CHAPTER 1

 “You know what they say: sixth time’s a charm.  Or you can break Mama’s heart, and become the family failure.” Marisa Cerini rolled her eyes at her sister Gina who was chopping garlic at the kitchen table.  “Your help I don’t need". 

She shrugged.  “Just trying to be encouraging.”

Mama crushed Marisa in a bear hug so fierce, Marisa barely had strength to return it.  “You’re gonna meet him this year, I can feel it.”

Poor Mama, she said that every year.  For five years Marisa had let her down, along with the rest of the family.  Unfortunately that was nothing new.   That was the problem with growing up in a family of Italian traditionalists when you wanted a career.  Or living in the most romantic town in America when being a natural romantic came as a result of really working at it.  In fact, Marisa had copied this kitchen’s décor of dried flowers and antique valentine cards.   Her own romantic inspiration had failed to materialize.

“You’re gonna make us proud.” Mama plucked a square of cooking chocolate from a dish on the counter. “I think I’m gonna cry.”

Marisa leaned against the wooden counter that bore the scars of three generations of cooking.   “Don’t cry, Mama.  You’ll get us all bawling.”

“Can you fault me for crying on such a momentous occasion?” Mama said with her usual dramatic inflection and hand to her bosom.

“Mama, you cry when Nonna takes her lasagna out of the oven.”

“Nonna’s lasagna is a beautiful thing.” Gina twirled a strand of her long, dark hair. “Remember that time Nonna nodded off, and the lasagna came out a smoking black brick, we all cried?”

“Even Pop, ” Marisa agreed.

“Crying easy is a family trait.  There’s no shame in it.” Mama pushed back her thick, salt-and-pepper hair and started fussing with the hem on Marisa’s dress. 

Nonna, her precious grandmama, was a spry woman with waist-length gray hair always worn coiled on her head.  The weight of it tilted her like the leaning tower of Pisa. “You will finally take your place among the women in our family, meeting your husband in town square during festival.  Wine, full moon, and amore.”  She clasped her hands in front of her.  “So sweet, so sweet.”

The tradition.  It had started generations ago in Cortina, Italy, when a girl in Mama’s family met her true love at the original Vino and Amore Festival. And so it went that every woman in the family met her true love at the festival when she was twenty.  It continued when the family moved to the small Southern California town of Cortina, founded by immigrants of Cortina.  The tradition was as much a part of their lives as Christmas to the rest of the world.  Marisa too had gone through the ceremony of donning the dress and taking that momentous step. 

Only she’d stumbled.  Maybe she hadn’t been looking all that hard the first time.  After all, she’d had other things on her mind besides romance, though she would never admit it.  She had been taking community college courses on the sly and getting her business degree. The third time she’d been kind of looking for him, but he’d obviously slipped by.  The fifth year she’d looked a little harder, but no luck.   It hadn’t helped that Little-Miss-Perfect Gina had met her true love the first time out and was now pregnant.  A high chair already sat in the kitchen, and enough baby toys were piled in a bin in the family room to last the kid into high school.

Nor did it help that the summer Cortina newsletter was sitting on the table open to the wedding and baby announcements…and engagement notices from the women who had met their amours at the most recent festival.  The parchment newsletter would have a place of honor on the refrigerator until the next one arrived.

Nonna made last minute adjustments to Marisa’s lace collar. “Me and Salvatore always say tradition has gone the way of the past. Young people don’t go to church, and they blend our Italian blood by marrying outside our culture.  You remember the Pontinis’ shame when their daughter married an Irish man.”

Oh, brother, here it comes, she thought as Gina got her pious look. “I did good, huh, Nonna?  Nice Italian husband, baby on the way.”

Nonna pressed a work-worn finger to her mouth, then to Gina’s belly.  “Salvatore and I are so proud, so proud.”

Marisa could hardly swallow the lump in her throat.  At college she played Miss Normal with a family who would be proud of her accomplishments and aspirations.  At home, life was about tradition.  Now that Marisa had completed her degree, she was ready to fit back into the “traditional” role, find a husband, and try to squeeze in a career without them noticing. 

