They retrieved their key and, hand in hand, headed toward the elevator.
Diana watched them go, a sinking feeling in her stomach.
Italy was for lovers. She knew that.
But still . . . why did it seem like the Universe was rubbing it in her face?
Who cared if it was morning? She needed a glass of Chianti, stat. Like the girls in the office used to say, it’s five o’clock somewhere.
Shrugging it off, she stepped up to the counter, patted her chest, and said, “St. James. Prenotazione,” which she’d been practicing in her head while on the train. St. James. Reservation.
The pert, fairy-like woman behind the counter smiled. “Ah, Signora St. James. We are very happy to welcome you to our place. I trust you have had a good trip here?”
English. Thank goodness, Diana thought as the woman typed something into her computer. “Yes. Thank you. Is there a place I can go for breakfast?”
The clerk nodded and pointed to some double doors, from where the faint sound of conversation and clinking silverware and dishes emanated. “We’re serving right now.”
With that, Diana’s stomach growled. She hadn’t eaten anything since a croissant in Paris, right before she’d boarded the train. She was starving.
“Thank you,” she said, taking her key card from the clerk. “I mean, grazie.”
“You’re very welcome. Enjoy your stay with us.”
Diana headed for the elevator, smiling. I’m sure I will. Now, time to freshen up and change before breakfast and touring the grounds.
She walked down a dark, travertine-tiled hallway until she found her room. Pushing open the heavy wooden door, she gasped. The room had a high ceiling, crossed with rafters, and the space was simply enormous, so much so that the canopied queen bed, draped in organza curtains, was practically dwarfed by its size. Sunshine spilled in through a massive, open bay window.
Crossing to it, Diana peered outside at the rolling hills, and the rows of grape plants, lined against the lush green valley, cut by a single dirt path. Off to the side was a crystal clear pool with waterfall, fashioned from river stone, surrounded by umbrellaed tables. The sky was blue and cloudless, and the air smelled of earth, honey, and fruit.
“I have to take a picture of this,” she said aloud, feeling in her purse for her phone. No, she wasn’t one for selfies, but this scene before her simply demanded it.
She dipped her hand in her enormous purse, coming up empty. Then she felt for her pockets, before she realized the travel outfit she was wearing didn’t have pockets.
She checked her purse again, more frantically now, the hair on her neck rising to full attention as she confirmed her suspicion.
No no no no no, her mind screamed as she looked around, helpless for some indication of where she could look next. But there was no other place. She’d used it on the train, in the taxi . . . hadn’t she? She couldn’t remember. Her mind spun with half-formed thoughts, and from these, one irrefutable fact rose above all others.
Her phone was gone.
CHAPTER TWO
Gone. Just gone.
Diana shuddered at the thought of her precious iPhone, in the hands of some thug who’d look at her photos and private information, intruding on her life. She had everything on that phone, her whole entire being. Maybe he’d even use it to commit crimes in her name and get her into just as much trouble as she’d been in in Paris.
And now, what was she going to do? As she stood in line in a busy electronics store, she ripped her thumbnail off in her anxiety and peered down at the ragged remnants of it. She needed to stop that.
Instinctively, for the thousandth time that hour, she reached into her purse for her phone.
Bzzzzz. Sorry.
Only now that it was missing did Diana realize what it had been to her. No, she wasn’t as attached to her phone as her children were, but over the years, it’d come to be her security blanket. It was especially so now, where she didn’t know the language or the landscape. Standing here, in a strange country, she felt farther away from the United States than ever. She shivered again, feeling exposed to attack. Naked.
It’d been a struggle just getting this far. When she’d first realized it was gone, she’d hurried downstairs, hoping to find it in the reception area. No such luck. Then she’d retraced her steps out to the curb, where the two valets helped her look for it. Nothing.
The clerk helped her make a call to her wireless provider, who explained that out of the country, there was nothing they could do to replace a lost cell phone. After a good amount of freaking out and, yes, a lot of gnashed teeth, the clerk offered to put her in a taxi to the nearest iPhone store, FastWeb Cellular, in downtown Florence.
Now, as she stood in line, cataloging everything that she’d be missing without her phone, her stomach sank more and more. Her contacts were gone. Sadly, she didn’t even know the phone numbers of her own daughters, since she was so used to speed-dialing them. She had no method of taking or keeping any photographs of the marvelous things she’d see—so she’d probably forget half of this trip. And forget about touring—without the opening and closing times of museums, she’d be a lost puppy. How would she be able to pick a restaurant without checking the menus online first? And without the hourly weather forecast . . . what if it rained?
Calm down, Diana. You’re five minutes away from buying a new cell phone. You can handle this momentary blip.
She stepped up to the counter. “Buongiorno. I’d like an iPhone.”
The man nodded and handed her a tablet. “Fill this out. You get in a week.”
“A week? But—”
“New iPhones are on backorder. Could be sooner. You give us number, we call when they come in, si?”
She filled out the form. “Is there a way I can get a phone to use right now?”
He looked at her like she was insane. “Not here. We all cleaned out. Try next door.”
After finishing there, she went to the next shop over. The place wasn’t exactly an Apple Store, something Diana had noticed the moment she’d stepped inside. Aside from that it didn’t appear to have any cases or displays with the latest gadgets, it also sold old appliances, like space heaters and box television sets. There was a partially bald cat sitting in the window, under a neon sign that said Elettronica. Diana had to wonder if the clerk had made a mistake. She hadn’t lost her toaster oven; she’d lost her phone.
As the person in line in front of her stepped away from the counter with a new-to-them electric kettle, Diana attacked it, a feverish heat flushing her face. “Hello, I, um—”
She winced when the old lady in the housecoat behind the counter stared at her, unamused. That was another thing. No phone, no easy translations.
Taking a breath, she tried again. “Ciao. I’m looking for . . .” She made her hands into binoculars, cupping them around her eyes. Then put a pinky and thumb to her cheek. “Phone?”
“Ah, telefono.”
The woman reached behind the counter and pulled out an old, rotary-dial phone from Diana’s youth, circa 1968.
“No. A cell phone? You know, newer?”
“Cellulare?” The woman nodded. “Si?”
“Yes. Right. Si? Do you have?”
Again, the woman nodded and shuffled into the back room. When she returned, the old lady was using the hem of her housecoat to polish something, lifting it up to bare her doughy white legs. When she set it on the counter, Diana winced.