Roman Holiday Read online

  Me too. I made a face. And wish I hadn’t.

  He turned to me with a questioning look. What didn’t you like about it?

  I groaned. Oh, there I go putting my foot in my mouth again. In my opinion, conversation would be more fun if people said what they thought. But, because I often do, I’m unfit for polite society. I suppose you’re going to say you loved it.

  I wondered if you found it as childish as I did.

  I guess ninety percent of movies these days are made for teens.

  The girl in the film was pretty, but, well—

  I’d been thinking, smart as a smoked salmon, but instead I offered, Intellectually challenged?

  How about dumb as a post?

  I laughed. Close enough.

  I suppose if we’re not going to watch the movie we can talk a bit more.

  I wanted to, but Hardcastle’s voice in my head kept saying, No, no, no. How was I ever going to study my guidebook at this rate? I pulled the book from under the napkin in my lap and showed it to him again. I’m supposed to be learning this.

  Todd looked crestfallen for a moment. I guess I ought to try to get some rest. It’ll be morning when we land. He pushed his seat back down, turned off his overhead light, and closed his eyes. See you in Rome.

  I hoped I hadn’t offended him. But he had picked the wrong moment to enter my life. I needed my job, and that required I know something about Italy before I got there. I opened the book to the section on ancient Rome. However, I’d had very little sleep the night before, and soon my vision began to blur, and I found myself yawning between every sentence I read. Maybe if I just rested my eyes for a few minutes...

  Roman Holiday

  Chapter 2

  I woke to hear the flight attendant ask if I wanted orange juice. I jerked my head up and realized it had been resting on Todd’s pillow instead of mine. In fact, sometime during the night, he must have raised the armrest between us, because I found myself way too close to him, his blanket over mine.

  Embarrassed, I pulled myself erect. Then straightened up so fast I bumped the seat in front hard enough to wake up the chubby businessman who sat there. If he wasn’t already awake. I leaned over the seat. Sorry.

  I repeated it to Todd. I didn’t mean to fall asleep on your shoulder.

  No problem, he said.

  I gulped down the orange juice, unfastened my seatbelt, and bent into a nutcracker to retrieve my purse under chubby-businessman’s seat. I muttered excuses again and tried to rise. Let’s face it, one cannot stand straight when the passenger in the row ahead lowers his seat back. Legs don’t bend that way. As I started to squeeze past Todd, he graciously got up and waited in the aisle.

  In the plane’s lavatory mirror, I discovered my face so adorned with creases I resembled the Before shots on Extreme Makeover . I washed my face anyway, brushed my teeth, and reapplied makeup then passed a comb over my head, grateful my auburn hair had a natural wave that needed no pampering. I hadn’t always appreciated that fact. Current Hollywood stars wore their hair long and straight. On the other hand, my hair would require an industrial-sized tube of gel before it could do that. Plus, traveling—to say nothing of Mr. Hardcastle’s old-fashioned ideas of what women employees should look like—made that impossible anyway.

  When I returned to my seat, I found that Todd had gone, having put our seat backs in the upright position, pulled down the armrest, and stored both our blankets and pillows under the seats. Once again, he’d been considerate. In a way, I’d been trying to discourage him and had ended up with my head on his pillow. What kind of message did that send? By the time he returned, the flight attendant was passing out coffee and croissants and conversation seemed unnecessary.

  Yet, I knew I had to say something. I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to fall asleep on your shoulder last night.

  Todd gave me one of his killer smiles. I’m glad you got some rest.

  I took a swallow of coffee and wondered what else to say.

  He solved the problem for me. Last night you mentioned you’re writing an article for a magazine.

  I took a deep breath. Yes. It’s called L.A. Life , and I usually write articles about what’s going on in town. This time I’m on an assignment to get a story about a particular tour of Rome, Florence, and Venice.

  I suppose you’ve traveled widely then?

  Not really. Until now, I stayed in the U.S. Most of my assignments involved automobile travel, out-of-the-way places, things like that.

