Chapter 1 - Portia
CHAPTER 1 - PORTIA
Just for fun.
Three little words that describe the next two weeks of my life.
Two weeks that will be full of nothing but what Jayla and I love to call the three S’s: sun, shopping and splurging… on ourselves.
Jayla nudges me as the plane slips into motion on the runway, quickly gathering speed. “We’re doing it, sissy. We’re finally on our way!”
I can’t keep the smile off my face. It’s been so long since I’ve felt this excited. “Just remember… we find our AirB Jayla’s never even been out of the country.
The flight attendant offers us complimentary champagne. We cheers to the trip ahead and all the memories we’re about to make.
“Wait… hold up. Lemme take a picture!” Jayla says, fumbling with her purse to dig out her phone.
I strike a pose with my flute of champagne.
“Look at my sissy modeling,” Jayla says. “Naomi herself would be jealous. Tyra too.”
I snort in more laughter. “Are you drunk already?”
“No… but about to be. Watch this champagne disappear.”
We might as well be a couple of giggling school girls the way we’re entertaining ourselves. For first half of the flight, we’re enjoying drinks and the other luxuries of first class. Once we have dinner—we’re served pan-fried beef tenderloin with steamed snow peas and herbed mashed potatoes—we begin winding down.
Jayla takes a nap while I stay up and watch a movie. I’ve got my journal propped open in my lap as I jot down my thoughts of our trip so far.
…and other things on my mind.
Lincoln’s angry face materializes in my mind’s eye. My ex-husband hasn’t returned my calls since the divorce was finalized. It was part of the agreement that he would turn over the remainder of my belongings. Specifically the trunk with my childhood things that are priceless in sentimental value. Yet since our final day in court when he was awarded half of everything I’ve worked for, he’s fallen off the face of the planet.
I haven’t heard a peep from him.
No amount of texts, calls or emails have worked.
Jayla offered to drop by his place—our old condo on the other side of the city—on my behalf, but I begged her not to. The last thing I need is for my sister to get into an altercation with my lazy, emotionally distant ex-husband.
Lincoln’s my past. Sicily is my future. If he doesn’t give back my things by the time I return from vacation, I’ll get the authorities involved.
Jotting down my thoughts help. A little sigh leaves my lungs, breathing new life into me. I glance up at the oval-shaped window that’s partially covered by the shade I’ve drawn halfway down. Clouds and more clouds float by.
Lincoln is thousands of miles away and my concerns about the aftermath of our marriage should be too. As the Italians love to say, la calma è la virtù dei forti.
Or, in English, calm is the virtue of the strong.
Clapping shut the journal, I return my focus to the mini monitor in front of me.
For the next two weeks, I won’t think about Lincoln—or any other problem—even once. This trip is about me and the new adventure I’m embarking on…
Jayla and I are already feeling the jetlag once we land in Catania. The airport’s busy like most international airports are, a blur of travelers coming and going. We follow the crowds deplaning and head to baggage claim to collect our things.
We don’t have to search far for our tour guide. Francesca waves at us, practically bouncing on the spot. She’s holding up a sign with our names scribbled onto it along a heart shaded in with the colors of the Italian flag.
We pivot straight for her like little kids being picked up by their parents at the end of the school day.
Tall and leggy with ginger orange hair, Francesca hugs Jayla like she’s her sister and not me. Then she turns to me and gives an embrace just as warm and friendly.
“I’m so happy you’re here!” she says in a bubbly tone that’s underlined by her Italian accent. “I was worried I would miss you. Traffic was a nightmare.”
“Thanks for coming to pick us up at all. We really appreciate it.”
She waves a hand at us and then motions toward the exit. “Come, we have a car waiting for you. Don’t fret about your luggage. Faro will grab them. FARO!”
Both Jayla and I flinch at her loud and sudden screech.
Out of the crowd of people milling about appears a middle-aged man with heavily-lidded eyes and a potbelly. He lumbers toward us pushing a trolley for our luggage.
“Come,” Francesca repeats, beckoning us. “He will grab it. Don’t worry.”
