Faking It (27 page)

“There,” he says, pointing down the road to a private drive with massive wrought iron gates. “That is Agriturismo Poggibonsi.”

“Thank you, Simone.”

The Italian shrugs. “You can ride me anytime.”

“Ride
with
you,” I say, laughing. “You keep forgetting the
with.”

Simone doesn’t respond. He just grins at me. It’s definitely an expression open to interpretation. He lifts my bike from the flatbed, hands me my helmet, and hops back into the driver’s seat.

“Simone,” I say, leaning in the open passenger window. “Do you think you could give me a ride back to Agriturismo La Luciana later? I’ll give you money for gas. Petrol. Diesel fuel. Whatever it is they call it here in Italy.”

Simone gasps. “
Bella
, why you insult Simone?”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to insult you.”

“You no need to pay me,” he says, turning the key in the ignition. “Putting the wool on the Frenchman, this is payment enough.”

We make arrangements to meet at a spot somewhere up the road, and Simone drives off, the Chevy belching and dripping mud.

I look at my bike. The sleek, carbon frame is covered in mud. It hardly looks like a high-performance road bike. I’m going to have to clean it before Luc and the others arrive or risk them getting the make on me. I’m not going down like that. I didn’t risk death, dismemberment, and drowning just to have my duplicity discovered because of a dirty bike.

Remembering that we passed a
gelateria
before arriving at the church, I push the bike back toward the center of the village.

I prop my bike up in front of the
gelateria
and go inside. The small shop doesn’t appear to have restroom facilities—naturally—so I buy a bottle of water, grab a handful of paper napkins, and get to work erasing the evidence of my dastardly deed.

When I finish cleaning the bike, I splash a little water on my face to make it look like I’ve been perspiring, then head back into the
gelateria
and order
un grande gelato al caramello
. I’m sitting on my sanitized bike, casually licking my caramel gelato, when the group arrives.

I bummed a ride from Simone because I couldn’t subject my bruised and battered bum to another second in the saddle, but oh Sweet Jesus, the look on Luc’s face is the little ribbon of caramel in my already delicious gelato! A bonus! Totally worth risking death and dismemberment.

“What took you so long?” I say, licking my cone.

Luc stares at me in obvious bafflement. “How…” He looks around for an answer to the question everyone in the group wants to ask. “How did you get here so fast? You didn’t even stop at the rendezvous point.”

“I took an alternate route.” I take another lick of my gelato and change the subject. “You were right, though, the gelato in Italy is outrageous. Want some?”

Luc narrows his eyes. I don’t think my story has convinced him, but he doesn’t press me further.

Getting Caught

Up a creek without a paddle. That’s what I am. Quite literally. Up a Tuscan creek without a freaking paddle.

Operation Shortcut was going off without a hitch. I toured the olive farm and even tried an olive. What can I say? I’m obviously susceptible to peer pressure. When it came time to begin the ride back to the Agriturismo, I pretended to have a stomach cramp and told Fanny to go on without me. I waited until the coast was clear and then pedaled my sneaky sneakers off to meet Simone at the rendezvous point. We loaded my bike into the truck and took off. Honestly? Jason Bourne couldn’t have planned a smoother operation.

That is, until we reached the river. I say it’s a river, but Simone assures me it’s merely a creek. Just like before, Simone gunned the engine and drove straight into the river. Only this time, the truck stalled.

Remind me to cross espionage off my list of potential careers. A good operative would have planned for this unexpected variable. Jason Bourne would’ve packed an inflatable raft and used it to float down river to the Agriturismo.

We’re sitting inside the truck, murky river water swirling around us. Simone pumps the gas while turning the key in the ignition, but the truck just lets out a final asthmatic cough before dying.

“My Chevy, she is too wet to ride.”

“What do you mean she is too wet to ride?”

Sweet Jesus, did I really just say that? That’s a sentence I never expected to utter.

“She will not start. She is flooded.”

“What are we going to do? We can’t just sit here. We’ll get swept away by the river.”

“Creek.”

“Creek. River. I don’t care what you call it, as long as you get us out of it and back at the Agriturismo before Luc.”

Simone whistles and shakes his head.

“What? What does that whistle mean?”

“It is not possible,
bella
.”

