“Are you ready?” Preston asks me.
We’re standing backstage waiting to be announced for our segment of the cooking demonstration. I peek around the curtain and take a deep breath. The place is packed. Public speaking isn’t really my thing, let alone public cooking demonstrations. Truth be told, part of me never wanted to become a history professor because I would have had to give lectures in front of lots of people. Maybe my mom was right. Maybe I had been on the wrong career track all along.
But this is not the time for introspection about the choices I’ve made. I have to focus on what’s in front of me—cooking. I take a deep breath and smooth down my skirt. Why did I wear white? My hands are shaking with nerves. I’m sure I’ll end up splattering the sage and butter sauce all over me.
“Maybe you should go on by yourself,” I say. “There really isn’t room up there for more than one person.”
He laughs. “The stage is huge. There’s plenty of room for both of us.”
“I think I forgot something back in my room. I’ll be right back.”
Before I can flee, he pulls me into his arms and kisses me lightly. “You’ll be fine. I’ll be right by your side the entire time.” He steps back and looks me up and down. “You look gorgeous, Ginny. It’d be a shame to deprive the audience of such a beautiful cook.”
“I don’t know about that. I think everyone’s attention is going to be focused on that bow tie of yours.”
He grins. “Is not.”
“Is too,” I say.
“Is not.”
“Is too.”
“Is—”
Maria peeks her head around the curtain. “Are you ready? They’re about to introduce you.”
“We’re ready.” Preston holds out his arm. I tuck my arm through his and take a deep breath. Conscious of Preston’s leather and pine scent, I tremble as he escorts me up the steps to the stage.
The emcee smiles at us, then turns to the audience. “Please welcome Preston Whitaker and Ginny…” He pauses, adjusts his reading glasses, and peers at his notes.
I bite my lip. I’ve been here before. When confronted with my last name for the first time, it’s hard for people to figure out how to pronounce it. As much as I love the fact that it links me to my father and his Dutch ancestry, there are times when I wish it had a lot less letters in it. Something like Smith or Jones would be ideal.
I glance at Preston. He’s frowning. Why is he frowning?
After a pause, the emcee says slowly, “Ginny Morgan.”
I breathe a sigh of relief when I remember that when I registered, Evelyn used my middle name instead of my last name on the class forms. But my relief doesn’t last long. Preston is still frowning.
“Morgan,” he mumbles to himself. “Virginia Morgan Maarschalkerweerd,” he says as though he’s reading my passport out loud again. He looks at me. “That’s a very uncommon last name, but I’ve heard it before.”
My eyes widen. He’s figured it out. He’s made the connection. But before Preston can say anything else, the emcee summons us over to the center of the stage.
While Preston and I prepare the tortelloni burro e salvia, Maria explains what we’re doing to the audience. It’s almost like we’re on one of those cooking shows that I used to watch at my mom’s house.
We work smoothly together, in a rhythm that we’ve developed over the past month. But despite the harmony we have when it comes to cooking, it’s obvious that there’s tension between us on a personal level. At one point, Maria even encourages Preston to smile more.
As we’re preparing the sauce, his smile fades. “Maarschalkerweerd. You’re not any relation to Nicholas Maarschalkerweerd, are you?” he whispers.
“I think the sage is burning,” I say to distract him.
He lowers the heat, stirs the butter and sage sauce, then points at me with the spoon. “Wait a minute,” he says. “You know a lot about Roman sanitation, you know Latin, and, from what Loretta says, you’re clueless about Star Wars.” He takes a step back. “Oh, my gosh. I know who you are. You’re Virginia Maarschalkerweerd.”
I nod slowly. “Uh-huh. It’s a common name.”
“Maarschalkerweerd? No it’s not. I’ve only known of three people with that name. One is a renowned ancient history professor, Nicholas Maarschalkerweerd. I met him once at a conference. The second person is you. And the third person is someone I’ve only heard about from some colleagues. She has the same name as you—Virginia Maarschalkerweerd. But she was involved in a plagiarism scandal at—”
Maria pushes her way between the two of us. “What’s going on here?” she asks under her breath. “Why aren’t you cooking?”
“Sorry,” I say. “We were just debating how long to cook the tortellini. Right, Preston?”
“Sure,” he says flatly. “But I think I’ve figured it out.” He looks at me meaningfully. “Yes, I’ve definitely figured it out.”
“Good,” Maria says. “I was worried for a moment there.”
“Just nerves,” I say, then turn my attention back to our dish.
I’m not sure how I do it, but I make it through the rest of the presentation without fainting or throwing up. After the emcee and Maria thank us, and the audience claps, I rush off stage, nearly tripping flat on my face as I race down the steps.
Preston catches up with me and grabs my elbow. “We need to talk.”
