The Pairing

Luckily, Signora Lucia knows how to drive a stick shift.

We’re on the motorway somewhere between Chianti and Rome, three across on the bench seat of the truck Lucia usually takes to pick up cases of wine from neighboring wineries.

Everything that could go wrong on our bike ride, did. Theo got lost, my bike blew a tire, a goat chased us off the road. For the first hour it was a charming pastoral misadventure, until our play fighting became actual fighting, and when Theo mentioned the bus leaving at nine, I stopped and stared and told them the schedule said eight. We were late for a bus that had already left, and nobody had looked for us because Theo had helpfully checked our names off when they loaded our bags.

By the time we could communicate what happened and get a concierge to call the tour company—Theo never got around to saving Fabrizio’s number—the bus was an hour out. If they turned back, the entire group would miss the Vespa tour of Roman monuments scheduled for this afternoon. That was when Signora Lucia marched in, took up the receiver, and told Fabrizio she would handle it.