Apricot Kisses Read Online Free PDF Page B

amazing.
    “I don’t think you’ll like the answer.” Sasha looks as if she’s about to throw up. And she’s the one who usually takes everything in stride. Is something gross stuck to the vase? Claire is about to touch it, but then she shrinks back with wide-open eyes.
    “Mon dieu,” she whispers.
    “Girls, what’s the matter with you? It’s just—”
    “An urn,” Sasha mumbles with a sepulchral voice. “My gramps got one. But it wasn’t so colorful.”
    It is suddenly deadly quiet. I’m not in the mood for chocolate anymore.
    We stand around the table and stare at the porcelain container as if it were a poisonous striped puffer fish.
    “Are you sure?” I whisper.
    “Be my guest and check it out,” Sasha whispers back. “I’m definitely not looking inside.”
    “How would an urn end up in an airport restaurant? It’s ridiculous. And why are we whispering?”
    “Out of reverence,” Claire says softly and cleans her glasses. At least she’s talking again. The shock isn’t too much for her. It is for me. I stole a corpse. Oh my god!
    “Reverence, sure,” Sasha says. Claire’s nostrils flare, a clear sign that she’s smelling a story.
    “Maybe someone forgot it in the airport restaurant.”
    I reach for the urn. “I just don’t believe it.”
    “Nooo!” they both scream, and I recoil.
    “But I have to see if you’re right,” I say.
    Finally, Claire musters the courage to carefully lift the urn. She examines the container from every side, checks the cork seal, and turns the urn upside down. “There’s a plaque.”
    “Is something written on it?” Sasha peers at the bottom, but stays a safe distance away.
    “Yesss.”
    This time Sasha and I speak in unison. “What?”
    For some strange reason, Claire seems about to either laugh or cry. “ Quelque chose ne tourne pas rond —something is definitely wrong,” she mumbles in French and adds a phrase I don’t understand.
    “What do you mean?”
    Claire carefully puts the urn back on the table and looks at me with part pity and part amusement. “I’m afraid that this time you won’t be able to return your souvenir by just mailing it. Look at it yourself.”
    I’ve never touched a dead person. Sure, it’s not actually a corpse, just ashes, and inside a porcelain container, but . . .
    “She’s not going to bite you.” Claire’s upturned nose twitches.
    So it’s a woman. Breathe, Hanna. Breathe! The urn doesn’t feel like an urn. It’s smooth and cool and could be a milk jug. I read the engraving once, then a second time: Giuseppa Camini, 1932–2014, Tre Camini, Toscana. It takes a few seconds before everything clicks in my head.
    “What’s the probability that this isn’t what I think it is?” I ask calmly.
    Claire lifts her hand. The space between her thumb and index finger is barely big enough for a pencil. I nod slowly.
    “So I not only killed an Italian nonna with my article, but stole her urn on top of it.”
    “In France we call that destiny.”
     
    Fabrizio
     
    “What in heaven’s name did you think you were doing, Carlo?”
    For the past half hour, I’ve been furiously pacing the kitchen while Rosa-Maria has kneaded the dough as if her life depended on it. To be honest, rage is the only feeling I’ve been able to muster since I arrived. Rosa’s freshly baked panini won’t change that. Carlo nibbles on a toothpick, unruffled.
    “Eh, Fabrizio! Sit down and have a glass of wine. Your bad mood is hard to stomach.” My friend shakes his head. His grin, revealing gaps between his teeth, drives me crazy.
    “How could you allow this jerk to cook in my kitchen, Rosa-Maria?” I point at Carlo’s stained T-shirt, which displays the logo of our national team, Gli Azzurri. Rosa-Maria slouches, which makes her look even more square-shaped. Her face turns tomato red, and the dough bubbles feebly in the bowl when she pushes it down. Under normal circumstances I would feel bad—Rosa-Maria is like a mother to me.