“The divorce was over a year before this date, and my friend was trying to convince her friend to get out there, to try dating, to stop staying in her house like an old woman.”
“Good advice.”
“Against my better judgment, I agree to take this woman out for coffee.” She points at me. “See? I’ve already beaten you.”
“Points for you.”
“You say your date started talking and never stopped? Mine startedcryingand never stopped.”
“Oh, no.”
“Oh, yes. And I don’t mean little sniffles and tears running quietly down her cheeks. I mean big, loud sobs. Blowing her nose. Streaking her mascara.” Marina’s eyes are wide as she tells the story, and it’s my turn to crack up.
“Oh my God.”
“That’s right. Oh my God is right because how was I to get away? The woman is clearly heartbroken. Going through something. And the people in the coffee shop thought it was me! ThatIwas breaking her heart. Oh, the looks they gave me. You should have seen. So, I couldn’t just get up and leave, I had to hold her while she cried.”
“No!” I say, drawing it out as I continue to laugh, and thenwe’re both cracking up so hard, we’re doubled over. She can’t catch her breath, and my eyes are leaking tears. It takes a few moments for us to collect ourselves, but we’re both still grinning. “I don’t know which of us wins worst date,” I say. “I thought mine was pretty clearly the winner, but yours might take it.”
“We can call it a draw,” she says, her expression warm. She glances at her watch. “Ready for our next stop?”
I am and I’m not, I realize. I’m learning that just about anything new with Marina is either fun or exciting or breathtaking or all three. But also? I could sit here with her, sipping espresso, gazing out over the River Tiber, and telling each other stories from our lives for the rest of time, and I’d be perfectly content.
I push away from the table and stand. “Ready. Lead the way.”
Marina holds out her hand, and I don’t think twice before grasping it. Even as warning bells are chiming in my head, I know I’ll go wherever she leads me.
Chapter Nine
The band is called Amore e Vino. Love and Wine. I have no idea why, but I kind of like it. The music is mellow but modern, sort of an amalgamation of jazz and new age. The lead singer sounds like a little bit of Diana Krall mixed with a little bit of Amy Winehouse. Sultry, deep, and soulful.
Marina somehow got us a seat up front, so our table for two had a fabulous view as we ate our dinners and sipped the most delicious Sangiovese I’ve ever tasted. Now our plates are gone, and we’re both thinking about dessert but haven’t decided yet. Our wine glasses are refilled by the super stealthy waitress who I swear keeps materializing out of thin air, and I sip as the band does an impressive cover of Adele’s “Easy on Me.” Again, the main word I think of to describe the lead singer’s voice is soulful. There is such depth of emotion in her notes, she moves me to almost-tears, leaving a lump of emotion sitting in my throat.
They finish the set with that song, and the lead singer announces they’ll take a break and be back. I look at Marina with my eyes still wet. “Wow.”
“Pretty amazing, huh?” She says it with a proud smile, and just as I’m wondering about that, she stands up and the lead singer approaches our table to wrap Marina in a clearly ecstatic hug.
The woman squeals something in Italian, then pulls back to hold Marina at arm’s length. She’s slightly older than Marina, but not much, and she’s dressed in all black—wide-leg pants, loose-fitting tank, a drapey scarf or sweater or shawl thing that Ican’t really discern—and her ash blond hair is piled on her head. Her eye makeup is dark and heavy, but somehow, looks just right on her.
Marina holds her arm out in my direction, and I stand. “Gina DiGiuseppe, meet my friend, Lily Chambers. Lily, this is my dear, dear friend, Gina.”
We shake hands over the table, and Gina sizes me up in a way that isn’t even a little bit subtle. “It’s nice to meet you,” she says, her English perfect but her accent much heavier than Marina’s.
“Likewise,” I say, then gesture to the corner where the rest of the band is standing and chatting. “You guys are terrific. Seriously. Wow. Wonderful.”
Gina looks like she’s not sure if I’m being sincere or blowing smoke up her ass, as my dad would say, so I stop talking and glance at Marina, who I’m pretty sure levels a look at Gina. It’s like they’re having a conversation without any words.
Gina speaks in Italian, and Marina answers her in English. This happens twice before Gina sighs loudly and switches to English, and I realize Marina is doing it for my benefit. I add another tick in her Win column in my head. They chat a few minutes longer, then Gina excuses herself to the ladies’ room, and Marina and I sit back down.
“I appreciate what you did just then,” I say.
Marina takes a sip of her wine. “What did I do?”
“I have a cousin who married a guy that’s French Canadian. He speaks fluent French, but my cousin doesn’t. Whenever his family comes to visit, they all speak French and he speaks it back to them while my cousin sits there with no idea what’s being said. I witnessed it once and found it so incredibly rude. So, thank you for not doing that.”
“It’s one hundred percent rude,” Marina says. “And Gina”—she hesitates for a moment before continuing with—“doesn’t love Americans.”
“No? How come?”
