Pasta Imperfect Read Online Free Page A

to be able to fix it. But you know what I don’t get?”
    I could see the red-and-green umbrella of our tour leader bobbing conspicuously in the air near the front entrance. “What don’t you get?”
    “All these wannabe writers are all in competition with each other, right? So how come they want to help each other so much? I mean, you should have been there last night. It was a lovefest! When a guy’s in competition with you, he stabs you in the back and steamrolls you into the pavement. When a woman’s in competition with you, she becomes your best friend! It makes no sense to me.”
    “Maybe you need to boost your estrogen level. It might improve your understanding.” I spied everyone in my group huddled around a baseball-capped Duncan Lazarus and his umbrella. Grace and Dick Stolee, Helen and Dick Teig, and Lucille Rassmuson — all of whom had gained a ton of weight since our trip to Switzerland last year. The Severid twins, Britha and Barbro, who were absolutely identical except for one characteristic, which they stubbornly refused to reveal. Nana and George. Alice Tjarks, the former voice of KORN’s agricultural report, with her new camcorder. Osmond Chelsvig, with his double hearing aids and bigger camcorder. And Mom, listing like the Tower of Pisa beneath the weight of my shoulder bag.
    “Estrogen, smestrogen,” Jackie sniped beside me. “Women act really weird sometimes. And to think of all the money I spent to become one of you. I should demand a rebate.”
    Even before we could blend back into the group, Duncan stabbed his umbrella in the direction of St. Peter’s Square and led the charge out of the basilica. I checked my watch. Three o’clock exactly. Duncan must be from the Midwest. A wave of humanity followed him out the door, but I worried about the head count. Not everyone on the tour was from Iowa. What if someone was late getting back?
Uff da.
It wouldn’t be a good scene if we accidentally left someone behind.
    “Why is he walking so fast?” Jackie fretted, as we emerged into blinding sunshine. “He has old people on this tour! And young people wearing extremely sexy but
very
impractical stiletto slides that make their feet look at least three sizes smaller.” She clattered down the ramp that funneled tourists into the square and stopped short when she noticed something on the service road that flanked the ramp. She motioned to me furiously. “Emily, you’ve gotta see this. An honest to gosh Swiss guardsman.”
    I scurried over, cringing at the idea of having to wear blue and gold striped balloon pants with a matching doublet and spats to work every day. I knew the guards formed a small army that protected the pope, but I figured if they expected to be taken seriously by an invading force, they might need to rethink their uniforms. I mean, that’s why GI Barbie wore fatigues instead of spandex, right?
    Jackie snapped a picture of the pike-holding sentry standing before his little guardhouse. “Emily, would you take a picture of me standing beside him? Maybe Tom can hang it up in the salon to show his clients what I’m up to these days.”
    I glanced back toward the entrance of the basilica. I didn’t see any Passion and Pasta people lagging behind, but waiting a few minutes for stragglers probably wasn’t a bad idea. I didn’t remember seeing Keely leave with the crowd. Her red hair wasn’t exactly hard to spot. Could she still be snapping gum in the grotto? I could be a big help to Duncan here. In fact, if I could prevent some tour guest the agony of getting left behind, I’d be a real hero, which would kind of make up for my not attending the seminar last night and introducing myself to the immediate world.
    “Okay,” I said to Jackie. “Hand over your camera.”
    I kept one eye on the front of the basilica and one eye on Duncan’s umbrella as Jackie scooted down the ramp and up the service road toward the guardhouse. She said something to the sentry, who ignored her