Lucky Break (6 page)

“I'm a Flood,” I said, using my mom's favorite phrase.

We both came out of the dressing room at the same time and she gave me my umpteenth hug of the afternoon. “Good,” she said. “Now enjoy your massage and we'll talk packing strategies once we're both refreshed.”

I stepped into the dimly lit massage room, my spirits partially lifted. I hung my robe on the door and climbed onto the cool padded massage mat, pulling the terry cloth blanket over me. The Bloomingdale's spa always carried the store's best soy candles, so the whole room smelled like vanilla and pomegranate. I had almost fallen into a restful sleep, when I felt some very therapeutic hands on my shoulders.

“I'm Helga,” the masseuse said soothingly. “I am here to take care of your every need. What concerns you this afternoon?”

“Well,” I said, surprising myself by opening up to the masseuse, “I do have a bit of a broken heart.”

“Mmm.” I could feel her nodding over me. “Then I'll give you the ‘scorned lover.' In eleven years of practicing, it's never failed.”

As Helga went to work on my upper shoulders and neck, I could feel myself relaxing. Despite my negative outlook, it was actually one of the best Swedish
massages I'd ever had. I guess plummeting to the depths of despair really makes you appreciate the little things in life.

I was still obviously a wreck about Alex, but at least now I had these super-relaxed shoulder muscles. And my parents to keep me sane this week. And an upcoming new stamp on my passport. In fact, I was feeling so much better that halfway through my massage, I found myself wanting to call my Thoney friends to tell them about my revised schedule. But then, I knew they'd all be rushing to get their gear together for the flight tonight.

Ooh, I knew who I could call. But would that be weird in the middle of Helga's heart-healing massage? I dared to peek my head back and saw her smiling blond head looking down at me.

“Helga?” I asked. “Would you mind if I called my friend while you worked? It's about my ex, and I just think it would really help.”

“Are you kidding, honey? If they let me talk to my shrink while I worked, I'd never hang up. Be my guest.”

Sweet. I scooted forward on the bed to reach for my cell phone. Helga kept up the good work and I dialed SBB.

“So, did you try the voodoo yet?” her voice chirped when she picked up.

“Voodoo?” I asked. “Huh?”

“I e-mailed you about it this morning. You know, you order one of those dolls online, paste a picture of Jony's face where the head is, and throw pins at it? I haven't tried it, but my friend said—”

“I might hold off on the voodoo for at least a few more days,” I said. “Wait, who's Jony?”

“The Jerk of New York,” SBB said. “We need to start calling him that. How do you expect to get over him if you don't take desperate measures?”

“That's what I'm calling to tell you,” I said. “My parents are taking me to the Amalfi Coast in southern Italy for the week. My dad's scoping out some cheese, and my mom's scoping out some Italian men—anyway, we're leaving tonight.”

“Oh my God!” SBB shrieked over the phone, making Helga jump a little. “I love Capri! It's just off the coast. You must go there! Did I ever tell you how once I rented a moped with my costar of
Amalfi Amour
—you remember Don Garrett? Obviously, he was
way
too old for me,
kinda
wrinkly, but boy, could he take curves at high speeds!”

I coughed into the phone.

“Sorry,” SBB said. “You were saying?”

“I was saying,” I explained, “that I think it will be good for me to get some space from New York, from
all the Alex—er, Jony memories. Plus my parents always lighten me up. They won't let me act all mopey and depressing—”

“As is your wont,” SBB said.

“Hey!” I said defensively, feeling Helga's hands smooth out my shoulders.

“Come on, Flan, I know you. Until your mom suggested you join them in Italy for spring break—probably at some spa … Are you at Bliss?”

“Bloomingdale's,” I admitted with a laugh.

“Uh-huh,” she said. “That was my next guess. Anyway, until your mom suggested it, you were totally planning on sitting home alone, getting Noodles's perfect fur all frizzy with your tears. Am I right?”

“Well …” I sighed. “Sorta.”

“Am I good or am I good?” SBB laughed. “Just be glad you're going to Italy. I was this close to hiring Bianca to assist you in your time of need.”