When Cousin Giorgio announced he was retiring from managing the sales department, Marisa was ready.  She’d asked her father to consider her for the position while pretending it wasn’t monumentally important. If being Pop’s secretary at the family’s cookie company was supposed to fulfill her, she’d failed again. Pop had tapped her cheek and said he’d think about it.

Sure he would.

Nonna kissed Marisa on the nose.  “You will make us proud, too.  Just make sure he’s not too big.”  She wagged her gnarled finger.  “Too big is no good.”

Marisa’s mouth dropped open.  “What?”

Nonna had already walked over to the sewing basket, a bin large enough to house a small family.  Mama said, “She didn’t mean too big…like that.”

Good grief, she hoped not.  Discussing male anatomy with your nonna was as weird as…well, as Nonna regularly talking to the husband who died five years ago. 

Marisa held up her shoulder-length dark hair.  “Should I wear my hair up or down?”

All three women answered simultaneously.

“Up.”

“Down.”

“Up.”

She looked at her reflection in the full-length mirror, pursed her lips, then released her hair.  “Down.  Definitely.”  She tilted her head.  “Maybe.”

“What’s this,” Mama said, peering at her face. “You plucking eyebrows?  Cerini women don’t pluck.”

But everybody else does! she wanted to yell.  “Only a few strays.”

“Your eyebrows are beautiful the way they are.  Natural beauty, like your nonna.”  Nonna had skin the envy of most of the women in town, even younger ones.

Marisa sighed and shifted in the lacy dress.  If only she could wear something less…frilly.  But frilly was romantic, and she was romantic, darn it. But why did the traditional dress have to be white?  Could her hips look any bigger?  She eyed the burgundy and gold drapes in the living room.  Something like that would camouflage. “What if I don’t meet him again this year?”

Nonna raised her hand, tips of her fingers pressed together.  “It is destino!  My granddaughter will not let her family down, this I know.”

“I didn’t,” Gina said.

“I know,” Marisa muttered.

“It wasn’t easy, knowing the mantel of tradition was on my shoulders, especially since you hadn’t come through.”

“I know.” 

 “You’ll do fine.  He only needs to be Italian, single, and heterosexual.” Nonna waved away those requirements.  “Three thousand people from all over the country are coming to the festival. He will be there somewhere. 

Gina said, “Just don’t do that thing you do when you get nervous.”

“What thing?”

“Oh, I shouldn’t have mentioned it.”

Marisa threw her hands up.  “Well, you’ve already started, so you can’t back out now.”

Gina rubbed her humongous belly.  “All right, your mouth hangs open and you stop talking.”

She knew about the not talking part.  That was an annoying habit, too many things crowding into her head at once.  “My mouth doesn’t hang open!”  All three women nodded.  “My mouth hangs open?  Why didn’t you tell me this before?”

“Like when you were talking to Nino at the dry cleaners last week.  He said you looked cute, and you did the zombie thing.”  Naturally Gina had to demonstrate.

Marisa glanced out the window.  The skies were starting to look like wads of cookie dough with big moldy spots.  They hung so low, the mountains to the east were obliterated.  “What if it rains?  What if the airline lost his luggage or he’s delayed until after sunset?  What if—”

“Stop worrying!” Mama said.  “You think all the women in our family worried about delayed planes and luggage?”

“They didn’t have planes back then.”

“Details!”

Marisa took another look in the mirror.  “Maybe I should wear my hair up.”

“Up, down, up, down.  You’re gonna drive your husband-to-be crazy with all your indecision.”  Mama spritzed her with rose water.  “Go find your amore, my worrywart daughter.”

Marisa walked into the foyer where her father was getting ready to head out.  The festival inspired him to wear hideously bright clothes that thankfully stayed hidden the rest of the year.  His hair was slicked back with pomade oil, but tuffs always managed to stick out over his ears. 

“Ciao, Pop.” She squinted at his violet shirt and gold pants.

