When I wake the next morning, I ignore my hunger pains. There’s no way that I’m going to go down to the breakfast buffet and risk running into Preston after yesterday’s debacle.
After my fake stumble into Professor Ratcliffe the day before, I managed to convince him to go along with my story that his wife had been a regular customer at my fictitious nail salon. I told Preston and Matteo that she and I had become friendly, bonding over a shared love of acrylic nails. That had led me to inviting her and the professor to a barbecue at my house one weekend, which was where they met my father.
Over a couple of beers, the professor and his wife told my father about the problems they had been having getting their cat, Esmerelda, to stop sharpening her claws on their furniture. My father offered his cat training services and in no time Esmerelda was happily restricting her claw-sharpening activity to the designated cat scratching post.
It was a pretty elaborate story. I even described in great detail the correct way to file your nails—only go in one direction and never file your nails when they’re wet. The guys’ eyes started to glaze over, which was exactly the reaction I was looking for. I went in for the kill, explaining the differences between acrylic and gel nails. My reasoning was that they’d want to change the subject and talk about anything other than how I knew Professor Ratcliffe and the condition of his fake wife’s cuticles.
No such luck. For some reason, Matteo wanted to know more about the professor’s wife. You’d think that wouldn’t be a problem, but it was a huge problem. You see, Professor Ratcliffe isn’t married. Never has been. So when pressed for details about his non-existent wife, he froze. Naturally, I jumped in to fill the silence. Ten minutes later, even I was starting to believe that Mrs. Ratcliffe was real. Once I finished describing their twenty-fifth wedding anniversary celebration, we finally started our tour of the archaeological park.
Normally, I would have been fascinated to have the opportunity to explore the historic site, but my nerves were frayed by this point. I managed to make it through the rest of the afternoon, and when Preston and I finally got back to the retreat center, I feigned a migraine. Before rushing off to my room, I explained that my migraines usually last for a good twenty-four hours, then wipe me out afterward so he shouldn’t expect to see me until Monday. After a gentle kiss on my forehead and making me promise to call him if I needed anything, Preston said goodbye, and I began my self-enforced isolation in my room.
The previous night was fine—I hadn’t been hungry, but this morning is a whole different story. I remind myself that besides avoiding Preston, there are other benefits to missing a meal or two. Lately, the only thing that has been comfortable to wear are my yoga pants. With all the delicious food we prepare and eat during class, the pounds have been piling on. I dread having to put on regular clothes every morning.
I remind myself that I have a clear plan that needs to be followed—stay in bed all day, snuggled up with Giuseppe, reading, and ignore my growling stomach.
By noon, I’m starving and I can’t stand what I’m reading. It’s a Star Wars book that Loretta lent me because she thinks I’m a huge fan of the franchise. Now I have to read it because she’s sure to want to discuss it with me. But the plot is so ridiculous. Seriously, shaggy seven-foot creatures called Wookies who fly around in spaceships?
My phone buzzes, giving me an excuse to put my book down. After checking to make sure it isn’t Preston calling me, I grin. It’s Mia and Isabelle wanting to video chat.
“Hey, guys,” I say, propping my phone up against the pillow and turning on my side.
“Are you still in bed?” Mia asks.
“Uh-huh.”
Isabelle pops into view. “Are you sick?” she asks with concern.
“Only as far as Preston knows. I told him I have a migraine.”
“You’re faking it?” Mia asks. “Why?”
I groan—partly from the agony of having to tell them how deep in doo-doo I’ve gotten myself with my fake manicurist backstory and partly because of hunger pains. After I explain about running into Professor Ratcliffe and inventing a wife for him, Mia surprises me. “You should tell Preston the truth. You two so belong together.”
“What? I thought you were the one who didn’t think we should get serious about guys.”
Isabelle laughs. “That was until she met Pierre.”
“Pierre. That’s a French name. Aren’t you guys in Germany?”
“We are,” Mia says, turning the phone so that I can see a classic Bavarian town in the background. “You remember Pierre from the cruise ship, don’t you?”
“Pierre?” The only men we really spoke with on our transatlantic crossing were Celeste’s suitors—there hadn’t been many guys our age. I furrow my brow. “Oh, wait a minute. Is he that waiter?”
Isabelle says, “Bingo. The two of them have been in constant contact since we disembarked.”
“He’s calling you from the cruise ship? Isn’t that expensive?”
“No, he’s in Paris,” Mia says. “He finished up his contract. I’m going to meet up with him when I get there. He said he’ll help me find a job at an art gallery through his connections.”
“She’s in love,” Isabelle coos.