“Wait,” I said. “Who's Bianca?”

“Oh, just this Serbian wonder woman I know. Some call her a witch—but I prefer not to categorize people. She's got a patented technique for heartbreak. Basically, she takes a sob story, mulls it over, and eradicates all feelings of residual love. She's a genius.”

I wasn't sure about the use of the word
eradicate
when it came to emotional loss, but I didn't think now was the time to argue.

“I won't scare you with the details—maybe I'll just send you the link to her website. Then again, maybe the sunshine, the gelato, and perhaps an Italian
fling
will be enough for your broken heart?”

“Sigh,” I said. “I'm not really there yet, but I guess I'm going to give Italy my best shot.”

“Oh, Flannie, I wish I could go with you,” she said wistfully.

“Please! I would love to have the SBB-guided tour of the Amalfi Coast. I can't guarantee I'm brave enough to cart you around on a moped, but … please come!” I pleaded.

SBB sighed. “If only I weren't committed to being in L.A. all week. I'm reading lines for
Gladiatrix
and I'm totally freaking out about it. I've only gained two pounds of muscle this week.” She paused. “Tell you what: if you come back from Italy and you're totally over Jony—and in the meantime, I get the part—I will throw us both a huge We Rule celebration. Anywhere you want.”

Behind me, Helga tapped my shoulder lightly.

“We're finished here, Flan. I'll let you get dressed. I hope everything works out for you, romantically and otherwise.”

I mouthed thanks to Helga as I mulled over SBB's offer. It was certainly tempting, and I did really want SBB to get the part. But from my mental state, being “totally” over Alex—well, it seemed so far away.

I had to ask: “What if I'm not over Jony?”

“Well then,” SBB said seriously, “we'll have to resort to Bianca, won't we? That's not a promise—it's a threat. Now get to Italy and get over him, okay?”

Buongiorno, bella
,” a trim, dark-haired flight attendant whispered softly in my ear the next morning. “We'll be landing in Naples in half an hour. Can I get you some espresso? A breakfast panini? Gelato?”

I glanced down at my watch. It was barely past midnight New York time, but I could already see the sun peeking through windows of the eight-seater private jet my parents had chartered to take us to Naples. I blinked up at the handsome flight attendant, whose name tag read LUIGI. Even though I hardly ever passed up the opportunity to indulge in a little gelato, I hadn't been able to stomach much since the breakup.

“An espresso sounds great,” I told Luigi, who winked and whisked himself off to the kitchen, giving me quite a view of the back of his fitted white
trousers. Who knew my parents traveled with such attractive hospitality?

“Isn't he
fabulous
?” My mom leaned across the aisle. She had her sleep mask perched on her forehead. I looked over at the window seat next to her, where my dad's own mask was still firmly in place over his eyes.

“Of course, your father is my one and only,” my mom continued. “But when he put me in charge of staffing the jet, I figured it couldn't hurt to hire eye candy, as long as they got the job done. You know what they say—a woman can never be too rich, too skinny, or surrounded by too many gorgeous men.”

“Did somebody say gorgeous men?” my dad asked sleepily, pulling up his eye mask and the window shade. “Look no further, ladies.”

My mom leaned over to kiss him, and an unexpected pang of sadness shot through me. I'd seen my parents kiss a million times, but never on the heels of such an earth-shattering breakup.

I was relieved when Luigi returned with espressos for all of us, and super excited when he also brought these incredibly buttery Italian cookies that were phenomenal dipped in the coffee. Maybe I did have my appetite back. I focused my attention on drowning my sorrows in sugar, caffeine, and the
ridiculously beautiful views outside as the plane came into Naples.

From the moment we touched down, I could feel the energy of Italy. We were only at the airport, but I sort of have a sixth sense about these things. Out the window, I could see the ground crew shouting orders at each other with a ferocity that reminded me a little of New York, but mixed with a cool European vibe.