“Bella!” he said, turning her around.

“Pop, have you had a chance to think about my taking Giorgio’s position?”

“You don’t really want that job, do you?  Lots of hours, stress.”

Her mind screamed Yes, oh, yes! but she said, “It’d be nice.”

“It’s a career. You’re not gonna break your mama’s heart and become one of those career girls like Mrs. Perrini’s daughter, are you?”

“No,” she pushed out.  “I just want a little more challenge, that’s all.”

He studied her for a moment.  “Okay, I’m going to give you that job.”

“You are?”  Please don’t let me have heard an ‘if’ in there.

“If you meet your amore today.”  He kissed her on each cheek.

She walked down the hall to stick a blob of toothpaste in her mouth.  When she walked past her brother Carlo’s room, she heard him conducting his normal side business: betting. His words halted her: “Ten-to-one she doesn’t find the guy this time.  You in?”

Mouth open in outrage, she stepped into his room. Sports paraphernalia cluttered every wall, shelf and horizontal space, except for the space on the far wall reserved for his betting chart.   Along the top were baseball teams and their odds.  Then a column titled: Gina--Boy/Girl.  And in the last column: Marisa.

Carlo jotted something down, then turned to see her.  “Okay, got it.  And what about the fight Saturday?”

She wiped off the numbers in her column and stalked to the foyer.  “Did you know Carlo is taking odds on me finding my amore?”

Gina waved her hand.  “He’s done that for the last two years.”

“Did he take bets on you?”

“Nah, he knew I’d live up to the tradition, but I do everything right.  Right, Mama?”

“You go in there,” Mama said, nudging Gina into the living room when Marisa narrowed her eyes.

Marisa accepted good luck kisses, then Mama and Nonna promptly shoved her out the door.  She tried to gain her balance on the darned high heels Gina insisted made her look sleek, her arms flapping like a bird.

“Be careful on those wobbly bricks by the fountain!” Gina hollered.  “Not that I tripped or anything.”

Marisa said, “But what if—” 

Mama closed the blue door, and Marisa knew how little birds felt when they were booted from their nest. Distraught and abandoned came to mind.  But birds only had to make their way in the world, find food, and not get eaten.

Marisa had to find her true love.

Barrie MacKenzie stood in the ornate town square of Cortina, California surrounded by hundreds of friendly, laughing, going-round-hugging-each-other, celebrating-love-and-wine people.

Wasn’t this just a rotten bit of luck?

First his flight had been delayed, then they’d misplaced his luggage.  He’d had to spend an hour listening to the poor, married sods having to call into their families. Now it looked as though it was going to rain in the town USA Today dubbed “Most romantic town in America.”

The square was actually round, and buildings fit around it like puzzle pieces.  The restaurants, cafes, apartments, and hotel all maintained the Renaissance charm of the city, and the massive steps leading up to the courthouse reminded him of Rome.  Because of the Vino and Amore Festival, the square was crammed with food carts touting everything from full course dinners to Italian ices.  Besides the quartet, jugglers, and an organ grinder and his monkey vied for attention.

He wasn’t even supposed to be there. That damned Porter.  The first photojournalist he’d  hired for the travel and food magazine he worked for, and the man had to go and fall in love on his last assignment.  Didn’t he know the meaning of responsibility?  Porter had sounded like a lovesick schoolboy when he’d called a few days ago.

“Barrie, I need you to cover the festival for me.  I have met the woman and I can’t leave Paris until I convince her to come back with me.  She’s incredible, beautiful…”  He giggled.  “It would take me an hour to tell you about her, and that’s only what I know so far.”

“Porter, when you take an assignment—”

“Please, not another lecture about responsibility. I don’t meet the woman of my dreams every day.  You’ll understand when love bowls you over.”

“Sounds like it steamrolled you, man.  If I ever start acting daft over a woman, shoot me.” 

“Does that mean I’m not fired?”

“You’re not fired.  But remember what I told you: don’t get so involved with your subjects.”

