Apricot Kisses Read Free

Now wipe your nose and take care of your little brother.”
    Defiantly, I wipe my face with the back of my hand. I almost missed the penciled entry below it: four o’clock, Isabella Colei! It’s underlined and ends with an exclamation mark. Who the hell is Isabella Colei?
    Nonna’s address book gives me a preliminary answer: the entry for Signora Colei lists a Berlin phone number. I could just close the booklet and forget about the entry, but something makes me pick up the phone. Nonna always stressed the importance of keeping appointments. And maybe I do it out of more than a sense of duty—I haven’t talked with anyone in two days, other than the lawyer who’s going to investigate that article. I don’t like the guy, but he seems to know what he’s doing. I decide to let the phone ring three times—just three times—and if nobody answers, I’ll hang up.
    “Hello?” A woman’s voice, hurried but friendly.
    “Please excuse my calling so early. Is this Signora Colei?” I speak so fast that the sentences blur into one word.
    “Yes. Speaking.”
    “My name is Fabrizio Camini and I . . .” Breathe, Fabrizio. Breathe! “Hello? Are you still there?”
    The woman on the other end immediately switches to Italian. “What can I do for you, Signor Camini?” But her voice is suddenly ten degrees colder.
    “I think you had an appointment with my grandmother, Giuseppa Camini, four days ago. I’m sorry that I’m calling so late, but I need to inform you . . .” What am I doing, telling a stranger that Nonna is dead? “My grandmother asked me to tell you that she’s unfortunately unable to meet with you right now.”
    Silence.
    “Signora, are you still there?”
    “I’ve never heard of your grandmother. I am sorry.”
    “But she listed an appointment with you in her daily planner—for Wednesday, the eleventh.”
    “Probably a mistake.”
    “But . . .”
    “Have a good day, Signor Camini.”
    The woman hangs up. I’m still staring at the receiver when someone knocks on the door. “Not now,” I mumble.
    “Housekeeping,” I hear faintly.
    “No, thank you,” I say, louder, but someone is already opening the door. Che merda! “I said no, thank you!” I scream at the shocked maid, and a sharp pain cuts across my forehead. She turns as white as her apron and stumbles a few steps back. She points to the sign on the door handle that says “Please Make Up the Room,” but I can’t apologize. Instead I wave her away impatiently, and she shuts the door. I swear that Nonna’s room has shrunk even more, and I feel like I’m suffocating.
    My stomach rumbles. My last meal was a sandwich at noon yesterday that tasted like a mixture of cardboard and Styrofoam. No wonder I’m behaving like a jerk. I hang up the receiver to stop its beeping and stare at the urn. Oh, Nonna, I’m sure you imagined a different trip home.
    Determined, I get up from the bed. Unpleasant things don’t get better by being postponed. I’ll grab some food at the airport. I leave twenty euros and all the coins from Nonna’s purse on the pillow for the maid. It doesn’t make me feel any better.
     
    Hanna
     
    Claire looks at me, aghast, and leans on my desk. “You’re not serious! Sasha in the mail room? Mon dieu , that won’t end well. You know how fussy they are down there.”
    “Whatever.” Unmoved, I open my mail folder. It’s almost bursting: letters from readers, comments about my most recent article, and inquiries from restaurants wanting to be reviewed. I can’t believe what has stacked up during my two-week absence. In the future, I should forget about vacations and all the sentimental reasons why I flew to Italy, of all places. I look up, since my forehead is starting to tingle. My colleague is gnawing on one stem of her eyeglasses and scrutinizing me. Claire Durant is one of the few people who can manage to criticize you without saying a word.
    “What is it?” I mumble.
    “You don’t exactly look