Free Full of Grace by Dorothea Benton Frank Page B

them to the rooms.
    “We’re going to take extra care of your guests, Signorina Russo. You don’t have to worry about one thing.”
    “Well, I’m sure you have been through this a thousand times, but since I don’t really know this group, I’m a bit nervous.”
    “Don’t worry. You’ll get old too quick! Worry makes little lines—”
    And with that, I felt someone tap my elbow. It was Dr. Geraldine Post.
    “Hi! Grace? I’m Geri Post,” she said, and extended her hand for me to shake. “We meet at last!”
    “Oh! I’m so glad you’re here!” I shook her hand soundly. I would’ve known her anywhere. She was in her midfifties, short in stature with cropped gray hair. She wore khaki pants and a tucked-in khaki shirt. She had a red baseball hat from the Galápagos Islands and her wire-rim glasses were insured against loss by the strap around her neck, printed with tiny turtles. Neat and tidy. A neat and tidy pixie, built for speed, dressed for action.
    “Do you have your room yet?”
    “Nope! Just got here.”
    Massimo looked up and said, “Ah! Dr. Post. Welcome to the Cala di Volpe. My colleague will take your bags to your room, and may I offer you a cool drink of something? Wine? Lemonade?”
    She was awfully perky for someone who had just crossed the Atlantic, sleeping in a seat designed to barely hold people with severe eating disorders.
    “A Coca-Cola would be great,” she said. “We’re from Atlanta, you know!”
    Massimo looked at her with a tiny question on his face that was almost instantly hidden behind his mask of professionalism. Italians knew that Coca-Cola came from America, but there was no significance in getting more specific. Atlanta? Peoria? Chicago? I mean, did Italy care about anything besides Italy? A cure for cancer would be good, but where Coke came from? The average Italian could not have cared less.
    “Come, let’s sit on the terrace,” I said. “It’s beautiful outside.”
    The glass doors parted automatically and the harbor of La Costa Smeralda—the Emerald Coast—was before us.
    Dr. Post stood rooted to her spot, hands on her hips, looking out into the distance. “Whew!” she said. “There must be ten to twenty colors of blue in that water. Beautiful.”
    “Yeah, it’s pretty breathtaking,” I said. “Gorgeous blue water, mountains in the distance…just like the brochure.”
    My travel-speak broke the spell and she looked at me, shaking her head. Then she reached into her oversize shoulder bag and pulled out an envelope. “Here’s my suggested itinerary for the week. Let me know what you think. ASAP, okay? Sorry I never got to Charleston.”
    “Oh, that’s okay. Actually, it’s nice to have this little slice of time to review and I’m sure whatever you have planned is fine.”
    “Well, first it was my dog-sitter. I especially hate leaving Hambone at the kennel because he gets cage anxiety, you know what I mean?”
    “Hambone?”
    “Yeah, he’s an old bloodhound—got too old to hunt, so I took him from a friend who runs a hunt club up near Clarksville. Anyway, he’s a drooler but I love him. Drools on everything. So finally the sitter shows up and she’s got a cast on her leg from her toes clear up to Bangor,Maine. So I say to her, This ain’t gonna work, sister, and she says she’ll be fine. But I’m not so sure, so I hung around for the next two days so my mind could rest. Turns out she gets around just fine and dandy.”
    Hambone the drooler was in good hands and the world can rest easy now.
    “So you just have the one dog?” I said.
    “What? Oh, Lord no! I’ve got Hambone, Alvin and Bessie Mae, my two Scotties, Elvis and Liberace, my two old fat toothless Persians, and Scarface, my parrot.”
    “You have a parrot? Can he talk?”
    “Are you kidding? He never shuts up! Every time I give him a treat he tells me I’m wonderful. I love him.”
    She went on and on about her pets, the Cokes arrived, I shook the itinerary in the air and she