Page 20 of Just for a Taste

B y the time Lucia finished my makeup, the dress had already been washed, dried, and ironed. It was a floral baby-doll dress with puffed sleeves, tailored to fit me. Despite my never having worn the dress before, Duca de’ Medici’s assumption that Lucia would know how to accessorize with it was correct. She had chosen a sun hat with a creamy, white ribbon that matched uncannily well with the heels. Around my neck was a gold necklace with several diamonds I hoped were fake, a matching gold bracelet, and several rings. I twisted in the mirror, searching for exactly where the flaw was that made me feel so much like someone in a costume, but could pin nothing down.

Duca de’ Medici’s words echoed in my mind. I’ll be fine. I’ll look foolish, certainly, but I’ll be fine.

Maybe I shouldn’t be so concerned about how I looked at the moment. Perhaps the more pressing concern would be comforting my counterpart.

The moment I saw Duca de’ Medici, I understood what he meant. His garb was, in a word, bizarre.

Rather than his usual dress clothes, he was wearing a thick, full-length jacket with a hood over his head, which wouldn’t have been too abnormal—a bit out of season, granted—if not for what was underneath the hood: a combination of a balaclava and sunglasses that entirely obscured Duca de’ Medici’s face. He had also covered the rest of his body. His hands were covered by leather gloves, his pants were tucked into comically large boots, and not even a single strand of hair or an inch of skin was visible.

I found myself unable to say a word.

Duca de’ Medici said nothing, either, but carried himself with a nonchalant air, movements loose as usual. “Are you ready?” he asked in a muffled voice.

I nodded wordlessly and followed him outside. It was difficult not to reach out to the man and grab him by the wrist and try to pull him back inside. But of course, I knew the clothing he wore provided ample protection against the sun, far more than the high-quality sunscreen and sunglasses most vampires got by with.

He opened the back door of a fancy black sedan awaiting us. I ducked inside and slid across the leather seats to the far side for him to follow suit. Duca de’ Medici took his spot beside me and stretched out.

“Good afternoon, Signora Rafia,” he said to the driver, a middle-aged woman with short brown hair I had never seen before. She wore a uniform much like the other drivers I had seen. Noor had a driver, the butlers and maids had a driver, and evidently, so did Duca de’ Medici. But how often, I wondered, did she actually drive him anywhere? I’d thought my job was easy, but this salaried woman who I’d now seen for the first time after months of living at the abbey clearly had me beat.

She turned around to look at him, clearly unfazed by his outfit. “Good afternoon, Duca de’ Medici and—”

“—Signorina Bowling,” he finished her sentence.

“Cora is fine,” I replied with a forced smile. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

As we rolled off, I stared out the window out of habit, but it was so darkly tinted it felt as though it were night. I focused instead on the barely audible smooth jazz and the rhythmic bouncing of the car.

“The ride shouldn’t be long,” Duca de’ Medici said. “Fifteen minutes at most.”

With a strange nostalgia, I remembered the winding road I had taken to the abbey for my interview so many months ago, and though we must have been going the same route, it felt entirely different. In fact, despite the perfection of Signora Rafia’s driving, my body reacted as though our ambling descent was a roller-coaster ride: heart palpitations, a bit of sweating. But so far, nothing akin to a full-blown panic attack.

“Could we grab some water?” I asked, mouth feeling dry.

“There’s some in the cooler,” Duca de’ Medici answered. “It’s built into the wall of the trunk. We can pull over and I’ll show you.”

Oh, my bad, I thought with a sneer. I shouldn’t have forgotten to check if this car has a refrigerator.

“No, it’s fine.” I finished the rest in my head: The sooner we get cellular connection and the sooner I can see my messages, the better.

I closed my eyes and focused on my breath. My heart rate evened out by the time the car slowed to a final halt. When I opened my eyes, sunshine and cool air alike poured into the car. Outside and holding the door open, Signora Rafia stared down at me expectantly.

Next to me, Duca de’ Medici shook his head at her, and the door shut again.

“Are you ready?” Duca de’ Medici’s tone was far too soft and attentive to be anything but an acknowledgment of my anxiety. “We can wait here for a bit.”

I wished desperately that I could make eye contact with my ally through his sunglasses to truly and properly thank him, but I gave him a smile.

“Yes,” I replied, realizing my phone hadn’t buzzed. “I’m ready.”

We stepped out into the unknown, and I was surprised to find that the bricks were almost identical to those surrounding the abbey. Disparate, weed-filled furrows in the ground were visible evidence of the earthquake from decades ago. In contrast, the bustling market square nearby was young and quaint, surrounded by hand-built booths and small traditional buildings, none of which had any sort of professional signage. Clearly, this was an area for mostly locals. Laughter and conversation sounded from all sides, a mixture of joking, hard bargaining, and day-to-day rural gossip.

Although Signora Rafia had intentionally parked in a tucked-away area, a few of the locals directed their attention toward us. Why wouldn’t they? The car I had just exited was clearly worth more than anyone in this town had ever seen, and Duca de’ Medici’s clothing was strange, to say the least.

“Come,” Duca de’ Medici said. “I’ll show you where it is.”

I focused my attention on my breath, the cracks in the ground, and Duca de’ Medici’s shoes as I followed behind him. The chattering of the people around us swelled, hushed, then swelled again. The crowd gave us ample breadth, but I could only assume this was to stare.

“Here we are.”

The stone building was clearly one of the few that had survived the earthquake untouched. Above the door was a wooden, hand-painted sign: pianti di caruso. Climbing roses crawled along the bricks, and potted plants of every type were above, below, and aside all the outdoor displays. Local pottery crowded one side of the door, fountains and sculptures on the other, and bags of fertilizers and mulch were propped against the side of the building.