“No, I’m not,” Mia says. “But he is cute, and nice, and—”
Isabelle interrupts. “Enough about Pierre. That’s all I hear about these days. Tell us more about Preston.”
“There’s nothing to report,” I say.
“Liar,” Mia says. “You’re turning bright red. Something’s going on.”
“It is not.” I put my hand on my cheek and remember how Preston caressed it at the basilica on Saturday.
“Oh, that’s right,” Mia says. “You’re not in love with him, you’re smitten with him. That’s what he always says, right? Smitten?”
“Uh-huh.” I roll over on my back and hold the phone in front of me. “He does have some old-fashioned quirks.”
“Just tell him how you feel and why you thought you had to hide who you really are from him,” Mia urges. “He’ll understand.”
“But what if he doesn’t? He’s a bigwig in the ancient history community. Once he finds out I’ve been accused of plagiarism, he won’t want anything to do with me.”
“He won’t believe that you’re actually guilty,” Mia says.
“That’s exactly what he’ll believe. I dropped out of graduate school. It’s like an admission of guilt.”
Isabelle’s face fills the screen. “Or he might just think you’re not a fighter. That you gave up without a fight.”
“I couldn’t fight it,” I say. “I didn’t want to ruin my father’s reputation.”
“You’ll regret that for the rest of your life,” Isabelle says bitterly. “Trust me. I know from my own experience.” Then she shakes her head. “Sorry. That’s my baggage, not yours. Let’s look at this logically—”
“Love isn’t logical,” Mia says, pulling the phone back so that she’s on screen.
Isabelle ignores her. “You have two options, really—continue with your story and enjoy the last of this holiday fling, or come clean and see if there’s something more. Something long-term. It really comes down to how you feel about him. Do you want him enough to fight for him? To fight for your relationship?”
“It’s not worth it,” I say. “He won’t believe me, and I’ll have to show for it is more humiliation. I can’t go through that again. I’ve already cut off everyone I know from the academic world. People told me they believe me, but I could see in their eyes that they had doubts. I don’t want to go through that with Preston too. And then when you add in the fact that I’ve lied about pretty much everything to him, there’s no way things will ever work out with him.”
“Well, there’s your answer then,” Isabelle says. “You don’t feel strongly enough about him to risk telling him the truth.”
I take a deep breath, then let it out slowly. “You’re right. I have to accept that this is just a holiday fling. Now all I have to do is survive the last week of cooking school without him making the connection between my last name and my father.”
When I wake on Monday morning, I have a headache. I’m not sure if it’s some sort of cosmic payback for faking a migraine to get out of seeing Preston or if it’s due to the fact that I haven’t eaten since Saturday night.
I get dressed and brave the breakfast buffet, bracing myself in case Preston is there. Mercifully, the only people dining are the Silver Foxes. No young professors in sight. After three cups of coffee and several bombolones, my head starts to feel better. My stomach, on the other hand, is twisted into knots. Sooner or later, I’m going to have to face him. Checking the time on my phone, I realize class is going to start in a few minutes. I guess it’s going to be sooner, not later. I take a deep breath and head to the kitchen annex.
“How do you feel?” Preston asks when I set my purse down on our workstation.
“Not great.” Which is true. Just not for the reasons he thinks.
“Should you be here? Why don’t you go back to bed?”
“No, I’ll be fine,” I say. “Besides, there’s no way I’m missing today—we’re making Teodora cake.”
Always looking for an opportunity to turn any conversation into a history lecture, Preston asks, “Did you know it was named after Teodora, the wife of Justinian the Great? She was the empress of Byzantium.”
“I did know that,” I say. “We saw a mosaic of her at the basilica.”
“You remembered that?” He beams at me. “See, we’ll make a historian out of you yet.”
Great. Now, not only does my stomach ache, my heart does as well. Heartache over the fact that I won’t see Preston ever again after this week. Heartache that he doesn’t know the real me.
My musings are interrupted by Maria, who claps her hands to get our attention. “Buongiorno, class. Did everyone have a nice weekend?”
Everyone nods except me. My weekend was not the greatest.
“Wonderful,” she says. “Today, we have a special guest instructor who is going to demonstrate how to make Teodora cake.”
Preston nudges me and then points at the older woman standing at the front of the room. “Check out the guest instructor. Isn’t that Mama Leoni from the restaurant we went to?”
“I think you’re right.” My face grows warm as I remember our first kiss after dinner that night.
While Maria hands out recipe cards to each workstation, Mama Leoni explains the cake that we’re going to make. “This was invented in 2002 by a group of bakers in Ravenna. It uses pine nuts and cornmeal, which are traditional local ingredients, along with cinnamon, almonds, flour, eggs, and powdered sugar. Deliziosa!”
