Cold Tuscan Stone David Wagner (acx book reading .txt) 📖

was about half the size of his hotel room, and considerably darker. He crossed himself, slipped a coin into the small metal box near the entrance, and took one of the cards with a picture of Saint Christopher. He would not be a traveler for long, he thought, as he tucked it into his coat pocket. The patron saint of travelers and a GPS. What more could a tourist need? Leaving the chapel he stepped onto Via San Lino, like his hotel named after the city’s most famous native son. Perhaps not that famous; everyone knows who the first pope was, but how many remember the second? Rick was thinking about Pope Linus when he heard the muffled ring of his cell phone. He smiled when he saw the number.

“I was just thinking of you, cara.”

“I’ll bet you were, Ricky.”

“No, Erica, really. I was thinking how wonderful it will be to see you, and now, how soon we’ll be together.”

“Really? Why is that? I mean, why is it going to be soon?”

Rick decided he probably should not go into any detail on the phone. Silly to think that anyone could be listening, but just the same…or was he trying to impress her. “I’ll tell you all about it when I see you, but it appears that my business here is ended, and ended successfully.”

“That’s great, Ricky.” He was pleased to hear the enthusiasm in her voice. If only it would last until he got back to Rome tomorrow. “I suppose that you’ll be dining tonight with one of the lovely ladies of Volterra.”

Rick grinned as he strode toward the hotel door. “I’m not a very fast worker, cara, it will once again be a lonely meal for me tonight, probably on the thin gruel they serve in the hotel.” Was he laying in on too thick? Not a chance, these Italian ladies love it. “The only sweet part of it will be thinking about being with you soon. I’m almost to the hotel now, and when I get to my room I’ll start packing my bag.”

“I can’t wait to see you too.” Rick heard another voice but couldn’t make out what was said. “Ricky, I’ll call you back, I have to deal with something here. Ciao.” The line went dead and Rick looked at the phone as if it would tell him what was going on. It was not like her to break off a call, especially when she was in an upbeat mood. He put the cell phone back into his pocket, pushed open the glass door of the hotel and started across the lobby to get his room key. A woman was standing at the desk talking with the receptionist, her back to Rick. She wore a fashionably long coat, red denim slacks, and brown boots gleaming like they just came out of the shoe store window. The desk clerk spotted Rick and said something to the woman, causing her to turn and watch him approach the desk, her head tilted slightly, a hint of a smile on her face.

“I guess I don’t need to call you back now, Ricky.”

***

“You have to tell me something, Ricky, anything. I came all the way up here, after all.”

“I was under the impression that you came here to see me.” The meal, like the afternoon, had started well, and Rick did not want it to unravel. With Erica things could unravel quickly.

“Of course I came up here to see you, but…insomma.”

It was the all-purpose Italian phrase to indicate frustration, and the way Erica had said it also made it irrefutable. He knew that when an Italian lays an insomma on you, about all you can do is hold up your hands and sigh, and that’s what Rick did. “When it’s over, which should be very soon, you will know all there is to know.”

He poured her more wine, a smooth Vernaccia with a slight hint of wood from its aging barrel, trying to nudge her off the topic. They were in what the woman at the hotel desk considered the best restaurant in town. “If you insist on eating somewhere other than our dining room,” she had added.

Her recommendation was proving to be a good one. It was a relatively new place, open only a year, which is an instant by Italian culinary measurement. The atmosphere was what one would expect, an ancient building completely modernized but maintaining its rustic feel. There was nothing rustic about the food, however. It followed the rule of thumb for high end ristoranti in Italy: the more words describing each dish on the menu the smaller the portions and the higher the prices. The first course Erica had ordered consisted of a few ribbons of fresh pasta tossed with even fewer crustaceans and some sprigs of something green. Rick’s pasta e ceci soup was tasty, but he finished it in what seemed like seconds. At least the bread was plentiful, and it was fresh and warm. Rick pulled a crusty piece from the basket.

“Erica, I appreciate your patience on this.”

“What patience?”

“Okay, let me rephrase that. I would appreciate having your patience. Let’s talk about something else, can we? How are your classes going?”

“That’s the last thing I want to talk about, Ricky. I came up here to get away from all that.” Her eyes indicated, to his relief, that she’d decided to ease up, at least for the moment. He understood her frustration, and in fact he was anxious to tell her everything. She went on. “What are we going to do tomorrow? Tell me what you’ve seen already in Volterra and we can decide.” He was actually thinking more of the evening than the next day, but he told her what little of the city, at least the tourist part of the city, he had seen in the last three days. He omitted his meeting with Santo in the cathedral, and the visit to the cave. “You haven’t even scratched the surface of this