Jayla and I trail behind her as she leads us out of the glass sliding doors and into the spring warmth. As Francesca promised, there’s a little sedan parked by the curb, the engine bumbling in wait.
We pack ourselves and our luggage inside and then drive off once Faro takes his place behind the wheel.
“You are going to love where you stay,” Francesca says from the front passenger seat. “To be honest, I’m a little jealous myself.”
We laugh along with her.
“If it looks anything like the pictures, I’m already sold on it,” Jayla says.
“Even better. No picture can do it justice. There is a breathtaking view of the beach and the water. And, of course, the loft holds up to Mr. Calderone’s luxury standards. It has two bedrooms and bathrooms with a nice, spacious living area and fully stocked kitchen. Many amenities to enjoy.”
“Err, Mr. Calderone?” I ask.
“Yes, it is his property you will be staying. My travel company often uses his homes for our guests. He believes in nothing but the best. You will love it.”
I’m so busy trying to rack my brain where I’ve heard the name before that I miss out on some of the scenery we’re driving by.
Calderone definitely sounds familiar.
Is it some kind of Italian brand? Some sparkling water or fashion house or pasta sauce? Maybe a football star?
It’s not until Jayla nudges me and points out the window that I stop thinking about it. I glance at the picturesque villages we’re driving by that reside on one side of the road and then the sparkling sea that’s on the other.
Francesca wasn’t exaggerating—it’s all so overwhelming and breathtaking that I find myself literally gasping.
“This is… unreal,” Jayla mutters under her breath.
I couldn’t agree more.
We drive from Catania to Santa Flavia, where tiny bright houses are stacked along the hillsides and the bay opens up to crystal clear waters. It takes me a whole extra second to digest my shock when we pull up to the stone building where our loft is located.
It’s like gazing up at history, the building centuries-old but with an undeniable rustic Italian charm. The door’s ten feet tall and made of heavy wood. It takes me two hands just to pry it open.
Francesca leads the way up to the top floor where we’ll be.
“And this,” she says, brandishing an arm, “will be your home for the next two weeks.”
Jayla rushes ahead of me to explore the loft, darting from room to room to check out every detail. “We’ve got a bidet! Sissy, sissy… we’ve got a fucking bidet in this bitch!”
I shoot Francesca an apologetic smile but she simply laughs.
“I told you you would love the amenities,” she says. “Come look at the view from the balcony.”
I follow her through the double doors leading onto the balcony and realize I’m going to have to get used to being speechless here.
The view is unlike anything I’ve ever seen before—we’re literally right on the bay. Right by the water and the cloudless sky. I can only imagine sunrise and sunset here…
“Beautiful, yes?” Francesca smiles at me.
I nod vigorously. “Beautiful is an understatement.”
“Which reminds me, Mr. Calderone requests his guests attend dinner at his restaurant. Complimentary, of course.”
“Oh, no… that’s okay. We’ve sort of already made an itinerary?—”
“I suggest you attend,” she says. “It is a good way to express gratitude for staying in his property and the food is quite delicious. Some of the best in Sicily. It is considered a very exclusive restaurant few are lucky enough to dine in.”
“Free food?” Jayla says, stepping out onto the balcony with us. “We’ll be there! It’ll give us an excuse to wear the fancy cocktail dresses we packed.”
I raise a brow at Jayla. “We were going to wear them for dinner in Palermo.”
“We can do that tomorrow night. You forget we packed a whole closet’s worth of stuff?”
Francesca’s smile brightens. “Excellent. I will let Mr. Calderone know you will be there. A car will come pick you up at seven.”
Before I can wrap my head around everything, Francesca is leaving her number in case we need her and bidding us farewell. The door snaps shut and Jayla and I find ourselves alone in the loft that’s ours for the next two weeks.
Jayla squeals and claps her hands, glancing out at the waterfront view. “Isn’t this wild? Look at us, sissy!”
“Yeah,” I say slowly, unable to figure out what’s started bothering me. It’s a vague feeling pitted in my stomach. “Yeah, it’s all so amazing. Almost too good to be true.”