What a difference a few hours and a few feet of water make. I was flattered when Simone called me
bella
on the way to Poggibonsi; now, I want to garrote him with the straps of my bike helmet.

“What am I going to do? I have to get back before the group or my cover will be blown.”

Simone frowns. “Cover? I do not understand what this is.”

“If I don’t make it back to the Agriturismo soon”—I enunciate each word as if I am talking to a slow-witted child—“the Frenchman will know I was putting the wool on top of him.”

“Perhaps you ride your bike back?”

“I would never be able to find my way back from here, besides, my”—I pause because I can’t very well tell the Italian my ass hurts from a sketchy tattoo—“my sense of loyalty would not allow me to leave you here by yourself.”

“I try her again, no?”

“Yes! Try her again.”

Simone turns the key in the ignition, the Chevy shudders before sparking to life.

We both cheer.

Simone slams it into gear. The Chevy sputters forward several feet and then dies again.

“Well, at least now only the rear tires are submerged,” I say, in an effort to be positive. “Maybe if we give it a few minutes and try again, we’ll get the rest of your truck out of the river.”

“Creek.”

“Whatever.”

We make small talk, fiddle with the radio, share a power bar from my bike pack, and skip stones into the river, before climbing back into the Chevy to give it another go.

Simone turns the ignition, but nothing happens.

It’s a no-go.

“She will work again,” Simone promises. “We give her a little more time.”

I look at my watch. It’s already been two hours since Simone picked me up. The group will have made it back to the Agriturismo by now. Eighteen miles is nothing for Tour de France Luc, Motivated Fanny, and the overachieving Byrons.

Another hour passes. Operation Shortcut is a big, fat bust. I am not going to pull off this deception.

“I go now,” Simone says, opening his door. “I walk to Poggibonsi and get help.”

“Are you sure? It’s at least two miles.”

“It is nothing.” He steps out of the truck and onto the muddy riverbank. “If I hurry, I will be back before it is dark.” He slams his door. “Will you be okay alone?”

“Of course,” I say, with far more bravado than I actually feel. “Go, I’ll be fine.”

As long as a serial killer doesn’t decide to drop his hogtied, eviscerated victim into the river.

Simone wades through the river, makes it to the other side, and begins the long walk back to Poggibonsi. As soon as he disappears around the bend, my nerves kick into overdrive. What if the truck gets swept downstream? What if the serial killer finds Simone walking alone in the dark? What if a pack of rabid, starving wolves comes out of the forest and tears me limb from limb, leaving only a pile of picked clean bones and a pair of black and pink cycling shoes to identify me by?

If I had a choice, I think I would choose the serial killer over the wolves. Remember Buffalo Bill in
Silence of the Lambs
? Sure, he skinned his victims, but only
after
he allowed them the opportunity to apply liberal amounts of lotion. If I am going to die, at least I will die with smooth well-hydrated skin.

What am I saying?

I slide over, pump the gas pedal, and turn the key in the ignition, but nothing. The Chevy doesn’t cough, sputter, shake, and it sure as hell doesn’t start.

It’s getting darker now. The forest is alive with the sounds of stirring night creatures, and I am really starting to freak out.

For the first time, like ever, I wish I would have taken automotive skills instead of creative writing in high school. Writing a clever haiku is a fairly useless skill when you’re facing certain death by drowning, dismemberment, or devouring.

When I was in college, I briefly dated a motorhead who worked at a Porsche dealership. He tried to teach me basic automotive maintenance and troubleshooting, but I didn’t really pay attention. I wonder, now, if any of those lessons filtered in and settled somewhere deep in my subconscious.

Maybe I have latent automotive repair knowledge and I don’t even know it! It would be cool if I had the truck running before Simone returned, the ultimate Girl Power moment.

I can do this! I can do this! I
can
do this!

Totally psyched, I reach down, pull the lever to pop the hood, open the door, and jump down, forgetting that the truck is parked on a muddy riverbank. My cycling shoes sink deep into the muck.

Merde
!

I try to take a step, but can’t lift my foot out of the sludge. It’s as thick as a bog.
Oh my God! Maybe it is a bog!
Maybe I will sink farther and farther each time I move, until the mud finally swallows me whole. One hundred years from now, some poor, unfortunate hiker will find my perfectly preserved leathery body. Archeologists will christen me The Bog Girl of Tuscany and put me on display in museums around the world.