  So, how come a magazine about Los Angeles wants to do a story about a tour of Italy?

  Our readers are interested in everything: politics, the entertainment industry—of course, because of Hollywood—but also the environment, business, gardening, health and fitness. I grinned after my laundry list of subjects.

  You forgot travel.

  And we don’t just travel around California. The magazine does a foreign travel article at least once a year, sometimes more often.

  Have you been to Italy before?

  No, never.

  What made them give you this job then? You said you don’t speak Italian, so you must be a terrific writer.

  I couldn’t bring myself to tell him the real reason, so I hedged. I thought I needed a longer trip, something totally absorbing. Like I had a choice of assignments. Plus, I’m single and have no one to hurry home to.

  I scolded myself for telling him that, although he’d probably already noticed my own lack of a wedding ring. Besides, it didn’t matter, because I’d probably never see him again.

  Well, I for one am glad you’re on this flight, Todd said. I enjoyed our conversation last night.

  My face burned. Why didn’t I meet men like this in L.A. on a dull weekend? I changed the subject. At least, I’m not driving long distances in a car this time.

  Don’t you like to drive?

  Not in Los Angeles. Traffic is horrendous, but I’m getting used to it. You can’t buy a carton of milk in L.A. without getting in a car.

  So tell me about this tour you’re writing about.

  It’s a very small tour, only ten people and a guide. We go in a van, not one of those huge buses, excuse me, motor coaches .

  What a great idea. Why haven’t I heard of it before? I thought in order to see Europe you had to join forty-five other people and follow a fat woman waving an umbrella.

  I grinned at that mental picture.

  And have your luggage in the hotel lobby by six a.m. to go to the next city.

  You mean like, ‘If this is Tuesday, it must be Belgium’? I remembered an old movie I’d seen on late-night television.

  Exactly. I did that once. We got rousted out of bed at six every morning to board the bus by seven. One morning, a guy said to me, ‘I didn’t know I’d see so many sunrises.’

  I had to laugh. I’m sure it’s more affordable that way. Seeing Europe with a huge crowd is probably better than not seeing it at all.

  I suppose you’re right.

  I should talk. If it weren’t for this assignment, I might never see Europe myself.

  I thought one had no choices other than a jumbo bus or a do-it-yourself expedition. I once took one of the former, which can only be described as traveling in close quarters with forty-five of your worst enemies. Since then, I’ve been traveling alone.

  Don’t you enjoy that?

  Yes, but I miss a lot, not having a guide point out the sights and tell me more than I wanted to know about them.

  I laughed. But the guidebooks tell you what to see, and I understand that museums have audio cassettes to rent.

  I guess I want more personal attention. Ten people sounds a lot better than forty-five. How does one get on a tour like yours? Could I join it?

  He wanted to join my tour? Was that good or bad? I let my common sense kick in, because it would never happen. You have to sign up well in advance. Probably there’s no room on this one. I rummaged in my handbag and found a card which I handed to him. Maybe you could sign up for one next yea
r.

  What if I want to go now? He glanced at the card.

  Well, then, I think you’re out of luck.

  When and where does it start? You said you wanted to get to Rome a day early.

  I think it’s too late. We meet at the hotel on Thursday morning.

  I’ll be there. Maybe they have room for one more. It can’t hurt to ask. He shrugged and gave me a boyish grin.

  I stared at him. Like my boss, he apparently made quick decisions. Hardcastle once admitted that not all of his had been right but that the quick ones worked out at least as often as those he mulled over for days. On the other hand, I tended to pray before making important decisions, at least when I had enough time to think. Did I need to pray now?

  I frowned. I’m afraid that it would be a waste of time. With only ten openings, it’s sure to be filled. Besides, I thought you were anxious to get to Lake Como.

  I planned to spend a few days in Rome anyway, so I’ll just phone the Grand Imperiale Hotel and say I’ll be arriving later. How many days is your tour?

  Three in each city.