Maria rejoins Mama Leoni at the front. “Teodora cake is delicious,” she says. “And it’s not the only dessert we’re making today. This afternoon we’ll be making zuppa inglese which is a cross between a tiramisu and a trifle.”
I tug at the waistband of my jeans. I’m not sure I’ll be able to zip these back up with all the rich food we’ll be eating today, not to mention all the donuts I ate at breakfast.
“It is especially fitting that today is a dessert day, because it’s someone’s birthday today,” Maria says with a twinkle in her eye.
Mabel spins around on her stool to get a three hundred and sixty degree view of the room. “Whose birthday is it?” If I didn’t know better, I’d think she was jealous that someone was going to get more attention than her today.
“Is it your birthday?” Preston asks me.
“Nope. Mine was a few months ago. Is it yours?”
“No. Mine is in August.”
I feel a premonition wash over me. “August what?”
“August sixth.”
I rub my temples and groan.
“What’s wrong? Is it your head again?”
“No, my head’s fine.”
“You look faint.” He pulls a stool over. “Here, sit down.”
“Thanks, but I’m okay.” I tap the side of my head and smile at Preston. A smile that doesn’t quite reach my eyes. “All better now.”
But I’m not better. I’m worse. Preston’s birthday is August sixth. Guess who he shares a birthday with? Yep, that’s right—what’s-his-name. Surely, it’s a sign from the universe. Preston and my ex have the same birthday. Clearly, this wasn’t meant to work out.
I manage to get through the rest of the morning, working side by side with Preston. I even manage to smile when Mama Leoni stops by our workstation to check on our progress.
“How are the lovebirds today?” she asks us.
“We’re great,” Preston says. “It’s so nice to see you again. I can’t stop thinking about that ravioli we ate at your restaurant.”
“You must come again,” Mama Leoni says.
“We’d like that.” Preston glances at me. “How about Friday?”
“Maybe,” I say. “Why don’t we play it by ear?”
Mabel turns and says loudly, “If you don’t want to go with the handsome professor, then I will.”
Loretta tugs her friend’s arm. “Stop interfering.”
“I’m not interfering.”
“Yes, you are.”
“No, I’m not.”
I roll my eyes at the ladies’ bickering. Mama Leoni seems amused by it. Eventually, they stop arguing, but only because Maria reminds them that they’re supposed to be mixing their batter.
“Do you think you’ll be well enough to catch up tonight?” Preston asks me.
“I’m not sure.” I hand him the eggs. “It might be better if I have an early night.”
He looks crestfallen. “Hopefully, you’ll be up for it tomorrow.”
“Hopefully,” I say.
After we finish baking our Teodora cakes, we break for lunch. I excuse myself and escape to my room for an hour. When I return to the kitchen, Maria announces that she has another surprise for us. The Silver Foxes are beside themselves with anticipation. Fueled by the coffee they had at lunch, they shout out their guesses.
“Is it gelato?” asks the man who is obsessed with the Italian ice cream.
“No, it’s not gelato,” Maria says.
“Is it another field trip with Professor Whitaker?” Mabel asks.
The entire room turns and smiles at Preston. He smiles back as a blush slowly creeps over his face. “I don’t think you want to hear another history lecture from me.”
“Yes, we do,” Mabel says.
Everyone murmurs in agreement.
“Unfortunately, the surprise isn’t a field trip with Professor Whitaker,” Maria says. “However, it does involve him.”
Preston raises his eyebrows. “It does?”
“Yes,” Maria says. “And Ginny.”
“Me?” I ask in a squeaky voice.
“The tourist board has asked us to do a cooking demonstration on Thursday. We’re going to make several of the dishes we’ve already prepared in class.” Maria points at a couple at the front of the room. “Frank and Jeannie, I thought you could demonstrate minestrone soup.” Frank and Jeannie look thrilled to have been chosen, giving each other high fives.
Then she indicates two women at the back. “Sylvia and Lois, can you demonstrate the Teodoro cake?” They jump up and down like they’ve just been selected as contestants on The Price is Right.
Finally, Maria turns and looks at us. “And, Ginny and Preston, I would like you to make tortelloni burro e salvia. Tortellini with butter and sage.” She grins. “Or, as Ginny likes to call it, toretellini with salivating burros.”
Everyone chuckles except Mabel. Instead, she grumbles that she and Loretta weren’t selected.
“There’s a lot to do to get ready for the demonstration. Each pair will need to work closely with each other over the next couple of days.”
Preston grins at me. “Looks like we’ll be spending a lot of time together.”
Great. Just when I was hoping to spend less time with Preston, now I’ll be spending more time with him.