“Thanks, Barrie.  Hey, she’s got a sister…”

“Forget it.  As it is, I need a company poster with my picture stating: ‘Not Wanted, blind dates, sisters, or cousins from out of town.’  Bring her back and get to work.”

First his boss, Stan, had been bitten by the love bug and now expecting his first babe.  And expounding ceaselessly on the bliss of married life, disguising routine and restricted freedom with words like stability and companionship. Now Porter was a victim.  Barrie pictured the love bug as not a bug at all but something akin to a piranha, teeth bared, blood-lust in its eyes.  Chomp, chomp, chomp.

“Salute!” A young Italian lad raised his paper cup in toast, oblivious to the fact that Barrie had no cup to toast back with.  He made the gesture anyway.  “Cheers.”   The man tossed back the contents, and Barrie had to grab his arm to keep him from stumbling into the quartet playing, “When the moon hits the sky like a big pizza pie, it’s amore.”

He turned at the sound of cheering.  A woman on one of the wrought iron balconies tossed flowered necklaces to the crowd below Mardi-Gras style. He made a few shots and a mental note to research this custom. 

As he focused his lens for another shot, he searched for soul.  He zoomed in on the woman’s cleavage. That wasn’t it.  Then he caught sight of a beautiful young lass trying to catch one of the necklaces.  He felt an odd tightening in his middle.  She wasn’t his type.  Streamlined blondes on the fast track with no room for dreams of weddings and babies, that’s what he liked in a woman.  Then why were they boring him lately?  No soul there either.

He made a picture of the lass in the lacy white dress, zooming in on her triumphant smile when she caught a necklace. She slid the white blooms over her head, pulling her thick, dark hair from beneath so it flowed over the flowers.  But her smile faded once she disentangled from the crowd.  She had amazing brown eyes, deep and warm, tilted up at the corners.   The kind a man wouldn’t mind looking into first thing in the morning.  He blinked.  Not him, of course.

The hem of her white dress swished around delicate ankles, though she looked unsteady on her heels.   She picked her way around the puddles to the fountain, a replica of Michelangelo’s David with water cascading from the platform beneath his feet. 

He felt a lightness replace the heavy feeling in his chest since his boss had taken him aside last week.  Barrie could take criticism: bad composition, faulty light, he could handle. But that his  photographs had no soul…  Barrie wanted to be the best at what he did, so he’d work on it. As soon as he figured out what soul was.

He focused on the lass again.  She twisted her fingers and searched the square.  He caught himself smiling just in case her gaze met his, but it slid right past him, leaving him standing there smiling at no one.

“Have you gone daft too, MacKenzie?” he muttered, forcing his attention across the square where people clamored for little cups of wine at one of the booths. In one corner a wine-making demonstration sponsored grape stomping contests, and the scent of smashed grapes competed with all of the other aromas.  These people took their wine seriously, as well as their celebrations and traditions.

He had no use for traditions.  He’d barely escaped his own family’s tradition of being tethered to their whisky distillery in a remote village in the Highlands of Scotland.  Generation after generation, living and dying on the same plot of land, never seeing the world.

As he made a photograph of a father convincing his teenage daughter to join an impromptu dance, he thought of his own parents using guilt and manipulation—and worse, his mother’s tears—to try to trap him into staying.  Settling down meant giving up freedom, and he’d have none of that.  Freedom equaled happiness.

Thinking about that made standing there in the silliness of the festival not such a burden after all.   Besides, next week he’d be on his way to Barcelona.

The dancing group had doubled in size and was making their way across the square.  They gathered people like one of those insidious Congo lines.   His style was to observe unobtrusively, blend into the crowd.  Well, as much as possible considering his six-foot-two-frame.

He stole one more glance at the pretty lass at the fountain, who was looking up at David’s physique. She covered her mouth, though she didn’t disguise the amused twinkle in her eyes. Someone had tied colored ribbons to David’s willie.

Her girlish fascination, combined with her womanly body, intrigued him. That was the opening picture for his article!  As he made several pictures, he wondered if the thrumming in his chest meant he was getting close to that elusive soul.