  Even if there’s no room for me, can’t we spend some time together in Rome?

  My stomach tightened. I’d been far too cozy, albeit unintentionally, with a man I thought I’d never see again. Now, he wanted to spend time with me in Rome. Plus, he might become a member of my tour and be at my side for the next eleven days. Instead of talking to him, I should have read my book.

  And yet, I didn’t regret talking to him at all. I realized I wanted to see him again. How often does one meet such a nice person? He had a good sense of humor, and his easy manner made me consider him more like an old school chum than a stranger. Plus, we both missed our original flight and disliked the same movie. Good vibes were mounting up.

  I gave him a smile, tried to think of the right thing to do. Surely, God wanted me to be polite, so I told Todd the names of the hotel and the tour guide. Then the plane landed, the passengers erupted into the aisles, reclaimed their carry-ons from the overhead bins, and headed for the exits.

  Todd turned back to me. See you later.

  ****

  Somewhere between the plane and customs, I lost sight of him. After stopping at a kiosk to exchange some dollars for euros, I finally left the terminal and got into a waiting taxi.

  The driver sped off as if practicing for Le Mans , raced up narrow streets, and dodged other taxis, motor scooters, cars, and pedestrians. I clung to the armrest to keep from crashing from one side to the other, wondering if he got points if he pounded me into veal scallopini.

  Then a stoplight turned red, he came to an abrupt halt, and I almost landed on the floor. I imagined Rome must have a million accidents a year. Yet, I realized the driver had never sounded his horn, nor had any other driver, a decided difference from American cities.

  Rome had plenty of other traffic sounds, but, when I could concentrate on the scene outside, what I found most intriguing were the narrow streets all lined with parked cars. One vehicle could barely get between them, much less two pass each other. Although skillful, the driver’s maneuvering nevertheless made me as nervous as a child on a scary amusement park ride, and I pulled my gaze from the street in front to stare out the side window at the buildings that lined the narrow thoroughfare.

  They were so different from those in American cities. No skyscrapers. Most seemed only five or six stories high and didn’t resemble plain giant boxes as so many did in Los Angeles. They had crenellations at rooflines, decorations over the windows and doors, window boxes. Flowers.

  I wanted to write to the L.A. Chamber of Commerce and say, Why don’t we have buildings like this? No wonder Americans went to Europe for lovely scenery. At home we tore down everything old, beautiful or not, and built malls.

  Before I could drool all over the side window, the taxi made a sharp turn and then stopped abruptly in front of an ancient hotel with a uniformed doorman and modern brass luggage carriers. I climbed out of the taxi and probably gave the driver more euros than he deserved.

  The outside of the hotel screamed nineteenth century; the inside had been brought into the twenty-first with a row of sleek telephones on a side table and computers behind the check-in desk. A middle-aged man, whose badge identified him as the assistant manager, spoke excellent English and welcomed me with a broad smile. Then I rode up to my room in an elevator that reminded me of old movies: a metal cage that lived inside a curving staircase and required the occupant to close two sets of doors manually. Like the one Audrey Hepburn used in Charade .

  My large room boasted a king-sized bed covered with a dark-red brocade spread, walls of red silk, floors that I assumed were marble, and a twelve-foot-high ceiling that still showed a faded pattern of leaves, vines, and flowers. Perhaps eighteenth century? Then, through an adjoining door, I found a modern bathroom and my first bidet.

  Back in the bedroom, I decided I liked the way Italians lived and wanted to become a native. Actually, I reasoned almost immediately, most Italians probably didn’t live any differently than Americans of the same social status, even if their homes or apartments seemed fancier on the outside.

  With four children, my middle-class parents hadn’t been able to afford a grand house. We lived in a stucco box with three bedrooms and two baths, a standard home in our area. My two brothers shared one bedroom, and my sister and I shared another. We did no more squabbling than normal families, went to church on Sunday, took piano lessons, played school sports, and generally lived like everybody else. Sure, there were drugs going around in my high school and one girl I knew got pregnant, but I never felt tempted to disobey my parents’ rules about those things.

