Page 41 of Gelato at the Villa (Suitcase Sisters #2)

“Of course. But guess what? He has no idea how to do that. I’m going to have to write my own notice of termination and calculate my severance package. I’ll be busy before June 15. But then the gardening will begin, along with many other simple joys.”

“I kind of want to quit now too,” Claire said. “Not that we could afford it, but I have so many things I’d like to do. Take a watercolor class and cook delicious new recipes are at the top of the list.”

Our hour in the immaculately manicured gardens was like honey to me.

I loved walking with Claire and dreaming together aloud.

We took pictures of the elegantly crafted footbridge over the reflective waters, and I saw for the first time a tall Australia fern tree.

A fun surprise was the California redwood tree that appeared to be thriving.

The giant dogwoods took my breath away, and then a short distance down the path were African palm trees.

“That was fun,” Claire said as we exited and picked up the pace, heading toward the main part of the old town. We hadn’t gone far when she said, “Look, Vespas! Come on.”

A gelato cart was parked to the right side of the promenade. On the left side were two Vespas with a sign on the front saying “20 Euros w/ Gelato.”

“We have to do this,” Claire said. “We didn’t take any good pictures of us posing on the scooters at the villa. Let’s do it here.”

A man was propping up an umbrella over the cart, and one of the two young women with him saw our interest. She briskly stepped over and made it clear that we needed to buy the gelato first, and photos were twenty euros each.

Claire didn’t hesitate. She bought gelato cones for both of us without asking what I wanted because the cart had only one flavor.

The woman took Claire’s phone while her companion reached for both our travel bags and told us to hurry and get on the Vespas.

Claire sat on the seat and leaned into the handlebar as if this were a magazine shoot.

I wasn’t sure how to get on and balance the cone at the same time, so I leaned against the yellow moped, feeling a sense of intimidation returning.

Claire seemed to catch my hesitation. “Pretend you’re posing for Raphael.”

I broke into a loud laugh, and the woman took the shot with Claire’s phone.

“Off,” the woman said.

“Wait!” Claire said. “I wasn’t looking at the camera.”

“Twenty euros.” The woman held out her hand. “Each.”

“I already paid,” Claire said.

“Another photo? Twenty euros. Each.”

“No,” Claire said, grabbing her phone. “No!”

Another couple was already waiting their turn, and a line had formed at the gelato cart.

I was more concerned about collecting our travel bags and sweaters than I was about paying for another quick photo.

I made sure we retrieved all our belongings while Claire held my cone and tried to keep it from dripping.

“What flavor is this?” I asked as we walked away from the crowd that was forming.

“I don’t know. Pomegranate, maybe?”

“Not at the top of the list for me.” I took a few steps over to a trash can and covertly tossed my cone. Claire saw what I did and tossed hers as well.

“Just to make sure,” I said, “I want to check my bag.”

We went over to one of the benches facing the lake and sat close, opening our travel bags and taking inventory. All our documents and wallets were still there, which was a relief.

“That could’ve been a disaster,” Claire said. “They lured me with gelato and a Vespa. What an American I am.”

“Let’s see the picture.”

She turned her phone, and we leaned close to see the single shot.

“It’s cute,” I said. “Even if you’re not facing the camera, it’s still a fun picture. I was worried for a moment that she may have taken a picture of only our feet.”

“They definitely knew where the best location was to get the lake and Bellagio in the background. But their gelato could use some improvement.”

“Listen to us!” I said. “We’ve officially become gelato snobs.” I looked back at the crowd that had formed around the gelato cart. “I sure hope their setup is legit and we didn’t just break some Italian law about paying unlicensed street vendors.”

“Let’s go,” Claire said.

We didn’t stop our brisk pace until we came to Salita Serbelloni, which was more like an alleyway than a street, with hundreds of low steps made of pebbles.

It had to be centuries old by the way the path had been worn smooth.

We kept climbing. I wished we had thought of bringing an extra bottle of acqua minerale with us.

Claire turned around at the top, smiling as if we had conquered the Matterhorn.

“Totally worth the climb,” she said. “This is just like the picture in my coworker’s office with the sliver of the lake and the mountains in the background.

And look at the street lantern on the fancy hook.

Isn’t it adorable? Could you take my picture? ”

“For you...” I paused as if contemplating her request. “For you, ten euros.”

“What a deal.”

I took a dozen shots, at no extra charge, from different angles. I captured the highlights Claire wanted as well as a rich green vine dangling from a balcony on the right side of the shot.

With her goal completed, Claire and I began our descent and found the silk shop. The pieces were lovely, and it was easy to make a choice for my mom. She adored red accessories at Christmastime, and the shop carried her shade of “blue red” in a silk scarf.

“Is that what you’re going to buy for your mom?” Claire asked.

“Yes. Are you going to buy anything?”

“No, but could I split the cost with you on the scarf? Would you mind if it was a gift from both of us? She supported us so generously. I wanted to find a way to thank her.”

“You don’t have to do that.”

“I know. But I want to.”

“My mom would love knowing this scarf was from both of us.”

A saleswoman stepped over with a gentle smile. She spoke to us in English, and I realized she had understood our conversation. The woman held up a pretty pale blue scarf to Claire and said, “Perhaps your mother needs a small gift as well.”

My throat tightened. I wanted to intervene, but words didn’t surface quickly enough.

In a quiet voice Claire said, “My mother doesn’t wear silk scarves.”