The Little Lark Still Sings by Victoria Smith

Author:Victoria Smith [Victoria Smith]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781631952203
Publisher: MorganJames
Published: 2021-09-15T05:00:00+00:00

* * *

When I wake up, Larry is sitting in a chair by the open terrace doors, reading. The sun is bright and high.

“How do you feel, sweetheart?” he asks when he hears me stir.

“Okay, I think… better. I’m hungry.”

“That’s a good sign.”

“What time is it?”

“About ten. David and Dale are downstairs at breakfast. I didn’t want to leave you.”

I shower and dress, skip makeup, and go with Larry to the terrace below. David asks how I feel and wants to see my rash. My skin is still rosy, but without welts. My stomach pain is gone. He says my eyes and lips are still puffy.

“Don’t forget the reflux pills. You must take the full course,” David says and repeats his instructions about a test if the pills don’t work. And he reminds me that I must drink lots of water, no wine, and start taking an antihistamine right away.

“I promise. I never want to feel like that again.”

The buffet of sliced meats, cheeses, breads and pastries looks tempting, but I need something easier to swallow. I ask for scrambled eggs. Everyone agrees that scrambled eggs would be perfect for them, too. David asks for a fruit plate.

A large tray arrives overflowing with artfully arranged fresh fruit, enough for all of us, followed by generous plates of steaming, soft and creamy scrambled eggs.

“I’m so sorry about all this,” I say to our friends. “Did you sleep at all?”

Before they answer, since I know they couldn’t have slept long, I add, “I’m so grateful you were here. Thank you.”

“We’re glad we could help. Larry’s been very worried about you,” Dale says.

Everyone insists they slept enough, except Dale who reminds me she never sleeps. I savor bite after bite of warm, soothing, nourishing eggs. Last night’s events seem long ago.

I feel guilty that I caused everyone to lose a night’s sleep and that we’re getting such a late start today, but mostly I feel loved and grateful. I sense our friends are not concerned about their sleep or inconvenience, only about my well-being and are happy to help. It can be a gift to others to simply accept their gift of help, but so often we’re reluctant to do so, wanting to be able to do everything ourselves or not wanting to impose. Last night I had no choice.

As we leave Quercianella, Larry pulls into a farmacia near the autostrada, but it’s closed.

Zooming past Piombino, another seaside village Lorenzo said is particularly lovely, we pass fields of withering sunflowers. Their gold petals are twisted and translucent, as though fried in hot oil. Remembering last night, I wonder if sun-parched sunflowers experience a sense of panic.

Pink, red and white oleander fill the median until the road narrows to two lanes. Near a camping area, both sides are littered with trash. Through tall pine trees, like those I remember in Georgia, the Mediterranean ripples as if shattered glass and the tree tops create an exotic canopy of black lace.

I doze on and off, likely from residual drugs.

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