Page 27 of Gelato at the Villa (Suitcase Sisters #2)

He seemed to be assessing our situation from across the road before striding over to us.

As he talked in Italian, he pointed to the older Vespa and placed his hand on the one I’d ridden into town.

He patted the back of the scooter where a rack could go.

Then he pointed at the Vespa across the street again.

“Are you saying we can use your rack?” Claire asked. She crossed the street and patted the metal rack and mounting brackets, then pointed to her Vespa and made motions as if she was unfastening the rack and moving it to her scooter.

The man shook his head, talking and waving his hands in a way that made it clear he was saying no, that wasn’t his plan. He pressed his palm to his chest, indicating we should entrust our cargo to him. He pantomimed that he would put it on his Vespa and follow us.

I think I was more wary of the plan than Claire. Scanning the expressions of the dozen people now watching us, I tried to gauge if they trusted this guy and thought his suggestion was a good idea. None of the old ladies were giving me a run-for-your-life look.

Claire was already saying “Grazie” to the guy as if it was a done deal. I didn’t bring up the possibility that he might rip us off like some sort of notorious Tuscan gelato thief.

Our hero lifted the bag and looked inside.

With a wide grin and loud voice, he announced the contents to the audience.

A roar of laughter rose. Everyone was looking at Enzo, who was shrugging and grinning.

His day had been made. No one could convince him that we had attempted a different order than the “tutti” we received.

The cargo was quickly secured. Claire stood beside the guy’s Vespa, repeating, “Amelia and Gio. That’s where we’re going. Two kilometers that way.”

“Sì, sì, sì,” he said. It didn’t appear that he had a helmet to wear. Waving to the onlookers, he started up his rickety-looking Vespa and revved the engine as if we were at the starting line of the Grand Prix.

I hopped on my scooter, secured my helmet, and feeling flustered, went through the start-up steps. I hadn’t gotten to where I squeezed the right-hand lever yet when he took off, leaving Claire and me in a puff of exhaust.

We exchanged panicked glances. Claire was ready and pulled out in front of me. I brought up the rear and pulled back, going slower on purpose so that I wouldn’t gulp so much exhaust. I didn’t know how Claire could stand to be so close on his tail.

I admit, I felt relieved when he pulled in at the villa and pushed the intercom button at the closed gate. I pulled up next to Claire and noticed that her helmet was still looped to the handlebar.

The gate opened slowly, and the three of us motored in and parked by the front door.

“Grazie.” Claire extended her arm, ready to take the bag and carry it inside.

Our champion wouldn’t hear of it. He had brought our gift this far. I presumed his many Italian words were a declaration that he wanted to deliver the goods to Amelia himself.

And he did. He led the way into the kitchen as if he were right at home and gave Amelia a kiss on the cheek. With lots of words, he explained his side of the story. Amelia kept looking over at us. I couldn’t imagine what she was thinking.

“I have no idea what he’s telling you,” Claire said. “But in my defense, the problem was that I told Enzo ‘tutti’ and—”

“Tutti?” Amelia repeated. “Enzo thought you wanted to buy everything he had.”

“Yes,” Claire said. “We figured that out. He was so happy, we didn’t have the heart to try to go backwards with our negotiation.”

“The good news is that dessert is on us,” I said with a sheepish grin.

“For a week,” Claire added. “At least. Maybe a month.”

Amelia had been interpreting what we said, and when she finished, our rescuer laughed warmly. He really was pretty cute the way he communicated with lots of hand motions and expressions.

Amelia pulled a stack of small white bowls off her kitchen shelf and identified the flavors lined up on the counter. “Limone,” she said, pointing to the white one.

“I had lemon gelato in Venice and it was yellow,” I said.

“No, no. Don’t eat yellow gelato. Real limone gelato is white.” She pointed to the next one. “Nocciola. Hazelnut. This one is Gio’s favorite.”

I watched our hero go to the silverware drawer and reach for spoons. His familiarity with Amelia’s kitchen surprised me.

“And this one,” Amelia said, pointing to the third bin of gelato, “is fragola. Enzo makes it with strawberries from my garden. Rosie just took the first strawberries of the year to him a few days ago. And don’t tell her, but I think that’s why Enzo kept repeating ‘fragola’ to her.

He was excited about the first batch this year. ”

“You have a garden?” I couldn’t believe I had missed it on our tour.

“Yes. You didn’t see it earlier?” Amelia scooped a generous thank-you-gift serving for our delivery guy. “Who else wants some?”

“I’d love some of the strawberry,” Claire said.

“So would I.”

Amelia handed us the bowls and scooped a bit of lemon gelato for herself. We stood around the counter, relishing the fresh flavor.

The guy put his empty bowl in the sink, leaned over, and gave Amelia a kiss on both cheeks. He spontaneously stepped over and repeated his farewell brush of a kiss with both Claire and me. With a wave and a “ciao,” he was on his way.

Claire and I glanced at each other as if we were freshmen and the captain of the football team had just validated our existence. I knew my face was red.

“Claire,” Amelia said, “what happened to your T-shirt?”

I felt a bubble of laughter rising to the surface.

Before Claire could describe the way she had wedged through the front gate, Rosie entered the kitchen with a wide-eyed look. “Did you see that man who just left? Who is he? Where did he come from?”

“Town,” Claire said quickly, as if she was eager to change the subject of her torn shirt.

“He followed us home,” I added with a grin.

Rosie looked at us and back at Amelia. “Details, please. Who is he?”

“That’s Raphael,” Amelia said.

“Oh, really?” Claire turned to me and playfully asked, “Does he happen to be a painter?”

“Yes,” Amelia said. “How did you know? He did the whole interior of the villa for our renovation.”

Claire laughed while I chose to quickly excuse myself and stepped outside. I heard Rosie say, “Why can’t he be the local guy giving us free butter and calling me ‘fragola’?”