Page 42 of Gelato at the Villa (Suitcase Sisters #2)

The question is not what you look at, but what you see.

Henry David Thoreau

I leaned closer to Claire as the saleswoman wrapped the silk scarf for my mom. “Are you okay?”

She nodded, almost convincing me that the woman’s comment about her mother had not pierced her like an arrow.

Our midnight talk at the villa still felt fresh and raw to me.

I knew it had to be at the surface for my friend too.

Claire appeared composed and calm. I wondered if she was shutting down as a familiar tactic when this part of her life simply hurt too much.

Once we were outside the shop, Claire asked, “Anything else you want to see here?”

“I think we should catch the ferry back to our car,” I suggested. All afternoon I had been watching the sky, captivated by the soft blue color and the wispy clouds. Claire had said earlier that her weather app predicted rain, but so far it hadn’t come our way.

I loved the ferry ride. It reminded me again of childhood summers on my grandfather’s boat.

Our family had a cabin at Lake Arrowhead in the Southern California mountains, and I’d spent many happy hours there and on the lake.

I looked at some of the private boats scooting around on Lake Lugano and wondered how many of them held little girls who were like me and were being spoiled by their grandparents.

When we docked, instead of going to our car, we decided to do a little meandering through the town.

Menaggio looked as old and charming as Bellagio and also had a tree-lined promenade along the shore.

We gravitated toward the walkway rather than the shops and stopped to look at the long row of docked sailboats.

Claire took a selfie with the boats as her background. “Can you imagine spending your summer here? Staying in a villa on the hill and coming down to take your sailboat out on a perfect morning?”

What she described was not much different from the summers I’d experienced with my family at Lake Arrowhead. I realized again how different my childhood was from hers and how different our mothers were.

We strolled into a large plaza where a small band was setting up.

The air had cooled, and the sunlight on the water was making long, wavy, pale yellow streaks like submerged veins of gold.

In the corner of the square was an outdoor restaurant with large blue-and-white-striped umbrellas over the tables.

The café was the ideal place for us to sit and finally have a real meal after a day of snacks on the go.

“At last,” I said, pointing to the word “lasagna” listed on the menu. “My taste buds have been waiting patiently for authentic Italian lasagna since Venice.”

“I’m going for the fettuccini,” Claire said. “That’s my secret comfort food at home.”

Both of us were more than pleased with our choices. My authentic lasagna was worth the wait. The layers of pasta were thin, and I thought the meat and sauce were seasoned in a way that rivaled Amelia’s Bolognese sauce. Claire tried a bite and declared that Amelia’s was better.

While we ate, the band played. Surprisingly, their music choice was pop songs from twenty years ago. We exchanged humored looks and mouthed the words to one of the tunes that had been popular during our college years.

A small group formed in the open area as the music continued.

The audience was made up of grandmas with toddlers on little tricycles and young couples standing with their arms around each other, swaying to the music.

The grandmas looked like they had lots of gossip to catch up on while the toddlers rode circles around them on their trikes.

Three teen girls who I presumed were locals stood close to the band and giggled a lot.

One of them tried a few dance moves, and her friends broke into laughter and mimicked her, initiating even more laughter.

I took a couple pictures, thinking about how Emma could be one of those girls if we lived here.

She and her friends loved to dance, and they especially loved to laugh.

A secret dream waltzed into my heart right then.

I hadn’t thought much about the possibility before, but I wondered if one day Emma and I might go somewhere thrilling together.

Just the two of us. I think I’d never given space to the thought because I didn’t want to subject her to the expectations and stretches of boredom I’d had when traveling with my mom.

“This trip has been so good for so many reasons,” I told Claire.

She nodded and playfully slurped up the final fettuccini noodles.

I leaned back and folded my hands over my lasagna-filled belly.

The idea of going on a trip with Emma filled me in another way.

It gave me hope for the future and something exciting to look forward to.

No fear was attached to the possibility.

