture of something else?

  I could, but maybe I want to keep this one. In case I ever want to paint a beautiful redhead.

  Although I’d been called that before, I think my hair is more brown than red; but who am I to disagree with someone who puts beautiful in front of it? My face grew warm. I’d had my share of compliments, but somehow I enjoyed this one more than usual. Before I could answer, the flight attendant reappeared and placed our meals on the tray tables.

  While we ate, we talked of weather and the unique problems connected with travel. I felt an affinity for him already. We both remembered a smattering of high school French, and he hadn’t ordered wine or other liquor. Perhaps, like me, he didn’t drink. However, although I liked Todd’s company, I kept thinking about the guidebook I should be reading. Then I rationalized almost immediately that Hardcastle surely didn’t expect me to study instead of eat. I told myself I’d open the book as soon as the dinner service was over.

  When coffee was served and the in-flight movie came on, Todd looked up at the screen and sighed. I’m afraid I’ve seen this before.