  I’d always liked studying, especially reading, and I knew from an early age that I’d have to save my babysitting earnings and birthday money to go to college, even with student loans. I wanted to be a writer, preferably work for a big newspaper, cover important stories all over the world, and win a Pulitzer Prize for journalism.

  Okay, so L.A. Life , a small local magazine, wasn’t exactly the Los Angeles Times , but it was a start. And thanks to Mr. Hardcastle inheriting a lot of money along with his dream of becoming a publisher, I had already caught my first foreign assignment. I gazed at my surroundings and relished the moment.

  I hung some clothes in the dark walnut wardrobe, put others in the drawers of the matching chest, and pulled on my nightgown. I threw back the bedspread and blanket and slipped between smooth white sheets. Although only noon, I barely had time to say my prayers before I was asleep.

  In my dream, I stood behind an airline counter where I told passengers, over and over, that on Wednesday the Wikity Airline and Storm Door Company only went to Budapest, with a stop in Atlanta. After I argued with the passengers, Todd appeared and proceeded to chase me around the streets of Rome dodging taxis, but he never caught me.

  Roman Holiday

  Chapter 3

  I woke to a dim room and street sounds coming from the open windows swathed in silky beige curtains. People were moving about on the street below, and my watch face showed it was late afternoon. In spite of the silly dream, my much-needed nap had refreshed me, and I realized except for that and dozing on the plane for a few hours, I had been up since four-thirty the previous morning.

  I don’t live alone. I have a roommate. Nora, a few years older and way serious, had been a good friend, always listening to my screw-ups with sympathy. She was also quiet, clean, and full of interesting trivia from a reading habit that would impress Alex Trebek. Her only quirk seemed to be occasionally buying a few goldfish and a bowl containing little plastic trees and rocks; the very things found in natural fishponds, right? However, the fish—during their brief lives in her care—were quiet too, and I never had to feed them or change their water.

  Not wanting to wake Nora when I left the apartment on Sunday morning, I hadn’t gone into the kitchen to fix any breakfast for myself, not even coffee. I remembered I’d run out of my own favorite brand, and Nora liked hers
strong enough to revive a corpse. As for breakfast, I thought all meals should be catered by Ben and Jerry, hardly appropriate at that hour. Now my stomach reminded me that, although Todd and I had dinner on the flight from Washington, I’d had nothing to eat since then except for the croissant that morning.

  The air from the open window told me the weather was warm, so I dressed in green silk slacks and a print blouse, tied a sweater around my waist, and set out to find food. Once more using the charming old-fashioned elevator, I descended to the lobby and headed for the hotel restaurant. I paused outside its glass-paned doors but saw no maitre d’ or any customers in the dining room. What happened to all the people who’d been in the lobby when I checked in? Did they all know something I didn’t?

  While I wondered how I could get a meal, a familiar voice came from behind me, and I turned to see Todd Matthews. So, we met again, after all.

  They don’t open until seven-thirty. I checked. I could eat a bear, myself. He, too, had changed clothes, wearing an open-necked blue shirt with his khakis.

  Seven-thirty? That’s a little late, isn’t it?

  Not in Italy. Some restaurants don’t open for dinner until eight.

  I sighed. I suppose we Americans are spoiled, being able to eat at any time of the day or night.

  Where’s a Burger King when you need one? he joked.

  I grinned. I guess I’ll have to wait, then, and hope my stomach doesn’t growl loud enough to disturb the natives. I started to leave, but Todd stopped me.

  By the way, thanks for the information about your tour. They had a cancellation, so I’m in.

  This announcement made me both happy and uneasy. On one hand, I enjoyed his company, but on the other, I hoped he didn’t think our meeting on the plane gave him some special connection to me. I hadn’t meant to fall asleep on his shoulder. Perhaps, unlike the one I’d just had during my nap, I’d been dreaming that time of something romantic. I read romance novels, so sue me.