It had been a long time since I’d felt that.

The key, it seemed, was to be patient and wait until the prospect of traveling together was Emma’s idea as much as it was mine.

I could wait. I had a sweet sense that when the time was right, the Lord would make it happen.

As we settled into our after-dinner contentment, more people of all ages gathered, filling the plaza with smiles, conversations, and children.

We had seen people strolling along the walkway for the traditional evening passeggiata.

Here, more than in Venice, the long-standing Italian tradition of talking a leisurely walk in the cool of the evening was still alive.

The central piazza seemed to be their final destination.

A young girl arrived with her father and blew soap bubbles into the air. The dad looked pleased, as if he had treated her to a bottle of bubbles and his simple gift was a hit. I grinned at the little ones who raced over and jumped up to try to pop the bubbles before they floated away.

“Can you believe this?” Claire asked. “I didn’t think places like this existed in real life.”

I had turned my gaze to the view of the lake, where the water had turned a deep gray. The clouds that had bunched up over the Alps were heading toward us like a lumpy carpet being unfurled. “We might get that rain you predicted,” I said.

“We should probably drive back to our hotel,” Claire said. “I hate to leave here. I know I keep saying that about every place we’ve been to, but it’s true. Our trip is going too quickly. I feel like we could have spent more time at almost every place we visited.”

I felt the same melancholy. It was going to be hard to leave. “Italy feels like a mama to me,” I told Claire. “She’s like a smiling, warm Mama Mia wearing an apron and opening her arms to welcome in any who would come and eat and share their passion in equal measure to the passion she pours out.”

“Be sure to write that in your journal,” Claire said. “Because I want to remember what you just said. I feel the same way.”

Twenty minutes later, as Claire leaned over the steering wheel trying to see the road with the wipers set on high speed, she said, “This is a true downpour.”

“Should we pull over and see if it passes?” I asked.

“No. I think we’re okay if I keep going slow. The roads aren’t too crowded. Am I making you nervous?”

“Yes.” I laughed. “What about you? How are you doing?”

A car suddenly passed us, causing Claire to hit the brakes. We swerved to the right before she managed to steer us straight again. A second car passed us, and this time Claire remained focused and steady.

“If you feel like praying the way you do,” Claire said, “this would be the time to do it.”

We had two more slosh-and-slip moments on the wet road. I prayed all the way back to our parking space in San Mamete. To our surprise the rain had stopped.

“This is crazy,” Claire said. “I expected it to still be pouring here too.”

Night encircled the small village, and the scent of jasmine lingered in the air. We locked the car, headed toward our hotel, and saw that an old-fashioned fire truck was blocking the narrow road. We had to walk past the hubbub to reach our hotel.

“I hope no one had an accident,” Claire said.

At least two dozen residents of San Mamete were standing in the street looking up.

When we came around the corner we saw what they were staring at.

A young man who couldn’t have been more than twenty years old was balanced on a ladder that extended from the fire truck.

The rusty ladder leaned against the cracked wall of an old building.

The daredevil was not dressed for a fire.

He was wearing jeans and a polo shirt. It appeared that his objective was to attach the end of a banner to a hook on the side of the building.

Claire and I slid into the bunch of observers and watched along with them.

Another man, also young and in casual clothes, seemed to be controlling the ladder from his equally precarious position on the vintage fire truck.

The ladder, still supporting the polo-shirt guy, slowly swung to the other side of the street.

An older man in a bright orange safety vest held a light that was strong enough to illuminate the whole operation.

As the ladder moved, people around us provided commentary. Loudly. They all acted as if it was up to them to direct the man in the fire truck as well as the man clinging to the ladder. I imagined their Italian phrases were along the lines of, “Go slow! Be careful! Don’t drop the banner!”

However, as the audience grew, the volume rose and wild hand motions began. It sounded like the people were saying, “Hold on for dear life! He’s trying to kill you! Where did you learn to operate that thing? You’re doing it all wrong!”