Religion. Rebellion. Sex. It had the makings of a best-seller. This epiphany had torn Clio out of her languor and propelled her to complete her doctoral thesis – finally. Euphoric, Clio hummed and danced her fingers on the steering wheel of her new Fiat 500 as she zoomed along Strada Provinciale 88, returning to Florence to tell her thesis advisor, Dr. Jovi. Everything in Clio's dreary, fettered life was about to change.
She scanned the line of twisted cypress trees standing at attention along the crest of a nearby ridge. Like the statues of her beloved Italian saints, they kept watch over the neatly mown fields that rolled down the slope toward her. Maybe they were watching over her, too.
As recently as this morning, Clio was tortured by doubts that her ideas would gel in time for the critical meeting tonight, at which she must, she must, persuade Dr. Jovi she was ready. If she failed, he would refuse to extend her deadline in the morning - again. If he did that, she would find herself cut loose, without an advisor, without an office or a sponsor, without a Ph. D. or financing, and forever without the approval of her patient but demanding academic parents.
Some people would be critical of Clio's need, at twenty-eight years of age, to please her mother and father. Those people had never met her parents.
She was out of time.
Until she'd seen the little statue of Saint Clare of the Cross at the Franciscan Monastery this afternoon, Clio despaired of ever having the clarity of vision to complete her thesis. Oh - she'd come up with a half-baked theory that had sustained her research for the past three years. But Saint Clare had convinced her that she really was onto something, and that would give her the passion and drive to write her final dissertation. Passion. Ecstasy. Bliss.
She laughed out loud. The irony did not escape her. She needed passion to complete her thesis about passion.
Long shadows snaked across the green hillside as the early evening sun dipped lower in the Tuscan sky. She would be back in the city within the hour, and still have time to freshen up and go over her notes and sketches before her eight o'clock dinner appointment with Dr. Jovi.
Nevertheless, Clio pressed a little harder on the gas pedal, and leaned into a long curve in the road, thrilled at how smooth and responsive her new car was to her commands. The gift from Father was clearly meant as an incentive, and she would make sure he received her long overdue thanks - in the form of graduation, at long last.
A pair of headlights flashed over the rise up ahead in the dimming light, and Clio slowed a little, prepared to pass another vehicle on the narrow winding road. The other car took shape suddenly in the gloom, larger than hers. Waves of loud music rolled toward her, punctuated by sharp shouts and laughter. Her pulse kicked. They weren't slowing or pulling to the side, the maniacs. Some young idiots, probably drinking.
Clio gripped the steering wheel tighter, and seconds later they were upon her, hogging the centre of the road. Her heart leapt to her throat, stopping her breath. Her eyes widened. There was no room.
She veered sharply to the right, just avoiding the imminent collision as the car hurtled past with inches to spare. Suddenly she felt violent grinding and metallic screeching as her wheels slammed into the low barrier at the side of the road. The steering wheel tore from her grip and her car was hurled up like a stone from a catapult.
Everything was a blur of light and dark, the trees and fields spinning, her seatbelt jerking hard against her collarbone, crushing the air from her lungs, her ears filling with squeals, crunches, thuds. The world quaked, a sharp pain shot through her head. Then, just as suddenly, dark and silence enveloped her, the retreating music and shouts echoing in her head, a counterpoint to the terrible pounding of her heart.
*****
Guillermo didn't mind riding out to Pia's farm for the weekend, though he was certain he'd have more fun if he'd stayed in Florence and taken Teresa or Patrizia out for wining and dining, followed by a little after-dark gymnastics. Or Teresa and Patrizia. Now there was a thought that warmed him, and he felt his bike leathers tighten over his groin, the powerful motor of his Ducati Multistrada vibrating between his legs.
A dark car whizzed past him on the empty road, nearly knocking him over with the sheer turbulence of its draft, loud music blaring. Faccia di merda. He was lucky it wasn't quite dark yet.
He was positive he'd have more fun if he were at liberty to ride for the sheer joy of it, with no destination. There was nothing he loved more than a fast ride on his bike through the rolling Tuscan countryside, or failing that, in his Alpha Romeo convertible, the wind in his face, his blood thrumming. Nothing made him feel more free and alive.
But duty called, and he never begrudged the needs of his siblings. Bianca was uncharacteristically hysterical when she'd called this afternoon, and he was genuinely concerned about his little sister. She was also nearly incoherent, sobbing and ranting something about their eldest brother Jacopo. His calls to Jacopo went unanswered, not surprisingly, since his big-shot politician of a brother was always in a meeting or press conference.
A phone call to his older sister Pia for answers resulted only in an invitation to join her and Paulo for the weekend. She'd been evasive, and said she'd explain when he arrived. And so he'd dropped everything and raced out of the city after work.
For as much as he loved freedom and speed and good times, he loved his family more.
The light was fading. He was getting close now. No more than another couple of kilometers to Villa Cittadini, the family estate and winery of Pia and her husband. I wonder what Pia and Anna have conjured for dinner?
He should arrive before full dark. Something flashed up ahead.
What's that?
As he crested a rise, a dark shape loomed in the shadows of the drainage ditch up ahead. A flash of red, and something moving. What the hell?
He pulled back on the gas as he neared. Stronzo! An accident. A Fiat was overturned in the ditch, having rolled over the low metal barrier and wedged in against an earth berm, bridging the ditch. Someone crouched among waist high rushes in the ditch, flagging him down.
Though it would make him late, he decelerated and pulled to the side of the road to see if he could help.