When we deplaned and followed the ramp toward customs, there was a definite bustle in the airport around us. Noisy tourists shoved past each other, and everyone was shouting in different languages. But somehow, there seemed to be a shield between my family and all the other noise. Nothing fazed us. We marched straight through customs, and our bags were waiting for us in the town car parked outside. Less than twenty minutes after landing, we were on our way to the private ferry that would take us down to the Amalfi Coast.

I checked my watch again. It was a goal of mine to stop being obsessed with what time it was in New York, but so far, I hadn't made much progress. It was nine in the morning Naples time, which meant it was three a.m. in New York. I hoped Alex was tossing and turning miserably in his bed. Either that or
having nightmares about what a huge mistake he'd made by cheating on me … Hold on. I could
not
spend a whole week thinking about what Alex was up to every second of the day.

Better to think about my friends in Paris. I tried to imagine them—would they be enjoying croissants and cappuccinos along the Seine by now? No, they'd only landed an hour ago. They were probably still stuck at baggage claim at Charles de Gaulle, where my online research had told me that the ground crew went on strike at least three times a week. I knew I should have told Camille to expect delays at the airport when I handed over the GPA binder. Would they be able to manage without me?

I pulled out my phone and sent a hurried text to make sure that everything was going okay so far.

“Flan.” My mother's voice interrupted me from across the town car. “Why the furrowed brow? You're in Italy, if you hadn't noticed.”

As usual, Mom was right. With the kids on bikes, tiny cars, and teens on scooters, it was hard not to notice that we were in Italy as we zoomed through the crazy streets of Naples. And I thought New York taxi drivers were insane. But even with the blaring horns of nearby cars ringing in my ears, the ease of traveling with my parents was soothing.

“Here we are,” my dad said as we pulled into a small marina. “Right on time—and of course, there's Alfonso with the
Duchess
.” He gestured to a gleaming white yacht at the end of a marina. “It's a beautiful boat, Flan. You'll love the captain, too; he tells the best stories about his days in the Navy—”

“Richard, do you want to bore your own daughter to death?” my mom interrupted. “Flan, trust me, do not ask Alfonso about the war. You just sit back, relax, and enjoy the sea breeze on your youthful skin, okay?”

“Sounds good to me.” I laughed.

I followed my parents down the dock toward the
Duchess
. She was an eighteen-foot yacht with a large, pristine deck, and sails that extended way up into the sunny sky. Somehow, the town car driver hauled all three of our bags over his shoulders, and even lifted my carry-on bag in the crook of his arm. There was someone to do everything for us here.

“Special delivery,” a good-looking guy about my age said with a grin. “I know you love our margherita, Signore Flood.” He had dark hair, dimples—and the biggest box of pizza I had ever seen, balanced on his shoulder.

My dad shrugged at me. “I always have one of Tony's famous pizzas delivered to the docks when we
land. It just starts the trip off right. Here,” he said, taking the box from the delivery boy. “It's my daughter's first time in Italy—she should have the first bite.”

“You know what they say.” the boy grinned. “One bite of Tony's mozzarella and an American girl cannot help but fall in love.”

With both my parents, the chauffeur, Alfonso the yacht captain, and the more-and-more-gorgeous-with-every-accented-word-he-said delivery boy all watching me, I nervously opened the box of pizza, picked up a wide floppy slice, and took a bite.

Ohhhmygod. You grow up in the city and think you know a thing or two about good pizza. Then you go to Italy and your mind gets absolutely blown.

“You're right,” I said to the delivery boy, my mouth still full of hot tomato sauce and cheese. “I think I am in love.”

“Sweetheart,” my dad said, putting his arm around me, “there's more where that came from. Hop on the
Duchess
and we'll see how many times you fall in love this week.”

With those auspicious words, we waved good-bye to the pizza boy and the driver, and spread out on the top deck of the yacht. Alfonso came by to kiss both of my parents on both cheeks. When he was introduced
to me, he wrapped me in his arms and kept saying the word
bellissima
.

“Italian men have a soft spot for blondes,” my mom explained, shaking her head. “I'm afraid you're going to get quite a lot of attention this week.”

It was kind of unexpected to have strangers kissing me and showering me with compliments, but then again, in light of the Jony saga, maybe attention from strangers was exactly what I needed.