Summer in Tuscany Read Online Free PDF Page B

really be the Colosseum, trapped by traffic and somehow looking smaller than it did in Gladiator, when hunky Russell Crowe braved tigers and soldiers as well as that wicked emperor, cheered on by a crowd of thousands? I turn my head to look as we whiz by. This is almost reason enough to come to Rome, though I guess I’m unlikely to find Russell Crowe among the ruins.
    The great dome of Saint Peter’s, which no doubt we would visit tomorrow, glows over the city like a beacon, and the famous Spanish Steps are jammed with tourists spilling into the piazza below, milling around as though waiting for something to happen. I think somebody should tell them that nothing will happen, but then that’s just me talking, the mean-spirited, reluctant tourist.
    Not for the first time, I’m regretting my weakness in saying yes to this trip. I was so determined not to come. All I want is to be back in New York, back at Bellevue, back doing what I did best. Safe behind that barricade I built for myself.
    The taxi jerked to a stop and we heaved a collective sigh of relief. “Buona sera, signore.” A top-hatted doorman threw open the door. We stumbled wearily out and were immediately surrounded by a crew of liveried porters and bellboys. They had our battered duffel bags and Nonna’s ancient Samsonite, the one she has had for at least thirty years, loaded onto a gilded cart in a flash.
    I stared, stunned, at the imposing facade of the Hassler Hotel, and then accusingly at my mother. She avoided my eyes, but she knew darn well what I was thinking— that this place must cost a fortune . And I was thinking it even harder in the ornate marble lobby, surrounded by old-master paintings and crystal chandeliers and huge displays of fresh flowers. I was also thinking of my poor AmEx card, and praying.
    I collapsed into a gold brocade sofa, fumbling in my purse, trying to work out the necessary tips in lire, wondering why Italian money had to have so many zeros—even a taxi ride cost millions here. Livvie flopped down next to me, muttering that the place was like a museum, attempting futilely to dial friends in New York on her cell phone, quite oblivious to the fact that people were staring at her. I didn’t blame them: her red crocheted shawl was more holes than wool, her cropped hair was banana-blond tipped with lime, and her fingernails were the red of dried blood. She could have been an extra in Nosferatu.
    Meanwhile, Nonna headed for the reception desk and announced our arrival to the youthful dark-haired Adonis in charge. She leaned on the counter, friendly, smiling at him, as she told him who we were and that she would like an upgrade.
    My jaw dropped. I didn’t even know she knew about upgrades. I mean, Nonna hasn’t been farther than Manhattan in twenty years, and that only for a Macy’s sale.
    “I was born in Italy,” she said to the desk clerk, “and you know what? I have never seen Rome. Imagine! Not only that, I’ve inherited property in Bella Piacere,” she added, as though he could possibly know the tiny village in Tuscany.
    But the desk clerk was leaning on the counter, hands clasped in front of him, beaming at her as though he had all the time in the world. “Congratulations, signora Jericho,” he said finally. “This will be a memorable visit. You will enjoy your stay here, signora . And of course, we have put you in one of our two-bedroom deluxe suites. It is already arranged.”
    “Bene, bene, e grazie, signore Antonio.”
    She patted his hand as though he were her own son, and I held my breath, praying she wouldn’t kiss him, but no, she turned, all smiles, as the bellman escorted us to the elevator and we were wafted upward. We trailed down a plush-carpeted corridor and waited while he flung open a pair of tall double doors. Then we stepped into an earthly paradise of gold and rose-pink luxury.
    We stood like country bumpkins, staring at everything, while the bellman rushed around switching on lamps, opening