Page 11 of Gelato at the Villa (Suitcase Sisters #2)

I didn’t respond because I didn’t want another mini intervention like we’d had last night about my job. I especially didn’t want to put the topic of my personality flaws on the table when we had much nicer things on the table at the moment.

Claire left her statement as it was, without further encouragement or counseling, and lifted her wine glass. “Ombra!”

I picked up my glass and tapped the side of hers. “I thought in Italy you’re supposed to say ‘cin cin’ or ‘salute’ or something like that.”

Claire shook her head and slowly took a sip.

“I learned something from a guy at the counter. He said they call this wine ombra because it means ‘under.’ The story is that when Venetian workers like fishermen and gondoliers gathered at St. Mark’s Square for lunchtime, vendors lined up to sell wine.

The merchants moved their carts along with the shadow of the tower because everyone wanted to be under the shade of the campanile.

Do you see? Ombra. Under the shadow of the bell tower. Don’t you love that?”

I nodded and took a sip of the red wine, allowing it to float on my tongue before I swallowed. A hint of sweet cherries and a touch of almonds lingered. “This is nice.”

Claire had already bitten into her first cicchetti.

She nodded as she chewed. I had chosen the same one.

The small, open-faced appetizer was a slice of a baguette-type of bread and was spread with a creamy white paste with a thin slice of cucumber.

On top was half of a green olive with a red pimento.

“I wonder what this is,” I said. “It’s good.”

“I don’t know the name, but I think it’s cod. They slow-cook the fish until it becomes a paste. I like the added parsley.”

My next cicchetti had two different kinds of thinly sliced meats that looked like ham with a bit of white cheese and two short sprigs of asparagus tips.

With a sip of wine, it was an amazing taste sensation.

Claire evaluated the ingredients of the third cicchetti to be pumpkin puree, sliced egg with a thin sliver of a truffle, and edible tiny flowers on top.

Whether she guessed correctly didn’t matter.

It was delicious. I could have eaten three more of that one.

Claire took her last sip of wine and twirled the stem of the small glass between her fingers. “I’m surprised how full I am. I thought we’d need to go back for at least one more round.”

“Maybe it’s because the bites were so good. I feel satisfied too.”

“But are you too full to improve our splurge score?” Claire gave me a mischievous grin. “If we hurry, we can get to a gelateria near here before noon.”

“Oh, if we must.” I mimicked the preteen roll of the eyes that my daughter had been perfecting lately.

Claire wedged her way through the lunch crowd to the door.

My morning purchases were in a lightweight backpack that I opted to wear in front due to the crowds.

My cross-body bag was also in front of me for safety.

I felt like an oddly pregnant woman as I tried to move through the people and catch up with Claire.

I finally understood why my mom had been so insistent on these specific travel items. It would be so easy to lose something or be pickpocketed in the swarms we moved in.

It struck me that my mom had contributed a lot to our trip with travel gear, clothing, money, and advice.

But she did those things out of kindness, not expectation.

I was the one reverting to standards from previous trips that had happened twenty years ago.

Standards of how to behave in front of other people and how to present myself.

But this wasn’t her trip. It was ours. Mine and Claire’s, and we could do whatever we wanted. I needed to hold on to that thought the next time I slid back into thinking I wasn’t doing things correctly.

Gelato, I decided at that moment, was useful for clearing the palate as well as clearing out old ways of thinking.

So when it was my turn to order at the gelateria, I selected two scoops of limoncello gelato.

My first taste was so tart, I could barely stop squinting.

I hadn’t expected the vibrancy or the lingering tingle on my tongue.

“Not your favorite?” Claire asked as she spooned her choice of cherries and almonds into her mouth by playfully turning the tiny plastic spoon upside down.

She closed her eyes and dramatized how she savored her gelato with drawn-out satisfaction.

Opening one eye to see if I was catching her performance, she added, “You know that limoncello is a liquor, right?”

“It is? I thought it was Italian for lemon flavor. I expected it to taste like your famous lemon bars.” I took a second taste. “It’s better after the first jolt.”

Claire didn’t look convinced. She also didn’t offer a taste of her winner. My gelato envy was growing.

A moment later she showed me her empty cup. “Eleven bites and it’s gone. And that was two scoops. The portions at this spot are the smallest yet. I think it’s because we’re so close to the hub of everything. But this was a good one.”

As we walked, the sound of bells filled the air. Claire paused, her chin toward the clear sky as she counted. Twelve bells.

“Noon!” she said triumphantly.

“No slackers on our splurge team,” I said.

On our return to St. Mark’s Square, we discussed which sight we would we see first: St. Mark’s Basilica or the three-hundred-foot-high campanile? More importantly, was I going to wait “ombra,” under the shadow of the bell tower, while Claire went to the top? Or would I be brave and accompany her?

A third option I didn’t mention to her was that I wouldn’t mind staying behind and returning to the gelateria on my own for a different flavor.

Then Claire added a significant piece of information about the bell tower, and I made my choice.