And now to get out of the way before—

Too late.   A heavy set woman grabbed his arm and sent him spinning into the crowd of dancers.  Before he could escape, another woman took hold of his arm. Just as he loosed himself from her, another woman clamped onto him. The crowd moved in dizzying circles like a crazed army of ants.  Some of them were singing, some clapping and shouting.   Too many people, too much touching.  He saw his chance and dodged for an opening, his head spinning as he wove through the dancers.   A man grabbed hold of his arm and gave him one last whirl.  Barrie let his weight carry him into the open.

And right into someone.

Problem was, his back was facing that someone, and before he could gain his balance on the bricks, they both went sprawling into a muddy puddle.  Conscious of his size, he twisted to the side so the unlucky victim wouldn’t take the brunt of his weight.

He hoped it was a man.  A big man who could handle the fall. As he scrambled to his feet, he had the awful feeling the soft body wasn’t a man’s.  Nor the yelp of surprise as he’d made contact. Nor the scent of roses.

Especially not the length of creamy leg beneath a once-white skirt he saw as he slid out from beneath her.  “Uh oh.” His gaze moved over the rumpled skirt, the bodice that revealed a tease of cleavage, and the mud-splattered length of neck to the shocked expression of the woman he’d spotted earlier. A swath of mud was streaked across her cheek, her hair was dripping wet, and her flower necklace was crushed.  “You all right?  Here, let me help you up.”

She waved his hand away, not even looking at him.  Her mouth was open, moving with no sound, which was probably a good thing, considering.   Her wide-eyed gaze fastened on the state of her ruined dress.  “Oh, no,” she finally uttered.

He knelt down to her level, instinctually feeling for his camera.  It was still around his neck, still dry.  Unlike the poor lass.  He caught more of the rose scent she wore.  He hated rose perfume, but for some reason, on her…he shook away the thought.  “You all right? Sorry about this.”  He nodded to the wall of people undulating around them.  “It seems there’s this dance where—”

“Sorry?   You’re sorry?”  She turned blazing eyes on him, eyes that made him think of a tribal ceremony he’d covered.  Bonfires, screaming, and…human sacrifice.  Well, not really human sacrifice, not then, but possibly now.  “Do you know what you’ve done?”

He took the opportunity to survey her again, just in case he’d missed something.  “I knocked you into a puddle.  Not on purpose, of course, but this dance, you see—”

“You’ve ruined my dress!  The dress, the one I’m supposed to…”  She broke off, panic freezing her features.  She looked him over, and he didn’t much care for the disappointment painting her face.  “You’re not even the right one!”

“The right one? Only a certain sort is allowed to bump into you?”

“No.   Yes!  I mean…oh, never mind!  I’ve got to go home and change!”

His sense of responsibility kicked in.  “Look, I’ll pay to have it cleaned, fixed, whatever.”

“It’ll be too late then!”  She scrambled up, ignoring his outstretched hand.  The moment she got to her feet, she winced and toppled against him. 

Problem was, he hadn’t been expecting it.  Particularly the way her hand reached for whatever it could find to brace herself, and that thing just happened to be his…

“Holy--!” was all he could manage as his gaze went to David’s privates.

She followed his gaze first to the colored ribbons and then down to her hand.  She let go with a shriek and fell on her rump.  “This is not happening to me,” she muttered over and over.

“I believe that just happened to me,” he said, shifting his pants. Her handprint had seared his flesh.  And with that bit of thigh exposed again, why, she’d think he was a pervert if she glimpsed the front of his pants.

Which she did.  Her face flamed a becoming plum color, and she tugged her skirt down.  “You are a pervert!”

“If I recall correctly—and I do recall—you grabbed me.”  He shook his head.  “Forget about that.”  He knelt down beside her, running a finger down the side of her ankle.  “Your ankle’s swelling.  Is that why you grabbed—er, fell down again?”

She stared at his finger, making him realize that he was softly stroking her damp skin. She clamped her mouth shut and focused on the swelling.

