Enemies Abroad

I sigh and turn back, resting my head against the window and trying not to worry. Eventually, I must doze off.

Tap, tap, tap.

A finger pounds on the glass beside my head.

I jolt awake.

“Unlock the door!”

SHIT. I’m being robbed.

Chapter Sixteen

“Audrey! Unlock the door.”

Noah!

I immediately come to my senses. “Oh shoot. Yeah, okay.” I try to be helpful, but I do the thing where I accidentally engage every switch and lever on my door except the one that disengages the lock. Then finally, there. Noah opens my door and dips his head into the car.

“Come on. This guy’s going to give us a ride back to his house. Grab the bags.”

He’s what? We’re going where?

There’s no time to get answers because Noah’s already tugging me up and out of the car along with our stuff. He doesn’t so much lead me to the old idling truck a few yards away as he lifts and carries me over the puddles, opens the passenger door, and deposits me inside onto the bench seat like I’m a backpack he’s lugging along. Then he slides in after me, bumping me with his hips and makes introductions over the sound of the rain.

“Giuseppe, Audrey. Audrey, Giuseppe.”

Giuseppe—who I’m now wedged directly next to—is an Italian man I would place somewhere in his late fifties or early sixties. He has a fantastic salt and pepper mustache, wild white Einstein hair, and a nice big friendly smile. His hands are stained with oil and he smells like rubber tires. He’s wearing coveralls that barely make it over his round belly and I don’t at all get the sense that he wants to murder me, so that’s good.

When Noah introduces us, Giuseppe reaches out to shake my hand, and his grip is firm. He pumps my hand up and down so enthusiastically he moves my whole body with it.

“Giuseppe owns the mechanic shop a few miles back,” Noah explains. “He agreed to help fix our car, but he can’t do it until the morning. He’s worried about getting the tow truck stuck out in this mess. Tonight, we’ll stay at his house.”

“Wow. That’s really nice.”

I’m glad I manage to sound reasonably sane, because in my head, I’m a detective who’s lost track of the case. Mechanic shop owner. Tire. Morning. House. What?

“Yeah, I mean, I think that’s what’s happening. There’s a slight chance some things could have been lost in translation. I could have it totally wrong.”

“Go home,” Giuseppe says in thickly accented English. “Eat.” He mimes putting food in his mouth and honestly, so far, I like where this is going.

He pulls out onto the highway, and I glance worriedly over at the little canary yellow Fiat with its wonky tire.

“It’ll be okay there overnight?”

“It’ll have to be,” Noah assures me. “The roads are getting worse. There’s nothing we can do.”

It occurs to me that Noah has been doing this all evening: calming me down, fixing our problems, staying focused instead of freaking out.

I peer over at him and rock my shoulder against his. “Thanks.”

He looks down at me and I can only imagine what he sees: a marshy street urchin, a wide-eyed scaredy-cat, a puny thing who needs him now more than ever.

There’s real sincerity in his gaze when he nods, and then he looks away quickly as if he’s embarrassed.

Giuseppe lives in the Italian countryside, somewhere between Sperlonga and Rome. His house is old and small and filled with all the makings of a happy life: the smell of something delicious cooking in the kitchen, a black cat trotting over to wind its way between Giuseppe’s legs, antique picture frames arranged on a table by the door, all those smiling faces greeting us.

Giuseppe calls out and his family comes into the living room: a wife and an adult daughter with a baby on her hip and two toddlers clutching her legs. They greet us with curious, round eyes as Giuseppe rattles off rapid-fire Italian. My imagination runs wild.

Tonight, we’ve had great fortune. I brought us back these two dimwitted Americans. We’ll roast them and chop them and put them in stew. The big one will feed us all winter.

Since we’re still sopping wet (thanks to the dash from Giuseppe’s truck to the front door of the house), the first order of business is getting some dry clothes. Giuseppe’s wife—Eva, pronounced eh-va—immediately takes me by the arm and leads us through the house and up a rickety set of stairs, toward a room that looks like it used to be an attic.

She deposits me there with Noah and holds out her hand as if to say, Stay.

So we do.

Giuseppe’s house is old, practically medieval, and the room we’re in is sort of the overflow, catch-all space. There’s furniture stacked up against one wall. An antique marble-topped commode sits hidden underneath a wooden rocking horse and a child’s stool, both of which look handmade. There’re a few boxes shoved in a corner, probably filled with family memorabilia. A stack of books has tumbled over. A few cobwebs and dust bunnies lurk in the corners. The ceiling slants in a way that means Noah can only stand to his full height on one side of the room, over by the window.