All the Way to Heaven

Chapter 14

Isa swept in a few minutes later on light feet, her heels clipping the stone floor quietly. "I hear you will stay in bed tonight. That is good. Today has been a long day for you and you must rest. You will want to contact your family, yes? We have wireless internet here because of Gerardo's clients; do you have a computer?"

She found it in the bottom of the suitcase, brought it to me after plugging it in first, and held out a sweater she'd also dug out for me to slip my arms into. "Perhaps you want to make a phone call?" She glanced at her watch. "It is 6 o'clock now. What time is it in California?"

I knew I should call my mom, but she'd hear the misery in my voice and worry unnecessarily. "I think I'll just email my parents after I eat, Isa. They're nine hours behind, so they'll get the email right away, but if I call, I know my mother will want to know everything, and I'm too tired to try to explain tonight. Tomorrow will be better."

"Of course. I understand." She turned toward the door as Claudia stepped back into the room, a tray in hand.

"I have fried polenta and soup with potato and sausage," Claudia announced. "There is also a pleasant vino rossa if you like. It is from our house." Isa stepped back to make room for her mother. I sat there like a princess, no longer forgotten in my tower, but being pampered and cared for like royalty.

About an hour later, my stomach comfortably full and my foot no longer throbbing quite so painfully, I opened my laptop and pulled up my email. There was a note from Tish she'd written before going to bed the night before and I read over the short paragraphs that included no mention of Jacob whatsoever, and for the first time, I was kind of relieved.

I hit 'reply' and began to type.

Tish,

I wish I could be there to see your reaction when you read this. But then, if I was, I wouldn't be here telling you where I am.

So, where am I, you ask? At this moment, I am lying in a bed that's probably older than your grandmother's great-grandmother. The headboard on this thing, probably made from one solid slab of oak, is practically taller than the bed is long. Said bed is in the guest room, complete with stone tile floors, low-beamed ceilings, and shuttered windows opening out to a spectacular view of the valley, of a real live Italian villa perched on top of a hill, overlooking olive groves, vineyards, and hillsides of wildflowers. Okay, the wildflowers aren't in bloom right now, but they will be, come spring. The villa in which I currently languish belongs to the Lazzaro family who also happens to own and operate the il frantoio Lazzaro. In English, that's the Lazzaro Olive Mill.

I have just eaten dinner in bed, a meal consisting of fried bread and something like what we call Italian Wedding Soup back home.

No, I am not getting married. Nor did I have to offer any inappropriate services to pay for my room.

I am an invited guest.

A broken-footed, stolen-pursed, cell-is-gone-too-but-I-still-have-my-drivers-license-and-most-of-my-wicked-sense-of-humor invited guest.

I am here at the mercy and goodness and kindness and insistence of the Lazzaro family.

More specifically, at the insistence of the good Dr. Cosimo Lazzaro.

My doctor.

My doctor who is single. I think. I'm pretty sure.

My doctor who looks like David Gandy. Yes. The Dolce & Gabbana guy who makes me weep. The David Gandy who is not Italian, but should be, because he could be my doctor's twin.