“My ankle can’t be broken!  Not today!”   She tried putting weight on it, but pulled back with a hiss.  “My life is ruined!  I’ll never meet him now!”

“I’m sure he’ll understand.”  Whoever the lucky sod was.  He shook his head.   Where had that come from?  Chomp, chomp, chomp.

“He won’t understand!”

“Then I’d say he isn’t worth your time.”

“You don’t understand!  He’s the man I’m supposed to marry!”

The white dress!  Her nervousness!   It was all coming together.   She was supposed to get married in front of the fountain. Maybe someone had tied ribbons to David’s willie for the same reason Americans tied cans to the getaway car.  Now he really felt bad, ruining her wedding dress and all.

He pushed his damp hair away from his face.  “We can worry about the dress later.  I don’t think your ankle’s broken.  Let me take you to the hospital.  I’m sure they’ll have you patched up in no time.”  He hoped so.  He didn’t want to see that temper of hers flare again.  Or worse, tears.

She’d pulled up her skirt in her panic, and even covered in muddy water, she had great legs.   She caught his gaze and tugged down her skirt again. 

“Are you going to help me up or gawk?”  She covered her mouth.  “I’m sorry, I’m just—”

Too late for apologies.  Besides, he had been gawking and was none too pleased with himself for doing it.  Before she could finish her apology, he’d pulled her up and slung her over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes.  Then he leaned down and grabbed her shoe and purse.

Her shriek of indignation followed behind him as he wove through what had to be a hundred people now participating in the dance.  They cheered and tossed out words like “Ah, amore!” on soulful sighs.  What a load of pish.

“I cannot believe this is happening to me,” she said, slapping his back.  “Put me down, you brute!”  As he started to pretend to drop her, she amended, “No no, not down!”

He turned to find her rounded, mud-stained bum in his face.  A nice bum at that.  “Well, make up your mind.”

“Make up my mind?  Hah!  You don’t know me very well.”  She twisted around.  “I mean, can’t you carry me like I’m a…well, a woman instead of a…a…”

He lifted an eyebrow.  “Sack of potatoes?”

“Yeah, a sack of potatoes!”

He pictured the alternative and shook his head. “I’d look like some sappy hero in one of those old-fashioned romantic movies.  I rather like the sack method myself.”  And he continued toward the cafe entrance where the crowd wasn’t such an obstacle course.

“Just take me to a phone.  I’ll call the house and see if someone can take me to the hospital.”

“It’ll be quicker if I take you.”

“No!   I don’t trust you.”

“Because you think I’m a pervert?  Sorry, but I couldn’t help noticing your--”

“No, just a clumsy oaf.”

“I’ve a mind to be clumsy again and drop you in that puddle.”

“All right, you’re not clumsy.”

He didn’t know why, but he was having fun with this crazy lass. “What about the oaf part?”

She hesitated, and he turned toward the puddle again.  “All right, all right, you’re not an oaf!”

“Anyone ever tell you you’ve got a way of making a guy feel good?”

“No.”

Music wafted through the air, accompanied by the aromas of garlic and spaghetti sauce.  He found himself walking to the jaunty beat.  Her full breasts bounced softly against his back, and her thighs felt nice beneath his hands.  Why, he could walk to the hospital and not mind in the least.

The music and smells, everything came to a screeching halt in his mind.  What the devil was he thinking?  Making things right was his responsibility, nothing more. He willed his thoughts back to the piranhas.  Chomp, chomp, chomp.

He listed his reasons for not being intrigued by this woman with each step. Too lush and curvy.   Sassy.  Melodramatic.  Lush and curvy.   Feisty.  Trouble from the get-go.  Lush and curvy.

Wait a minute.  He didn’t even like his women curvy.  Must be all the wine gases in the atmosphere messing with his mind.  Much better if she could get a family member to take her to the hospital.   Then he could apologize again, give her money—heck, he’d give her enough to buy a new dress--and be done with the whole lush and curvy business.

