The Chapel by Michael Downing

refund. “It’s something I can do,” I said. I instantly regretted the phrase. I could see it had registered with Anna as a boast.
    She folded her hands, and then she tilted her head. “Why would you do such a thing?”
    I said, “To salvage what will otherwise be wasted?”
    Anna’s face tightened. She didn’t say anything.
    Two women at the table beside us burst out in laughter. I watched several tiny cars zip down Largo Europa. I could have used that espresso.
    Anna finally said, “I don’t know why I ordered that pie.” She placed her purse on the napkin, as if she were building a barrier between us.
    I said, “It was just an idea.”
    Anna unsnapped the brass clasp of her purse. “Should I call Francesca?” She had suddenly lit up, and she had her phone in her hand. “I mean, are you serious?” She sounded giddy.
    I wasn’t prepared for this change of heart, or her eagerness to seal the deal. “I’m not certain it can be done, but I do want to try,” I said.
    Anna was way ahead of me. “I can call her right now.”
    I should have put on the brakes, but I said, “Okay.” I was unnervingly aware that I had cooked up this plan on the basis of nothing but Shelby’s favorable review of Lewis’s disposition. It occurred to me that this could easily end badly—with me secretly paying Lewis another ten or fifteen thousand dollars for Francesca’s fare, and a F OR S ALE sign in front of my house in Cambridge.
    Anna didn’t reach Francesca, but she left her a long, exuberant message in Italian. I couldn’t translate word for word, but the spirit of it was, Call me immediately, and pack a bag .
    The waiter returned, and I dropped a couple of ice cubes from my water glass into the little white cup and took a big sip of courage. Anna asked if she could take her dessert up to her room. The waiter bowed and backed away with the tart.
    Anna looked exhausted—dreamy, but half-asleep. She said, “I don’t know what to say.”
    I said, “I’m going to call Lewis. I’ll call you as soon as I have his answer.”
    â€œThe awkward thing is that Francesca could pay you,” Anna said. “I can’t.”
    â€œThe lucky thing is that the money doesn’t matter,” I said, feeling that my voice might shoot up into the soprano register at any moment. “It’s already spent.”
    â€œSurely, you could get a refund,” Anna said. “If you said it wasan emergency, they’d have to give you something back. You’ve barely been here two days.”
    I shook my head, as if lying for profit was simply out of the question. But I was thinking, Two days? Two days? I was going to have to concoct a heartbreaker of a story to get Sam on my side before any of this leaked to Rachel.
    We sat in silence for a few minutes. I was anticipating a wave of relief or delight, or at least a little jolt from the caffeine. Nothing.
    Finally, the waiter returned and handed Anna a small white pastry box tied with blue string. Under the perfect bow, he had tucked a fork wrapped in a red napkin. From our table by the window, through the lobby, to the elevator, and up to the fourth floor, where Anna hugged me and then waved good-bye, I envied her that beautiful little box and all of the tiny, unpredictable, tender touches of Italy to come.
    M Y OWN SURPRISE PACKAGE WAS WAITING FOR ME OUTSIDE the door to my room. I found a small white paper bag, its top neatly folded over, and a sheet torn from a notepad with the hotel’s crest stapled to the front. In a fancy hand, someone had written Sig.ra Berman, 414—Ricardo . I had never met anyone named Ricardo, but it was my last name and my room, so I assumed it was something distributed to members of the tour group.
    I peeked inside the bag. My door prize was a disappointment—a little jar of honey. I had just about an hour before I