I pull away. “Later.”
“No, now.”
“No, later.”
“No, now,” he says firmly.
It feels good slipping back into our cute little bickering routine, but then I realize that he isn’t finding this cute. Not one bit. I can see anger in his eyes. I can’t blame him. Not only have I lied to him, he thinks I committed the ultimate academic sin—plagiarism. It’s not just anger in his eyes. It’s condemnation.
“Later,” I say softly, then spin on my heels and barrel straight into someone. The only reason I don’t end up on the ground again is because Preston grabs me and steadies me on my feet.
I look up and see an elegantly dressed woman. For a moment, I think it’s Celeste. She has the same hairstyle, eye color, and dress sense, but when she opens her mouth, her Italian accent makes me realize my mistake. Oh, how I wish it had been Celeste, or Mia, or Isabelle standing there. I could really use a friend right now.
“That was a wonderful demonstration,” she says. “You two did a great job. Tortelloni burro e salvia is one of my favorite dishes.”
Neither Preston nor I respond. He’s staring at the floor, and I don’t trust myself to say anything.
The woman looks back and forth between the two of us, then extends her hand to me. “Allow me to introduce myself. Gabriela DiRusso. I taught for a semester at Preston’s university last year. You must be his fiancée. I’ve heard so much about you.”
Preston looks up sharply. “No, she’s not my fiancée, she’s my…” he starts to say before his voice trails off.
What was he going to say?
His girlfriend.
His ex-girlfriend.
His brief holiday fling.
The cheater.
The plagiarizer.
The woman he regrets meeting.
The woman he never wants to see again.
I have no desire to find out how he’d finish this sentence. So I run, faster than I’ve ever run before, pushing my way through the crowd, only stopping once I get outside. Then I sink onto a bench and start sobbing.
After a good cry, I wipe away my tears and push myself up off the bench. It’s going to be a long walk back to the retreat center, but I figure it will help clear my head. Dodging tourists searching for the perfect souvenirs and local families out for a stroll, I wander through the pedestrian-only zone in the center of Ravenna before turning onto Via di Roma. After walking through the Porta Serrata, one of the old gates leading into the city, a car honks its horn behind me. I ignore it, but the driver continues to lay on the horn.
I turn and see Preston leaning out of the window of a taxi, waving at me. He gets out and strides toward me.
“I’ve been looking for you everywhere,” he says.
I cross my arms across my chest. “Lucky me.”
“You ran off before I could explain.”
“Explain what? That you lied to me? That you have a fiancée?” I jab my finger into his chest. “All this time, you’ve been cheating on her with me.”
He grabs my hand and pushes it away from him. “I would never cheat on a woman. Never.”
“You’re lying. You have a fiancée. Gabriela said so. Are you saying she’s a liar?”
“No, I’m not saying that.”
“Hah!” I say, throwing my hands up in the air. “You just admitted it. Gabriela didn’t lie. You did.”
Preston runs his fingers through his hair and exhales slowly. He looks intently at me, his normally bright blue eyes dull and lifeless. “When Gabriela was a guest professor at the university, I was engaged. She never met my fiancée, but she knew that I had one. Operative word being ‘had.’”
“Had?”
“Yes, had. We broke up. I told you about it.”
“No, you didn’t. I think I would remember if you told me you were engaged.”
“Do you remember when we had that food fight?” I nod. “You told me that someone betrayed you and I told you that I caught my ex with another guy.”
Memories of that day flood back. Some happy ones, like how cute Preston looked with flour smeared across his nose. Some not so happy, like the pain in his eyes when he told me about his ex cheating on him. He was so vulnerable that day, sharing the hurt he had experienced.
“So, you see, I didn’t lie to you,” he says.
“In all fairness, I didn’t know your ex had been your fiancée.” Even as I utter those words, I realize how lame they sound. He seizes on them.
“You’re playing semantics now. I’m not the liar, Ginny. I never was. You are.” He thrusts his hands in his pockets. His gaze hardens. “You’ve lied from the first minute I met you. You lied about being a manicurist. You lied about not liking history—you were an ancient history graduate student, for goodness’ sake. You were using a fake last name. You pretended you could speak Italian. You lied about what your father did. A cat trainer? How could I be so stupid to fall for that? And I’m pretty sure you’ve never even seen Star Wars.”
I press my fingers along the bridge of my nose, willing myself not to cry.
“I can’t believe I let myself get involved with someone like you.” Preston shakes his head. “I’m surprised you aren’t trying to spin more lies. Go on, you’re going to try to deny everything now, aren’t you?”
“No, I’m not. It’s true. I lied about everything.” I clench my hands. “And I can see by your reaction that I was right to. If you had known who I really was, you would have looked at me with disdain and condemnation, like you are now. The only mistake I made was…” I put my hand over my mouth before I can finish what I was going to say.
