Read Pasta Imperfect for Free Online

month, he’d been battling migraine headaches and slight memory problems. He could recall all the major stuff, like the fact that his name was Etienne Miceli; he was a Swiss police inspector; he’d met me nine months ago when I’d visited Lucerne; he was in love with me. He was just having a hard time with minor details, like remembering that he wanted to marry me.
    “I remember perfectly, darling.”
    “I’m going to hand the phone over to someone. Would you please tell
him
the name of the hotel?”
    I shoved the phone at the cabbie, who responded to Etienne with a,
“Si? Si. Albergo Villa Barduccio Mastrangelo? Ah, si!”
    “What’d I tell you.” Jackie eyed me sternly. “You gave him the wrong name.”
    “Hey, I was close!” The driver pitched the phone back at me and peeled out of the parking area. I pressed the phone to my ear. “Hi,” I said to Etienne. “Thank you so much.”
    “Was that a test?”
    “Yup. And you passed.” I lowered my voice to a sultry whisper. “I wish you were here so I could give you your prize.” I heard a clamor of voices in the background on his end. “Are you at the office?” He was such a workaholic, I wouldn’t be surprised if he was nosing around the department in an unofficial capacity. Officially, however, he was on leave until his migraines disappeared.
    “Actually, darling, I’m in northern Italy. Campione. Visiting my cousin. We’re celebrating my great-aunt’s ninetieth birthday. I thought I told you.”
    “Nope. You must have told someone who looks like me.” His doctor assured him that his memory and headache problems would be only temporary. I was keeping my fingers crossed that he was right. The voices in the background reached a crescendo and erupted into excited cheers. “Your relatives sound like a rowdy bunch,” I teased. Had to be the Italian side of the family — the gene pool responsible for Etienne’s black hair, classic style, and awe-inspiring…hardware. I hadn’t had a chance to try out the hardware yet, but I remained hopeful.
    “They’re complete strangers.” He laughed. “They’re cheering someone on at the roulette table. I’m at the local casino, trying my luck at
chemin de fer.
Did I forget to tell you the odd thing that’s happened in the last month?”
    I guess he meant
other
than the fact that he’d forgotten about his intention to pop the question. “Have you thought about writing things down? Making lists? It works for some people.”
    The cabbie growled something over his shoulder at Jackie.
    “I seem to have developed an uncanny ability to maintain a mental picture of what cards have been played at the gaming table, what cards are left in the deck, and what my odds are of being dealt the card I need. I think it’s called, ‘being in the zone.’ ”
    I thought it was called “card counting.” I’d come back from Ireland hot-wired to sense disaster; he’d come back a card shark. Go figure. I watched Jackie scroll her finger down a glossy page of her phrase book and stab a word with her highly lacquered nail. “Are you making any money?” I asked, as the taxi swerved suddenly, slamming me into the door. Horns blared around us. A scooter zoomed past, nearly clipping our front bumper. I covered my eyes with my hand.
    “I’ve only just begun, but I have a modest number of chips in front of me at the moment. The betting limit in Lucerne is five Swiss francs, but in Italy there’s no limit, so as they say, if I play my cards right, I could make a killing.”
    Or be wiped out. Unh-oh. I was getting a bad feeling about this. “Tell me again why you can’t come down to Rome?”
    “The Jubilee year, Emily. There’s not one room left in Rome. I did try.”
    And sharing my room was out. Not with Mom on the tour. “What about a rendezvous in Florence?” If he didn’t lose all his money, he might even be able to spring for the train fare.
    “
I nani mi divertono nel circolo!”
Jackie fired at the driver.
    A