Shut Up and Talk

Chapter 1

I called it divine guidance.

He argued it was dumb bloody luck.

#

"I'll call you when I get to Rome."

Tony shook his head at the sight of my rusty blue Fiat Uno. "If you get to Rome."

"Don't worry, I'll be fine."

One last hug for my cousin and I set off, ignoring the thumping sounds under the hood and the smell of burning oil. I pretended the billowing white smoke trailing my car like a parachute was an apparition. Three hours into my journey, on the highway between Valmontone and Rome, my Fiat gave one last hack before limping onto the shoulder and dying.

Tony had begged me to get a cell phone but of course I'd refused mainly because no one would ever call it, yet here I was, stranded at least an hour from Rome wishing I'd heeded his advice. The thought of walking to one of the emergency phones that dotted the highway made my stomach heave. People here thought the shoulder was another lane.

I locked the door just as a candy apple red sports car glided in front of my junk on four wheels. I wasn't sure if it was a Ferrari, Porsche, Maserati, or none of the above, but it looked fast and expensive and I was embarrassed by my lowly Fiat. The car purred as the driver slowed to a stop and killed the engine. I didn't take my sunglasses off. A good lawyer had taught me to read people's eyes and if the driver read mine, he'd sense my desperation.

A man stepped out and flung back his mane of imaginary cascading hair, the typical Italian hero rescuing the damsel in distress. My Valentino was a couple of inches taller than my five foot seven frame but he sauntered towards me like a six foot striker in Serie A, a mischievous smile spreading across his face. I couldn't help but notice that his blue jeans and polo shirt were more expensive than my car. This walking advertisement for the young and rich wanted to be my saviour and this one time I was going to set aside my pride and let him.

"Thank you for stopping." I used proper Italian, making an effort not to use Calabrese slang. "My car won't run and I wonder if you could call a tow truck."

His cheeks bloated with suppressed laughter. "A tow truck? This is Italy!"

Although he had great command of the language, he wasn't Italian. "Do you speak English?" I asked.

"My Italian that bad?" He reverted to our native tongue, except his accent was much different than mine.

"Pretty good but not your first language."

"Right," he said without a care. "Mind if I poke around under your hood?"

"No, not at all." He didn't know how much I appreciated his help.

He rested his sunglasses on the crown of his head, revealing sleepy blue eyes that stood out against his tanned skin. The few innocent freckles on his nose, the hint of rust in his short coarse light brown hair and dimples in his cheeks gave him a boyish quality. Given any other situation I would have flirted a little, but I was more concerned with my predicament.

"So you're Irish?"

"Must have been me eyes," he joked.

I chuckled. He seemed so inherently Italian. The machismo oozed from him.

"American?" he asked, fiddling around without glancing up. He worked on the engine like a game of Operation, making a concerted effort not to touch anything dirty.

"Canadian. Everyone makes that mistake."

"Oh, right."

I wondered if he was trying to impress me with his vast knowledge of antique automobiles. I humoured him by watching him touch the odd part, a twist here, a tap there, and then he shut the hood with an enthusiastic thud.