Slain Over Spumoni by Tessa Floreano

Author:Tessa Floreano [Floreano, Tessa]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: 1920; post-WWI ;romantic mystery; Venice; Italy; beach;
Publisher: The Wild Rose Press
Published: 2022-04-22T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter Eighteen

“Buona sera. Ecco il vostro Malvasia.” The waiter arrived with a bottle of wine and two glasses. He placed the wine on a natural outcropping next to their table and set a glass in front of each of them. He opened the wine and poured a small amount in John’s glass. John raised the glass of orange wine to his lips.

“Delisiozo!”

“Va bene.” The waiter filled their glasses, then pulled out a notepad and pencil from his apron pocket. “Are you ready to order?”

“We haven’t had a chance to even look at the menu,” said John.

Vi leaned forward and whispered over her menu. “Do you want me to order? I promise everything here is like the Malvasia—delicious.”

A relieved smile passed his lips. “That would be wonderful.”

“First I’ll order in Italian, and then I’ll repeat it in English, and you can tell me if you agree. This way, you can add to your growing culinary vocabulary.”

“Sounds great. Assume all is fine unless I jump up and shake my fist.” They laughed, then he closed his menu, and she did the same. John leaned back, glass in hand, while she addressed the waiter in Italian.

“Voglio per il primo piatto—For the first course…Pasta in brodo—Pasta in broth…E voglio per il secondo—And for the second course…Uccelli con polenta—Finches in polenta…”

“Wait. Finches, as in those small birds?” John held up his index finger and thumb with two inches between the digits.

“Yes, they’re a delicacy of the region. Shall I continue?”

“Sure.” His face still registered surprise, and she laughed while finishing their order.

The waiter took their menus, poured more wine, and left.

“A toast,” said John, holding up his glass.

Vi raised her glass. “To?”

“You.”

“Me?” Vi sat back, astonished.

“Yes, you.” John leaned over to clink his glass to hers. “In Antony and Cleopatra, Shakespeare recollects the temptation of the memorable Egyptian queen by professing, ‘Age cannot wither her, nor custom stale her infinite variety.’ ”

Vi blushed, then took a sip. “Did you study Shakespeare?”

“A little.” He set his glass down. “My mother always believed he was a Sicilian because who but an Italian could write so many stories about Italy.”

Vi pondered the idea.

“It’s an outrageous claim, and she’d be laughed out of England if she ever tried spreading that theory there.” He shrugged. “Who knows, though? Perhaps a scholar, decades from now, will prove her right, and she’ll rise out of her grave, fist in the air, and claim victory.”

“Your mother sounds fascinating.”

John picked up his wine and twirled it by the stem, gazing intently at Vi. “I find a woman in velvet fascinating.”

Vi gulped, realizing he meant her. “Why?”

“I think she’s like the sea. Not any sea. Not a sunny sea or a stormy sea, but one with long waves coming in on a smooth beach under a full moon. She’s like pale fire on the edges of those waves as they ripple and break progressively down the shore. A woman is like that, especially by candlelight. The light makes the folds of the velvet glow, and the glow changes with each wave she makes.

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