7. Eve

CHAPTER 7

EVE

T he most romantic place Marco knew was San Gimignano, a medieval walled city on top of a hill. We rolled up bright and early and Marco parked his car, then went and got something out of the trunk, a box wrapped in paper with a red bow on top.

"What's that? A present?"

"Open it. You'll need it."

I tore off the wrapping and found a shoebox. Inside, I found — shocker — a new pair of shoes. Soft, comfy sneakers, perfect for walking. I frowned, confused. "These are for me?"

"I know, I know. Not quite your style. But trust me, you'll need them. The town center's car-free."

"Car-free…?" I gaped at him. "But you're, like… You love cars."

Marco grinned. "I know. That's what makes this romantic. That's what love is. Sacrifice. I'm giving up cars for you, at least for today." He pulled one of my sneakers from its nest of tissue paper. "And you're giving up heels, because the streets here are bumpy."

My heart did an unexpected flip-flop. What was he saying? Love? Sacrifice? I knew he was teasing, but my face still went hot. I couldn't help wonder how he really felt, not about me, but about love, in theory. How he'd be if he fell in love. In a relationship.

"Come on, Cinderella. Give me your feet."

I pushed the fancy away, silly thing that it was, and sat in the front seat with my legs sticking out. Marco crouched on the tarmac and slid off my shoes. He wrapped them in tissue and put them away, then pulled out a pair of socks from his pocket.

"You brought socks as well?"

"Of course. You need socks. Hey, are you okay?"

I realized my eyes were swimming. I blinked back my tears — I wasn't crying. I was surprised, was all. Caught off guard by the gesture. He'd thought of everything, thought of my comfort. It was sweet in a silly way that clashed with my outfit.

"Sock me," I said, and Marco chuckled. He put the socks on me and smoothed them over my arches, then slipped my shoes on and tied the laces in bows.

"You look great. Very sporty."

I smiled down at my feet. I couldn't remember the last time I'd worn sneakers, unless you counted the tennis courts or the gym. Still, they looked kind of cute with my yellow sundress.

"So, what's there to do here?"

"Oh, there's a lot." Marco lit up, glancing at the towered skyline. "There's a lot of old churches, if you're into that stuff. Museums and galleries. Shops for the tourists. And obviously wineries, a whole lot of those. I thought we'd walk around first and take in the sights, then find a café when the tourists flood in. Then I've something to show you, but it's a surprise."

We set off at a slow pace for the town center, pausing here and there to snap a few selfies. At first glance, the town seemed frozen in time, narrow streets crowded with ancient stone buildings. Old, faded signs hung on crumbling walls. But then there were newer signs, JUICE BAR, FREE WIFI, mostly in English, taped up in windows. Marco pointed out an ad for penis pasta, decorated with clipart straight from the nineties.

I laughed. "Penis pasta?"

" Sì, cazzetti . Little cocks."

"Mm, disappointment with tasty meat sauce."

Marco guffawed at that. "Oh, the truth comes out! I knew size did matter."

"Not that you've got anything to worry about in that department." I nudged him. He stole a quick kiss. The streets were filling with tourists as the sun climbed in the sky, all stopping to snap the same vacay shots. Marco took my arm and guided me to a little café. We sat at a table on the small corner terrace and Marco ordered us pastries and coffee.

"I like to come here," he said, as our waiter headed off. "You see across the street, where one flagstone's missing?"

I looked where he was pointed, and, yeah, I saw it.

"It's been like that for years. I keep thinking they'll fix it. But they never do, and I sit here and wait, and tourists come by with their heads in the clouds, trying to take pictures of that tower over there." He pointed at a tower rising between two buildings. "They back up and back up trying to fit the whole thing in, and I bet on which ones'll fall on their asses."

I laughed, then I smacked him. "Really? That's mean."

"I warn them if they're old, or if they seem like good people. But the loud ones, the mean ones dragging tired children, pff . I say screw 'em. Let them tip over."

I snickered at the image of a loud, red-faced tourist going ass over teakettle in the pothole. Becoming a story for other tourists. He was yelling at his kids to get in the picture, and then whoom . Flat on his tuchis.

"Here comes one now." Marco sipped his coffee. We watched a sweaty tourist back toward the pothole, his expensive Nikon pressed to his face. "Five euros he trips."

"No, he's dragging his heels. He's going to feel that before he goes in."

The tourist glanced our way, and I thought he'd heard us. Then he adjusted his camera and eased back one more step. He snapped, checked the preview, and cursed in English. Slid his other heel back, and off he went. He didn't fall, but he danced all around, waving his camera, flapping for balance. He bellowed his outrage, shit bastard pothole , and a mother covered her child's ears with two loaves of bread. Marco stretched out his hand.

"You owe me five euros."

"What? No, I don't. You said if he fell."

"I said if he tripped . That counts as tripping."

I dug in my purse and came up with five euros. Marco took them, smirking, and tucked them in with our bill.

"They're used to big tourist tips. We can't be cheap yokels."

We sat and ate pastries and drank strong black coffee, and watched the pothole, but no more tourists keeled over. A woman in a big hat got flapped by a pigeon. Kids went by smiling, eating gelato. I tried to imagine this place long ago, pre-pothole, pre-tourists, pre-penis pasta. Market stalls. Mule carts. Women in shawls. Congregations flocking to all those old churches. Strangers from out of town tripping in potholes, their eyes on the skyline, all those high towers.

"Guess it hasn't changed much," I said.

Marco frowned. "Hm?"

"Just picturing how it must've been when it was built. How old is this town?"

