Comedy of Erinn Read Online Free Page B

things about Italy. Especially the language.”
    â€œYou speak it well.”
    â€œ No, signore, ma grazie. Il mio Italiano è orribille, ma amo par-larlo.”
    Massimo seemed to be studying her, which made Erinn extremely nervous. She never had gotten the hang of the Italian male’s undivided attention. She turned back to the vendor and waited for her change.
    â€œMay I buy you a cup of coffee?” Massimo waited patiently for her to pocket her coins. “The espresso here is very good.”
    Erinn felt heat rising up her neck—she was well out of her depth and she knew it. But she, too, had always found the coffee delicious at this local farmers’ market, so she followed him to the espresso bar. Erinn had often wondered if it was only in prestigious, pretentious Santa Monica that there was a coffee bar settled snugly among the summer squash and the tangelos. But, in the scheme of things, good coffee was good coffee—why question it? Today, Erinn was grateful for the coffee bar for many reasons.
    They sat in what she hoped was companionable silence instead of in the acute awkwardness she felt. Finally, Erinn found her voice.
    â€œHow long have you been in America?” she asked.
    â€œJust two years. And those years I live in New York City. I am an actor, and people, they tell me I must come to Los Angeles. And so!”
    Erinn was of the opinion that real actors belonged solely in New York. Serious artists, New York; vapid stars, Los Angeles. But he was here now, and it wouldn’t really help for Erinn to tell him he’d made a terrible mistake, so she kept it to herself.
    â€œWhat films did you make in New York? Anything I would know?”
    â€œI was not a success in New York. In Italy, yes. But here, no. I am in Los Angeles to try something new.” He smiled at Erinn. “Whatever that may be.”
    Massimo told Erinn that he found Los Angeles, as a whole, very confusing.
    â€œIt is so big,” he said. “I still look for a place to live, but I am not happy with what I see. I want to live in the vicinity of the water, but I cannot afford to live in the vicinity of the water. I have only some money. While I wait for success, I serve a restaurant.”
    â€œDo you mean, you are a waiter?”
    Massimo looked offended.
    â€œI am a chef! At Bella Bella.”
    Erinn had never heard of Bella Bella but nodded enthusiastically. She had obviously wounded his pride by calling him a waiter. She remembered how carefully you needed to phrase things around artistic Italians. It was all coming back to her. Erinn looked at him. She was not one to jump into anything at this stage of her life, but it seemed as if destiny had not only taken her hand but slapped her across the cheek.
    â€œYou should come home with me,” she said.
    â€œBut I hardly know you.”
    Erinn, horrified at the implication, tried to clarify. Massimo laughed an easy laugh, and Erinn relaxed. She could tell he was just teasing.
    â€œI have a guesthouse for rent.”
    â€œTo me?” asked Massimo, beautiful brown eyes growing wide.
    â€œWell, let’s go see,” said Erinn.
    The two chatted amicably as they strolled up Ocean Avenue. Massimo, deeming Erinn’s cart unworthy, had loaded her purchases into his own and he pulled it along as they walked. He told Erinn about his life in Italy, how interesting he found America, and his change of heart toward California wines.
    â€œWhen I first am to America,” he said, “I refuse to drink the California wine. But now . . . I think the California wine is very good. Sometime.”
    â€œIt’s interesting that you should mention California wine. . . .”
    Erinn warmed to the subject of California wines. Although she was born in New York, her parents had moved to Napa Valley when she was nine—a year before Suzanna was born. Although she moved back to New York City as a college student and didn’t return to