Tuscany: More family, less privacy, much more pasta
The escape from Paris was executed with the stealth and precision of a covert ops mission. Patricia and Cathal, still slightly shell-shocked from Andrea’s whirlwind artistic tour (which had culminated, much to their horror, in a brief, equally "transformative" visit to a taxidermy museum she’d insisted was "pulsating with unspoken narratives"), had booked the earliest possible train south, then a connecting flight to Florence. Their excuse to Andrea, should she miraculously "bump into them" at Gare de Lyon, was a sudden, uncontrollable craving for authentic Italian gelato and a pressing need to contemplate Renaissance art in its natural habitat – far, far away from spoon-based cabaret.
"Tuscany," Cathal had declared, once they were safely ensconced in their first-class train carriage, his voice full of renewed optimism. "Rolling hills, vineyards, ancient farmhouses. Zero avant-garde performance artists. Zero well-meaning aunts with an endless supply of 'brilliant ideas.' Just us, a bottle of Chianti, and blissful, uninterrupted peace."
Patricia had leaned her head on his shoulder, a hopeful smile playing on her lips. "It sounds like heaven, Cal. My 'Tatapan Schmidt' is officially off-duty. No relatives to glare into submission here."
And Tuscany, upon their arrival, seemed determined to live up to their dreams. The air was warm and fragrant with rosemary and cypress. The sun, a glorious golden orb, bathed the landscape in a honeyed light. Their rented villa, discovered after an extensive online search for "most secluded, romantic, family-proof properties in Italy," was a rustic stone farmhouse at the end of a long, winding gravel road, surrounded by olive groves and overlooking a valley that seemed to stretch into infinity. It had a private pool, a charmingly overgrown garden, and, most importantly, no other human beings in sight for miles.
"We did it," Cathal breathed, dropping their bags in the terracotta-tiled living room and pulling Patricia into a triumphant embrace. "Sanctuary."
"Don't speak too soon," Patricia murmured against his chest, though her heart swelled with a similar sense of relief. "But yes, this… this is promising."
Their first twenty-four hours in Tuscany were pure, unadulterated honeymoon bliss. They unpacked slowly, Cathal attempting to serenade Patricia with terribly mispronounced Italian phrases from a tattered phrasebook he’d found in a drawer ("Il mio amore, il tuo gatto è molto bello?" – "My love, is your cat very beautiful?"). Patricia, laughing, had corrected him that gatto was cat, not eyes, and perhaps he should stick to English.
They’d wandered through their garden, picking ripe figs straight from the tree. They’d prepared a simple lunch of fresh bread, local pecorino, and sun-ripened tomatoes, eaten on their sun-drenched terrace with a bottle of Vernaccia. As dusk painted the sky in hues of lavender and rose, they’d shared that bottle of Chianti Cathal had dreamed of, their conversation soft and intimate, punctuated by comfortable silences. Patricia felt a knot of tension she hadn't even realized she was carrying finally unravel. This, she thought, watching Cathal’s profile outlined against the fading light, this was what a honeymoon was meant to feel like.
The next morning dawned bright and clear, full of promise. Today was pasta-making day. They had arranged for a local nonna, Signora Lucia, to come to the villa for a private lesson. It was Patricia’s romantic ideal: learning the secrets of Italian cuisine with her husband, their hands dusted with flour, laughter echoing through the rustic kitchen.
Signora Lucia, a tiny, energetic woman with flour permanently ingrained in her apron and eyes that sparkled with generations of culinary wisdom, arrived promptly at ten. The kitchen was soon filled with the scent of fresh basil and the rhythmic thud of dough being kneaded. Patricia, an apron tied neatly around her waist, was attempting to roll out a sheet of pasta under Signora Lucia’s encouraging (and occasionally critical) gaze. Cathal, looking endearingly out of his depth, was tasked with mincing garlic, a job he approached with the intense concentration he usually reserved for complex legal briefs.
"More elbow grease, cara!" Signora Lucia instructed Patricia, her hands a blur as she demonstrated the perfect rolling technique. "The pasta, she needs to feel the love!"
Patricia giggled, applying more pressure. This was idyllic. Perfect. Nothing could possibly spoil—
A low rumble, growing steadily louder, disturbed the pastoral tranquility. A car. Coming up their long, secluded driveway.
Patricia and Cathal exchanged a look. A look of dawning, stomach-churning horror.