Chapter 2
Perhaps Italy wasn’t a total disaster.
Erica was feeling much better about the day—now that it was evening. She leaned against the railing of her tiny balcony. Her stance practically plunged her face into the wild array of flowers planted in boxes along the wrought iron rail. Geraniums in purples, pinks, and whites that looked so happy it was impossible not to grin at them. She’d had a hot shower, changed into fresh clothes, and cradled a stoneware mug of tea that smelled of lemon and honey. Not honey-honey, but Italian honey. Like it had been made by little beret-wearing bees. No, that would be France. Happy bees anyway, singing little Italian bee songs as they sought pollen from among the flowers.
The room was so Italian that it would have been a cliché if she wasn’t standin