When she hung up the phone the second time, she leaned her forehead against the hand set and said in a pitiful mewl, “No one’s home.”

Before he could think better of it, he reached over and rubbed the mud from her cheek.  When she looked up at him in surprise, he dropped his hand.   Why did he have to keep touching her?  He didn’t even like touching that much.  Her mouth had parted slightly, though not from indignation, as though touching her had…mattered somehow.  She busied herself with removing the flower necklace.  She had a great nose, not dainty or prissy, but perfect for her features: olive skin, full mouth, and the mole on the edge of her upper lip.

“What about the chap you’re supposed to marry?”  He cleared his throat.  Why did his voice sound strange?  “Can’t you get hold of him?”

Despair dripped from her voice. “No.”

“Doesn’t he have a beeper? A cell phone?”

“I don’t know.”

“What does he look like then?  Maybe I can find him.”

“I don’t know what he looks like.  That’s the problem!”

“Wait a minute.  You’re going to marry the chap, and you don’t know what he looks like?”

“Exactly.”  She brushed her hair from her face, then grimaced when she felt gritty mud.

“I didn’t know they arranged marriages anymore.”

“It’s not an arranged marriage exactly.”  She let out an exasperated sigh.  “I wish it was. Maybe I should have you take me to the cookie booth.  That’s probably where everyone is, or somewhere around here.”

“I can do that.”

“But they’re on the other side of the square, and everyone would see me. No, that won’t work.”

“All right then, I’ll take you to the hospital.”

“But then again, everyone’s going to hear about this anyway.”

He shook his head.  “To the booth then?”

“Just take me to the hospital.  Maybe there’s still a chance of saving my career!”

“Pardon?”

She waved her hand.  “Never mind, let’s just go.”

This had to be some kind of nightmare.  Marisa had had nightmares in the weeks leading up to the festival.  Like the one where she slept through the whole thing.  Or the one where a pimple so big sprang up on her nose, it sent children running away screaming.  Or the one where she found herself standing in the square naked.  Only this nightmare was a big, chestnut-haired, Scottish…oaf who had introduced himself as Barrie McKenzie.  So there.  She mentally gave him raspberries.  Pbbbbbllllltttt!

All right, so what if he had managed to get her an ice pack and settled her ankle on his leg as they sat in the waiting area?  So what if he’d had the decency to at least carry her into the hospital instead of treating her like a sack of potatoes?  Even if he had looked very uncomfortable doing it.

And so what if being in his arms had made her feel kind of gushy inside?  He was as far from her Mr. Right as possible, even sporting faint freckles on his forehead and cheeks, and thick, auburn hair that looked silky soft and—she shook her head.  Because of him, she was probably missing her date with destiny.  Gina was going to love this—her position as perfect daughter was secured with concrete.

She should have had him take her to the cookie booth.  As it was, she could already hear everyone asking Who was that great-looking barbarian with the broad chest and shoulder-length hair hauling you all over?  The one with the sculpted cheeks and long chin and fine nose?  

“Come on,” she muttered, looking at the clock instead of at Barrie.  Talk about gawking!

Luckily he’d been watching the nurse’s station.  “You want me to go over and knock some heads around, get you moved up the list?”

“Let’s not injure anyone else, okay? You don’t understand.  This has nothing to do with impatience.”

“Would it have something to do with the chap you’re supposed to marry?  The one you don’t know?”

She didn’t want to talk about it.  Instead she focused on her throbbing ankle, but her gaze strayed to those muscular legs the size of tree trunks.  Even in his loose-cut jeans, she could see the muscles in his thighs, and she caught herself wondering if they were hairy or lightly dusted, and if the hair was blonde or reddish. 

“Are all the men as big as you where you’re from? I mean, overall,” she added quickly.

He thickened his already enchanting accent.  “Back in my wee village of New York City, there are some even bigger.”

“You weren’t born in New York. You sound Scottish.”  His words had a lyrical cadence, and he sometimes ran them together.  Like when he asked, Youallright? in a soft, low voice that made her believe he did indeed care if she was all right.  And made her feel all right indeed.  Ahem.

