The Knotty Bride Read Online Free
Author: Julie Sarff
like driving and adding that she feels a bit under the weather.
“Headache, too?” I hazard when she winces at my every word as I pull out onto the highway. She nods, and I try to keep my good-natured banter to a minimum.
We veer left at a fork in the road, and find ourselves on the road to Civita di Bagnoregio. I give a sentimental sigh as we pass by an exit for Orvieto town center. Too bad we don’t have time to visit. It’s such a beautiful town. It’s hilly, with all these little distinct quarters, each one more charming than the first. I particularly love the narrow, twisty streets that seem to shout, “Come check out all my delights.”
Hmm, that sounds seedy. Maybe that’s not exactly what the streets of Orvieto shout, but you get my point. Orvieto is not seedy at all. It’s an incredible city, and I loved every minute of it when I visited it with Enrico on our honeymoon.
In no time at all, we’re past the outskirts of the city and barreling down the road, driving past all the local wineries. There must be one every 100 feet, with their caves tunneling into the side of hills that are made up of volcanic soil. Once again I give a wistful sigh longing to stop for a short visit. I find myself wanting to tell Rupa, “Orvieto wine is so delicious, have you ever had it? It’s all dry and fruity, and like no other wine I have ever tasted. Trust me, it goes down cool and clean and smooth.”
Of course, that would never do, because the last thing Rupa wants right now is more alcohol.
“Take a right here!” she snaps officiously, reading the directions she has printed out from Bing maps. I do as she says, and we find ourselves heading down a small country road. Here the Umbrian countryside is a patchwork of small farms built on fertile soil. This area reminds me of the land surrounding Bettonina, the small Umbrian town where Enrico was born. And remembering the Umbrian town where Enrico is from has the undesired side effect of causing me to think about Enrico himself. These days I’m having so many problems with my ex. In the last few months, the man has stopped parenting altogether. I never see him, and I never hear from him. Federica, the woman for whom he left me, is the one who picks up our children from school so they can spend Saturday nights with their father.
Truth be told, I used to feel much animosity towards Federica. Nowadays, however, I feel nothing but pity because I found out that Enrico is two-timing Federica with Francesca’s nineteen-year-old cousin, Lidia. Being the big chicken that I am, I still haven’t plucked up the courage to tell Federica the truth. Although, lately, I’m beginning to think she suspects something. Last Sunday when she dropped the boys off at my door, she was very grim-faced. I asked her what on Earth was the matter and she said, “Oh, nothing. Just wedding planning and all. It’s going to be soon now. I do hope you and the boys will come.”
She proceeded to go on for a good while about her upcoming nuptials and asked me how I felt about sage-colored wedding dresses, saying, “They are all the rage right now. Very Zulu.”
I really didn’t know how to reply to that. The truth is I’m not really current on what some brides in South Africa are wearing these days. I opened up my mouth to give an encouraging, “I’ve always adored sage,” when I noticed that Federica didn’t look like a happy bride-to-be. In fact, she looked as if she might throw up all over her expensive Ferragamos.
Which just goes to show what a miserable excuse for a human being Enrico is! Thinking about his duplicitous ways is enough to make my blood pressure shoot a mile high.
“How fast are you driving? This is a tiny country lane–not the autostrada,” Rupa shrills as trees, fields, sheep and goats whirl by.
Well, look who’s yelling. And I thought she had a headache. By the way, wasn’t it her idea to have me drive this morning? Yes, it was. She said she was ‘under the
“Headache, too?” I hazard when she winces at my every word as I pull out onto the highway. She nods, and I try to keep my good-natured banter to a minimum.
We veer left at a fork in the road, and find ourselves on the road to Civita di Bagnoregio. I give a sentimental sigh as we pass by an exit for Orvieto town center. Too bad we don’t have time to visit. It’s such a beautiful town. It’s hilly, with all these little distinct quarters, each one more charming than the first. I particularly love the narrow, twisty streets that seem to shout, “Come check out all my delights.”
Hmm, that sounds seedy. Maybe that’s not exactly what the streets of Orvieto shout, but you get my point. Orvieto is not seedy at all. It’s an incredible city, and I loved every minute of it when I visited it with Enrico on our honeymoon.
In no time at all, we’re past the outskirts of the city and barreling down the road, driving past all the local wineries. There must be one every 100 feet, with their caves tunneling into the side of hills that are made up of volcanic soil. Once again I give a wistful sigh longing to stop for a short visit. I find myself wanting to tell Rupa, “Orvieto wine is so delicious, have you ever had it? It’s all dry and fruity, and like no other wine I have ever tasted. Trust me, it goes down cool and clean and smooth.”
Of course, that would never do, because the last thing Rupa wants right now is more alcohol.
“Take a right here!” she snaps officiously, reading the directions she has printed out from Bing maps. I do as she says, and we find ourselves heading down a small country road. Here the Umbrian countryside is a patchwork of small farms built on fertile soil. This area reminds me of the land surrounding Bettonina, the small Umbrian town where Enrico was born. And remembering the Umbrian town where Enrico is from has the undesired side effect of causing me to think about Enrico himself. These days I’m having so many problems with my ex. In the last few months, the man has stopped parenting altogether. I never see him, and I never hear from him. Federica, the woman for whom he left me, is the one who picks up our children from school so they can spend Saturday nights with their father.
Truth be told, I used to feel much animosity towards Federica. Nowadays, however, I feel nothing but pity because I found out that Enrico is two-timing Federica with Francesca’s nineteen-year-old cousin, Lidia. Being the big chicken that I am, I still haven’t plucked up the courage to tell Federica the truth. Although, lately, I’m beginning to think she suspects something. Last Sunday when she dropped the boys off at my door, she was very grim-faced. I asked her what on Earth was the matter and she said, “Oh, nothing. Just wedding planning and all. It’s going to be soon now. I do hope you and the boys will come.”
She proceeded to go on for a good while about her upcoming nuptials and asked me how I felt about sage-colored wedding dresses, saying, “They are all the rage right now. Very Zulu.”
I really didn’t know how to reply to that. The truth is I’m not really current on what some brides in South Africa are wearing these days. I opened up my mouth to give an encouraging, “I’ve always adored sage,” when I noticed that Federica didn’t look like a happy bride-to-be. In fact, she looked as if she might throw up all over her expensive Ferragamos.
Which just goes to show what a miserable excuse for a human being Enrico is! Thinking about his duplicitous ways is enough to make my blood pressure shoot a mile high.
“How fast are you driving? This is a tiny country lane–not the autostrada,” Rupa shrills as trees, fields, sheep and goats whirl by.
Well, look who’s yelling. And I thought she had a headache. By the way, wasn’t it her idea to have me drive this morning? Yes, it was. She said she was ‘under the
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