“Only one mistake? You made a lot of mistakes.”
I straighten my shoulders and take a deep breath. I’m glad I didn’t tell this pompous jerk what that one fundamental mistake was. Oh, how he would gloat if he knew that I had made the ultimate mistake—falling for the wrong guy. Someone I could never be with, not in a million years.
Cocking my head to one side, I say, “Look, we just have to get through class tomorrow. I’m sure we can manage to be civil to each other for a few hours, then we never have to see each other ever again.”
“Fine by me, Virginia Morgan Maarschalkerweerd,” he says, his eyes hard and unforgiving.
I turn, but before I can resume walking, I feel Preston’s hand on my shoulder.
“Get in the taxi, Ginny,” he says. “You can’t walk all the way back to the retreat center.”
I spin around to face him. “Can too.”
“Can not.” When I don’t respond, he scowls. “Just get in.”
“No,” I say, putting my hands on my hips.
“Fine. Have it your way.”
I watch as he gets back in the taxi and slams the door shut. So this is how a holiday fling ends—slamming car doors on his part and lots of tears on mine.
Preston’s taxi follows me all the way back to the retreat center. Periodically, he leans out of the window and tells me to get in. Each time, I refuse. My feet are killing me—high heels and cobblestones are not a stellar combination—but there’s no way that I’ll let him know that.
By the time I reach the marble steps leading up to the villa’s entryway, I’ve made a solemn vow to Saint Crispin—the patron saint of shoes—to wear sneakers and flats for the rest of my life. I pause for a moment, expecting Preston to tell me to wait for him, but when I turn around, I see the taxi pulling away down the circular drive and Preston’s retreating back as he walks across the grounds toward one of the annex buildings.
Fine, I didn’t want to talk with him anyway.
I slip off my heels and slowly walk to the residential annex, occasionally wincing in pain. After entering my room, I scoop Giuseppe off the bed and slump to the floor.
I only have myself to blame for this mess I’m in. The minute I found out that Preston was in my cooking class, I should have dropped out. So what if I would have lost all the money I paid? That would have been far better than losing my heart.
My heart.
How could I lose something I never gave to him? It was a summer fling, right? It wasn’t serious. Just a bit of fun.
Except it wasn’t.
It was more than that.
A whole lot more.
I press my back against the door and snuggle my teddy bear against my face. I wait for ages, expecting Preston to knock on my door. He doesn’t.
You’d think I would be relieved that I didn’t have to deal with another confrontation with him. Instead, I feel disappointed.
I pull my phone out of my purse and scroll through the pictures like a masochist. There’s one of Preston kneading pasta dough. And another one of him sautéing sage leaves in butter. The next one is one I took of him the night we had dinner at Mama Leoni’s restaurant. I smile at how nerdy he looks wearing that polka dot bow tie of his. Then I sigh as I remember how blue his eyes are.
My phone rings. My first instinct is to fling it across the room. The last thing I want to do now is talk to Preston. But I restrain myself and glance at the screen. It’s Celeste. We’ve kept in touch, mostly through emails and text, but for her to call me out of the blue seems strange. It’s even stranger when I recall how I initially thought Gabriela was Celeste.
“Is everything okay?” I quickly ask.
“Everything is just dandy,” she says. “My niece flew over to Greece to stay with me for a bit. It’s so much fun to have a young person around that it made me think of you and the other girls. We sure did have a good time on the cruise ship, didn’t we?”
“We did,” I say, my voice cracking slightly.
“What’s wrong, dear?”
“Nothing.”
“Sweetheart, don’t you nothing me. I can tell that there’s something wrong. Now, go ahead and tell me what’s going on.”
I spill my guts, pausing several times to wipe away my tears and blow my nose.
“You know what you need? Some of Celeste’s TLC. Pack your bags and come to Greece. The change of scenery will do you good.”
“No, I couldn’t impose on you like that,” I say, standing up and placing Giuseppe back on my pillow.
“It’s not an imposition at all.”
“But your niece is there. I don’t want to crowd you.”
“Goodness, don’t be silly. The house I’m renting is huge. The more, the merrier.”
“Well, if you’re sure. A change of scenery would be nice.” I pace back and forth, thinking through the logistics. “We have our last day of class tomorrow, so I could leave here on Saturday.” I stop and look out the window. Several of the Silver Foxes are gathered in the courtyard below me, their attention completely focused on a man wearing a very familiar tweed coat. I shake my head. There’s no need to stick around here. Having to see Preston again tomorrow would be torture. “You know what, Celeste. Why wait? I’m going to skip class and head to Greece in the morning.”