"Well, there's been a town here for three thousand years. But what you see now is mostly more recent. Built between eleven hundred and around thirteen hundred."

My head spun at the thought of such a vast span of years, lives coming and going here, roads trod flat, then cobbled. Other couples must've sat here as we sat right now, maybe even fake ones out for revenge. I felt suddenly small and a little petty. But Marco was smiling, finishing his pastry.

"Are you ready for a longer walk?"

I nodded. "Where to?"

"That's the surprise. We have one stop to make first." Marco paid our bill, then led us up the street. He stopped at a bakery with its door painted blue and picked up a wicker hamper from a smiling old man. The two of them chatted in easy Italian, the old man laughing and shaking his head. I couldn't help noticing no money changed hands.

"Do you know him?"

"Yeah, he's my uncle. Well, my great uncle, but close enough."

"So you grew up here?"

"No, in Siena. But a lot of my family still lives up here." He held up the hamper. It smelled of fresh bread. "Uncle Sal there's a baker. He made us a picnic. I thought we'd go eat it out in the hills. Watch the sun set over the vineyards. Then we'll spend the night here and drive up to Monza."

"Sounds perfect," I said.

We left the city behind us, and the bustle of the tourists, and headed out eastward along a narrow, winding trail. The country was hilly, the sun high and hot, but a fresh breeze kept us cool as we went on. Marco told stories of his big family, aunts and uncles and cousins and kindly grandparents.

"I have four Uncle Tonys," he explained as we walked. "There's Uncle Sal's Tony. You just missed him today. He works at the bakery, but only till noon. He gets up at four and does the day's baking, then he stays and minds the place through the lunch rush. Then Uncle Sal comes in for the rest of the day. Then there's Tony in London. He's a fashion designer. He was pretty big, but there was this scandal, this tax-dodging thing… He did two, three years. Broke his ma's heart." He scowled for a moment, then brightened up. "But he's flying straight now, so that's all good. Then the two other Tonys both live in Siena. One runs a bar there. The other's a butcher. He's the one I was talking about, who moved to New York. He was there all of six days and he came running back."

I nodded along, hoping he'd tell me more. His family sounded a lot like most families, confusing and messy with the odd little drama. But I liked how he smiled when he talked about them, how his voice went all thick with real affection. I had a big family too, but not quite like he did. My parents did love me, and I loved them, but there were times we felt kind of… corporate. Like a family-run brand, more than a family.

We crested a hill, and Marco stopped walking. "Over there," he said and pointed.

I shaded my eyes to block out the sun, declining now with late afternoon. At the top of the next hill, I could see an old farmhouse, or the stone walls where one had once stood. The roof was missing, apart from the beams. A dry, crumbling fountain stood in the dooryard.

"Ruins," I said.

"For now, maybe. But that was my nonno's place. Where I spent my summers. He grew olives for olive oil, and a few grapes. Come on, I'll show you."

We headed up to the house and the old fountain. I could see olive trees still growing down the hill, a few black and lightning-struck, most hale and healthy.

"I bought this," said Marco. "First race I won. I'm going to rebuild one day, when I'm done racing. Come here in summer, like when I was little." For a moment, his shoulders drooped, and he seemed sad. Then he brightened up and dug into our hamper. He pulled out a blanket and shook it out by the fountain. My mouth watered as he laid out our lunch, a platter of cold meats, greens. Pasta salads. Bottles of lemonade and Orangina. Big juicy sandwiches I couldn't wait to bite into.

"All my favorites," he said. "Uncle Sal is the best."

I sat down on the blanket and opened a lemonade. "You going to bring your own kids up here, y'know, down the line?"

"That's the plan." Marco grinned and clinked our bottles together. "To family, the future."

"Family." I sipped cold lemonade, enjoying its tartness. It shouldn't have surprised me Marco wanted kids, coming as he did from such a large family. But still, it felt strange to hear him planning family vacations — Marco Barone, the famous playboy.

"Not the near future," he added, more true to form. "I mean when I'm older. Rich and retired."

We watched the sun go down as we devoured our feast, the hills turning golden, then blazing red. The shadows of olive trees stretched out in long scrawls. When the first stars came out, they seemed close and bright. I stretched back on our blanket for a better look.

"The sky's amazing out here. Like it has extra stars."

"Less light pollution." Marco lay down beside me. A chill had crept in with the death of the day, and Marco drew me closer, keeping me warm.

"Today's been perfect," I said. "Except for one thing."

Marco flicked my elbow. "No, I brought dessert. Tiramisu."

"Not that. Though, dessert does sound good." I pulled out my phone — no bars. No signal. "We got so caught up having fun, we forgot to do socials. And there's no paparazzi way out here."

Marco smacked himself lightly in the forehead. "Oh, yeah. The whole point was being seen, huh?"

"I mean, kind of." I tucked my phone away. "Still, this is great. As long as you know your way back in the dark. I'd need a lot more pillows to sleep under the stars."

He laughed. "Are you kidding? I'd know my way blindfolded. Plus, you can follow the lights from the towers."

"Then, yeah. This is perfect. A perfect day."

Marco leaned over and kissed me on the nose. "We'll get papped next time. Promise. I'll take you to the opera next week in Milan. But I had to bring you here. I knew you'd love it?" It came out a question, sweet, almost shy. Maybe it was a trick from his playboy playbook — bring girls home, melt their hearts with his childhood — but if it was, it was a good one. My own heart was pounding hard in my chest.

"I love it," I said, to break up the tension. "But next time, more pictures. More socials. More press."