“Ah, shit,” Duca de’ Medici grumbled. “I forgot my wallet in the car. Go on without me. I’ll be right back.”

He picked up a half jog and left toward the car. Once he was out of sight, I pulled my phone out of my pocket. No bars, no Wi-Fi. For at least another month, I could pretend my thesis adviser was patiently awaiting any updates. All that mattered today was those seeds. I took a deep breath and entered the shop.

Upon the bell ringing, the shopkeeper quickly wiped dirt from his hands with an old rag and beamed at me. “ Assa binidica! ”

He was round and bright like the sun, with one of those trustworthy faces that seemed perennially on the verge of laughter. Hours of squinting during bright Sicilian days had creased his tanned face, and minute scars covered the backs of his large hands, battle wounds from wars with weeds and thickets.

The shop around him was similarly welcoming. It was small, little more than a single room, but filled to the brim with life, both literally and figuratively. Dozens of plants teemed from every corner, with ivy even climbing around the legs of furniture and along the old brick walls. Trinkets and local art were situated around sporadically, invading the few organized sections of the store.

I nodded my head and gave my best smile. As the shopkeeper gestured enthusiastically around the store and continued his rapid-fire Sicilian, panic set in. How helpless could I be to not even know how to tell him I didn’t speak his language?

Just as I was on the verge of running out to find Duca de’ Medici, the door opened behind me.

The shop owner froze immediately, and his crescent eyes turned full. He let out a small gasp—a cross-cultural expression, at least, as was the pallor that covered the man like a sheet. Various trinkets and pamphlets hit the floor as the shop owner rushed past his counter to shut off several grow lights and close the curtains.

“I’m sorry, Duca de’ Medici!” he cried out in mainland Italian.

The aforementioned vampire took off his jacket, draped it over his shoulder, pulled off his balaclava, and shed all of his protective gear. Then he browsed wordlessly.

The shopkeeper rushed to his side, nearly pushing me aside. “Good afternoon, Duca. I am Ugo Caruso, and this shop has been in my family since before the earthquake. I heard you moved into the abbey, but I did not know such rumors were . . .” He trailed off as Duca de’ Medici walked the other way mid-sentence.

Instead of regarding the man, Duca de’ Medici picked up a packet of commercial seeds from the shelf and inspected it. “Hmm,” he said to himself. “Imported, but at least at market value.”

He returned it to its original spot and crossed to the other side of the store, Signore Caruso tottering around him in close orbit.

“What is it I can help you with, Duca de’ Medici?” Signore Caruso asked as the vampire sifted through various books and continued to mutter to himself. “It would be a pleasure—no, an honor to assist you! You are interested in purchasing seeds, it seems?”

Duca de’ Medici silently removed his sunglasses, hung them on his collar, then finally addressed Signore Caruso. “You should help the customer who was here before me,” he said in a monotone, gazing through the man as though he were nothing.

Signore Caruso whipped his head back and forth to look between us, mouth falling open into a horrified O . It was like I had existed again for the first time since the vampire entered the store. “I’m so sorry! Are the two of you together, Duca?”

After an exaggerated sigh, the vampire resumed studying the contents of a weathered book. “Yes, but that is irrelevant. She was here first, so assist her first. It’s common sense.”

Signore Caruso stammered a few syllables, then rushed to me. I remembered, for the first time in months, that Duca de’ Medici had ever spoken so coldly to someone before, that he had once spoken to me like that.

But to contradict this memory immediately, Duca de’ Medici looked over at me with the intensity and warmth for which I knew him. He extended the book he was reading far from him before closing it to avoid the small cloud of dust that puffed out, then returned it to its spot.

“What would you like?” he said upon joining my side. “Pots, seeds, any of the books, tools, however many plants . . . I’ll have another car come fetch it all for you. Feel free to get some of the decor as well. You can pick out one of the fountains outside. We can figure out plumbing, hire a contractor if need be. I’m sure Noor will throw a fit, but what does that matter if your garden is how you wish it?”

I nodded at him dumbly, then finally returned the attention of Signore Caruso, who was visibly sweating away some of the dirt along his hairline. Nothing here had price tags, and I couldn’t even imagine the resulting cost of all the things Duca de’ Medici had so casually thrown my way.

“I just want a bag of some seeds,” I said to them both. “Rose seeds. That’s plenty.”

As the world grew wobbly and time intangible, Signore Caruso’s rambling voice faded. I focused on the various packets of seeds he was showing me. There were countless flowers, and I finally had to repeat, “Rose seeds, please.”

Duca de’ Medici echoed what I said in Sicilian, and something finally clicked in the man. He rushed behind the counter, and tucked away in a small, dusty box was an unmarked, pocket-sized linen satchel. He opened it to show me what initially appeared to be several tiny, brown stones. It took me a moment to recognize the irregularly shaped brown objects: seeds.

“ Rose di Santa Dymphna ,” Signore Caruso informed me.

He didn’t have to tell me these were the heirloom beauties I had heard so much about. The pride on his face said as much. He held them out to me with both hands, as though they were fragile.

Accordingly, I took them carefully. “How much?”

“For you, Duchessa?” Signore Caruso grinned broadly. “Free.”

My heart fluttered at his assumption that I was a duchess, wife to the duke beside me. It was an impossibility in so many ways, and I struggled to get out any syllables. “D-Duches–?”

“Thank you, signore,” Duca de’ Medici cut in quickly. “I’ll have the payment mailed to you.” He was already putting his protective gear back on, but he wasn’t fast enough for his crimson-tipped ears to escape my attention. He turned back to me after fully garbing up and said in a cool tone, “Signorina Bowling, the car should be here momentarily.”

I gave a small smile to Signore Caruso, tucked the seeds in my pocket, and rushed out. Today had been intense, to say the least.