“Aye, I am.  Came to New York when I was twenty, seven years ago.”

“So you wear those plaid skirts, then.”

He narrowed an eye at her.  “Aye, all the time.  They’re at the cleaners now, so I’m stuck with these.”  He tapped his knee.

“You’re being sarcastic.”

“You drink wine every day?  Have a temper?   That’s what I’ve heard about Italians.” He pronounced it with a long I.

“No and no.  Well, a little on the temper.  I thought Scotttish men wore kilts, that’s all.  And played bagpipes.  No bagpipes either?”

He shook his head.

So much for trying to make ethnic conversation.  She looked at the bag sitting next to him.  He’d carefully checked his camera and wiped the mud off the case, though only after seeing to her ankle.  He hadn’t done much about the mud on his clothing (considering he’d let her land on him). “What do you do?  For a living I mean?”

“I’m a photojournalist for a travel magazine.  Celebrations covers events all over the world, like the Bun Festival in Hong Kong and the Chinese New Year.”

Before thinking better of it, she touched his arm.  “Have you been to Italy?”

“Sure. Covered Carnival in Venice last year. You?”

She pulled her hand away and sat back in the chair.  “No. Hardly been out of Cortina.  Not that I need to.”

“Sounds like you live a sheltered life, stuck in one place, never getting out.”

“I’m not stuck here; it’s where I want to be.  And not sheltered, no.  Well, maybe a little.”  She shrugged.   “I guess I have.  There’s nothing wrong with that.  So tell me about Italy.  I want to go there on my honeymoon.  It’s got to be the most romantic place in the world.”

He lifted his shoulders in a shrug. “It’s not really that romantic.”

“How can you say that? There can’t be anything more romantic than taking a gondola ride in Venice, sharing a cappuccino at a sidewalk cafe in Florence, and a kiss in the coliseum.”  Every time she came across a picture of anyplace in Italy, she cut it out and hung it on her apartment walls.  Seemed like a romantic thing to do.

“The canals of Venice are sometimes filled with sewage, and the city’s sinking. The exhaust regulations are so lax, all you can smell when you walk around Rome are fumes.  The coliseum’s falling down, and how romantic is a place where people were slaughtered for entertainment?”

She could only stare at him.  But instead of telling him how absurd he was, she found herself saying, “I’ll bet you’d think it was romantic if you’d gone with someone you love.  Or…did you?”  Instead of her usual visions of herself and an Italian man who resembled Antonio Sabatino, Jr., she could see Barrie and some tall, skinny blonde. She shooed away the thought.  What did she care?  Besides, he’d probably knock the poor woman out of the gondola.

He grimaced.   “Romance and all that fluff is designed to trick people into giving up their freedom under the guise of long-time happiness that lasts approximately as long as a good World Cup football match.”

As her mouth dropped open, a nurse called her name.

“Fluff?”

He hoisted her up into his arms and carried her into the back.  And bless his soul for not making any exerting noises as he did it.  Despite his large size, he was gentle as he set her down on the bed.  He leaned right into her face and said, “Fluff.”

“The doctor will be right in to see you,” the nurse said, but Marisa was lost in Barrie’s eyes for a moment.  They were the shade of the sky just before rain, blue with a gray hue.

She started to say something, but the way he was looking at her stole the words right out of her mouth. In horror she realized that her mouth was indeed hanging open, and she clamped it shut.   She knew the awkward feeling, sure.  But she wasn’t supposed to feel it with Barrie, who was not her Mr. Right at all.  She rubbed her nose, using the excuse to break eye contact.  “Silly goose.”  She wasn’t sure if she was saying it to herself or him.

“I’m a silly goose?  I’m not the one who’s marrying some chap I don’t even know.”

The doctor walked in.  “Well, well, you must be Marisa Cerini.  Let’s see if we can get you straightened out.”

Barrie let out a noise that sounded suspiciously like a snort.  “Good luck.”