Page 40 of Just for a Taste

Although Signora Rafia had intentionally parked in a tucked-away area, a few of the locals directed their attention toward us. Why wouldn’t they? The car I had just exited was clearly worth more than anyone in this town had ever seen, and Duca de’ Medici’s clothing was strange, to say the least.

“Come,” Duca de’ Medici said. “I’ll show you where it is.”

I focused my attention on my breath, the cracks in the ground, and Duca de’ Medici’s shoes as I followed behind him. The chattering of the people around us swelled, hushed, then swelled again. The crowd gave us ample breadth, but I could only assume this was to stare.

“Here we are.”

The stone building was clearly one of the few that had survived the earthquake untouched. Above the door was a wooden, hand-painted sign: pianti di caruso. Climbing roses crawled along the bricks, and potted plants of every type were above, below, and aside all the outdoor displays. Local pottery crowded one side of the door, fountains and sculptures on the other, and bags of fertilizers and mulch were propped against the side of the building.

“Ah, shit,” Duca de’ Medici grumbled. “I forgot my wallet in the car. Go on without me. I’ll be right back.”

He picked up a half jog and left toward the car. Once he was out of sight, I pulled my phone out of my pocket. No bars, no Wi-Fi. For at least another month, I could pretend my thesis adviser was patiently awaiting any updates. All that mattered today was those seeds. I took a deep breath and entered the shop.

Upon the bell ringing, the shopkeeper quickly wiped dirt from his hands with an old rag and beamed at me. “Assa binidica!”

He was round and bright like the sun, with one of those trustworthy faces that seemed perennially on the verge of laughter. Hours of squinting during bright Sicilian days had creased his tanned face, and minute scars covered the backs of his large hands, battle wounds from wars with weeds and thickets.

The shop around him was similarly welcoming. It was small, little more than a single room, but filled to the brim with life, both literally and figuratively. Dozens of plants teemed from every corner, with ivy even climbing around the legs of furniture and along the old brick walls. Trinkets and local art were situated around sporadically, invading the few organized sections of the store.

I nodded my head and gave my best smile. As the shopkeeper gestured enthusiastically around the store and continued his rapid-fire Sicilian, panic set in. How helpless could I be to not even know how to tell him I didn’t speak his language?

Just as I was on the verge of running out to find Duca de’ Medici, the door opened behind me.

The shop owner froze immediately, and his crescent eyes turned full. He let out a small gasp—a cross-cultural expression, at least, as was the pallor that covered the man like a sheet. Various trinkets and pamphlets hit the floor as the shop owner rushed past his counter to shut off several grow lights and close the curtains.

“I’m sorry, Duca de’ Medici!” he cried out in mainland Italian.

The aforementioned vampire took off his jacket, draped it over his shoulder, pulled off his balaclava, and shed all of his protective gear. Then he browsed wordlessly.

The shopkeeper rushed to his side, nearly pushing me aside. “Good afternoon, Duca. I am Ugo Caruso, and this shop has been in my family since before the earthquake. I heard you moved into the abbey, but I did not know such rumors were . . .” He trailed off as Duca de’ Medici walked the other way mid-sentence.

Instead of regarding the man, Duca de’ Medici picked up a packet of commercial seeds from the shelf and inspected it. “Hmm,” he said to himself. “Imported, but at least at market value.”

He returned it to its original spot and crossed to the other side of the store, Signore Caruso tottering around him in close orbit.

“What is it I can help you with, Duca de’ Medici?” Signore Caruso asked as the vampire sifted through various books and continued to mutter to himself. “It would be a pleasure—no, anhonorto assist you! You are interested in purchasing seeds, it seems?”

Duca de’ Medici silently removed his sunglasses, hung them on his collar, then finally addressed Signore Caruso. “You should help the customer who was here before me,” he said in a monotone, gazing through the man as though he were nothing.

Signore Caruso whipped his head back and forth to look between us, mouth falling open into a horrifiedO. It was like I had existed again for the first time since the vampire entered the store. “I’m so sorry! Are the two of you together, Duca?”

After an exaggerated sigh, the vampire resumed studying the contents of a weathered book. “Yes, but that is irrelevant. She was here first, so assist her first. It’s common sense.”

Signore Caruso stammered a few syllables, then rushed to me. I remembered, for the first time in months, that Duca de’ Medici had ever spoken so coldly to someone before, that he had once spoken to me like that.

But to contradict this memory immediately, Duca de’ Medici looked over at me with the intensity and warmth for which I knew him. He extended the book he was reading far from him before closing it to avoid the small cloud of dust that puffed out, then returned it to its spot.

“What would you like?” he said upon joining my side. “Pots, seeds, any of the books, tools, however many plants . . . I’ll have another car come fetch it all for you. Feel free to get some of the decor as well. You can pick out one of the fountains outside. We can figure out plumbing, hire a contractor if need be. I’m sure Noor will throw a fit, but what does that matter if your garden is how you wish it?”

I nodded at him dumbly, then finally returned the attention of Signore Caruso, who was visibly sweating away some of the dirt along his hairline. Nothing here had price tags, and I couldn’t even imagine the resulting cost of all the things Duca de’ Medici had so casually thrown my way.

“I just want a bag of some seeds,” I said to them both. “Rose seeds. That’s plenty.”

As the world grew wobbly and time intangible, Signore Caruso’s rambling voice faded. I focused on the various packets of seeds he was showing me. There were countless flowers, and I finally had to repeat, “Rose seeds, please.”

Duca de’ Medici echoed what I said in Sicilian, and something finally clicked in the man. He rushed behind the counter, and tucked away in a small, dusty box was an unmarked, pocket-sized linen satchel. He opened it to show me what initially appeared to be several tiny, brown stones. It took me a moment to recognize the irregularly shaped brown objects: seeds.

“Rose di Santa Dymphna,” Signore Caruso informed me.

---