Panic is setting in. I must get control.

Deep, cleansing breath.

I try to move my foot again. This time it lifts out of the sludge with a loud sucking noise. I take a step and fall flat on my face.

I’m rolling around in the mud, trying to get a handhold to hoist myself out of the sludge, but I just keep slipping down the bank and into the river. When I finally manage to pull myself out of the primordial muck, I’m soaking wet, my hair is hanging in clumps, and my precious Cartier tank watch is caked with mud. I wring the water out of my bicycle shorts, flick something slimy off my arm, and get to work.

I lift the hood and stare at the Chevy’s big engine. It all looks like a jumble of wires, metal parts, and hoses.

Think. Think.

I remember Motorhead telling me something about a seven point check, but I don’t remember what the seven points are. Tires, battery—spark plugs, maybe? Spark plugs. That sounds about right. Maybe the spark plugs just got really wet. Maybe if I dry them off, they’ll work again.

I lean over, searching for something that looks vaguely spark pluggish. I see some hoses attached to big screw like things and decide those must be spark plugs.

I climb onto the front bumper, pull one of the hoses off, and am blowing on the screwy thing when I hear a car approach. It’s coming from the opposite direction of Poggibonsi, so I know it’s not Simone. A second later, I hear a vehicle pull to a stop behind me.

My heart races. It’s finally happened. The serial killer has arrived, and he’s found me in a vulnerable position, too weak and wet to resist being hog-tied.

You know when you watch those true crime shows, like
Dateline
or
Disappeared
, and the survivors describe how their lives flashed before them in the moments before they were raped/kidnapped/bludgeoned/hogtied? I am having that same bio-pic moment. Hundreds of frames are flickering in my brain. And then, the flickering stops and one inspiring thought crystalizes in my mind:
If I die tonight, I will never be able to eat Mr. Foo’s spicy chicken again.
That’s an odd thing to be thinking about moments before death. Most people think of their loved ones or their Maker, but not me, no, I’m thinking of an elderly Asian man with a bad case of rickets.

I drop the hose and hop down off the bumper. If this freak thinks I am just going to curl up in the fetal position and let him hogtie me, he’s in for a brutal reality check. I turn around to look death in the face, but am blinded by headlights. Whatinthehell? The pervo hasn’t even gotten out of the car. He’s just sitting, watching me.

The driver’s side door opens.

Holy Hannibal Lecter, this is it!

“What are you doing, Vivia?”

Fanfreakingtastic! It’s not Hannibal Lecter, it’s Luc!

I am
so
busted.

The only thing that could’ve made this day worse is if Luc had arrived when I was rolling around in the mud like a redneck at the National Redneck Olymp-Hicks. Wouldn’t that have been a sexy image to leave him with?

“Luc?”

“You were expecting someone else?”

“Actually, I thought you were Hannibal Lecter.”

He reaches inside the car and jabs a button on the dashboard. The headlights turn off.

“Who?”

“Hannibal Lecter from
Silence of the Lambs
.” I get no response so I make the slurping sound Anthony Hopkins made in the movie and say,
“‘Fava beans and a nice Chianti.’”

Luc says nothing. He doesn’t laugh or even smile. He stares at me as if I were the most repugnant creature he’s ever encountered. Maybe I went a little too far with the Lecter impersonation.

“What are you doing here, Luc?”

“I might ask you the same thing.”

“That’s a long story,” I laugh, knocking a clod of dried mud from my shoe. “I am not sure I know where to begin.”

Luc walks to the front of his car, crosses his arms, and sits on the hood. He’s wearing his linen suit, which makes me painfully aware of my sorry appearance. I’ve never felt more gauche than I do at this moment, bathed in mud, standing in front of a stylish European.

“Why don’t you start by telling me what you were doing under the hood of that truck?”

“The truck won’t start. I think we flooded the engine when we drove into the river. It was running fine, and then it just made this choking noise and stalled.” I pause in the middle of my anxiety-fuelled blathering to hop back up on the bumper and yank a hose off a spark plug. I turn back around, hose in hand. “I thought maybe the spark plugs got wet, so I pulled this hose thingy off and was blowing on it when you pulled up.”