Kissing in Italian
3.5/5
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About this ebook
Travel, romance, intrigue, and fun, set against the backdrop of the glorious Italian countryside are what you’ll find in this companion to Flirting in Italian by Lauren Henderson, author of Kiss Me Kill Me.
It’s been a terrific summer in Italy so far. Violet’s summer studies program is interesting, she’s made new friends, and the shopping is amazing. And now her lighthearted romance with handsome aristocrat Luca di Vesperi has developed into something deeper. For the first time in her life, she understands the true meaning of the word amore. Luca feels the same about her. But there are certain rumors circulating that, if proven to be true, will mean they can never be together. What they need are answers—but are they prepared for the truth?
Lauren Henderson
Lauren Henderson is the author of My Lurid Past, also available from Downtown Press. She studied English at Cambridge University and writes for the UK newspapers The Guardian, The Times, and The Mail on Sunday. Born in London, she used to live in Tuscany and is now based in New York. Her website is www.tartcity.com.
Read more from Lauren Henderson
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Reviews for Kissing in Italian
34 ratings5 reviews
- Rating: 2 out of 5 stars2/5All of the characters in this seem obsessed with boys, to the point where it starts to feel like it's all they care about. None of the characters seem happy without boys around, and every time a new male character is introduced, his appearance and level of attractiveness is analyzed in detail by the narrator. There are also long passages that compare Italian boys favorably to English boys. Apparently Italian boys are a lot more confident - unlike those silly English boys, they are totally eager to compliment a girl's appearance (whether or not she wants their opinion), and they're willing to fight off their friends to get the girl they want. Oh, and they don't let a fear of being slapped stop them from doing romantic stuff.
Also, while there were some sort-of friendships between the female characters, they still viewed each other as the boy-hunting "competition" and were sometimes distrustful or even enemies as a result.
That's pretty much all I have to say about this book. - Rating: 3 out of 5 stars3/5It’s just not summer if you don’t read at least one one book (1) about a Summer Romance, (2) with a Clever Main Character, and (3) an Exotic Setting. Flirting in Italian satisfies all three criteria.
Violet is off to Italy, seeking to find out more information about a painting of a girl that looks remarkably like herself. She is ostensibly there for a summer study course, staying in a villa with three other students, but hoping to discover more about the subject of the painting said to be from a family living in a nearby villa.
Handsome Italian boys…yummy Italian food and wine…the mystery of the curious girl in the painting…and even a poisoning…what more could you ask for in a summer teen read?
I was a little annoyed to find that the book is only available (as of yet) in hardback (it screams to be a paperback beach read) and that the book ends without resolving the question of the odd resemblance of Violet to the girl in the painting (requiring one to read yet another very, very light teen read next summer, I presume.) - Rating: 2 out of 5 stars2/5When I picked this one up, I was expecting a light contemporary romance. I was hoping for that anyway. I was in the mood for a really good contemporary — something totally different from all of the paranormal/dystopian stuff I’ve been reading lately.
The book begins on a positive note with our main character, Violet, traveling to Italy to study for the summer. Well, to study and to investigate a painting that she saw hanging in a gallery. The girl depicted in the painting was a dead-ringer for Violet and she felt that heading to Tuscany to do a little investigating might reveal the secret behind who that girl really is and why she looks so much like Violet.
The story felt very disjointed. As I mentioned earlier, I picked up the book expecting more of a light, fun, contemporary romance with maybe a little mystery thrown in. After the first chapter, I start to think that maybe I’m going to get more mystery than light-romance, but then the mystery of the painting is just kind of tossed to the side for a while when the story shifts back into contemporary mode (minus the light and airy tone I’d originally hoped for). It left me scratching my head.
Violet is likable enough, but I never really connected with her. I definitely wasn’t a fan of Luca, the main love interest in the book. He was very inconsistent, and there were times when I wanted to give Violet a swift kick in the ass to wake her up. I don’t know why she felt she needed to take his crap. He was so hot and cold it was maddening. The ending also seemed to come out of nowhere. I know there is a sequel, but I’m not sure I care enough about the characters or the story to come back for more.
The good thing about the book is that Ms. Henderson’s prose is fluid and enjoyable. Her descriptions of Tuscany are very rich and vivid. I just wish I’d been more invested in the story. - Rating: 2 out of 5 stars2/5Violet finds herself looking - even gawking- to a picture of a girl that could be her if not for the fact that the portrait is a few hundred years old. But the resemblance is uncanny and honestly, kind of disturbing.
For the first time in her life she truly considerate being adopted... who wouldn't?! And how come she never noticed it? I mean, she is nothing like her Scandinavian mom or Irish dad. Perhaps she could ask but after the divorce she doesn't really talks to her dad that much and her mom is one of the mot needy persons in the whole world which means Violet tries to keep a healthy distance between them. She does love her mom, but she also loves to breathe.
So she decides to take action: after looking for information about the painting she links it to an Italian family that lives in a castle, Castello di Vesperi, to be more accurate. All she has to do after that is book an Italian summer course next to the castello and begin her journey.
Convincing her mom wasn't easy but she managed to do it and now she finds herself sharing her life with 3 girls: Kelly (Irish); Paige and Kendra (American); Catia, the owner of the house and her two kids, Elisa (who besides being beautiful turns out to be a major b*tch) and Leonardo.
But Luca, the son of the principessa that lives in the castello turns out to be her major problem not only for his good looks but also for his amazing ability to be charming one second and a total jerk the other.
Personal opinion:
There's always a first time or at least that's what people say. And I'm afraid they are right. For the first time in my blog I'm afraid I have to say "Not my kind of cheese". At all.
I really tried to like this book, the first thing that caught my eye was the cover, very summer-like, you know? And I thought: "Hey, the perfect summer read!". And maybe it is a good summer read but nor for me.
The main plot of the book which is the mysterious painting became somehow the background plot, something the author would write about eventually... And that was a huge disappointment. The idea had so much potential that I think it was a waste of time. Instead the whole book became an "oh-how-much-I-hate-Luca-but-I-like-him-a-lot-too" thing. Sorry, but the fact that Violet tries to convince herself that she is different form other girls and doesn't like jerks is so annoying that I couldn't connect with her at all.
And Luca? Besides being handsome I can't say I remember something else about him. I understand that we like a bit of attitude in our male-crushes, right? The fact that they can be teasing and lure us with their sexy smirks is fun, it's what makes them worthy bad-boy-crushes. But Luca failed to do it.
As for the other girls of the house I can say that yes, I liked them. Their different personalities was entertaining and their interactions were fun.
Overall I think that we a little more of action and interaction the book would have been a whole lot better.
Am I going to read the sequel? I'm not completely sure. - Rating: 2 out of 5 stars2/5Flirting in Italian had several elements that were bound to create an awesome story: mystery, Italy, summer vacation, and lots of promises of romance. How I was not amazed with the end result of all of these awesome ingredients is truly outstanding. While Flirting in Italian has all of the right concepts, each one felt half-developed, leaving us with a somewhat fizzling story.
The story begins with Violet finding an old painting of a woman that looks exactly like her. Spurred on by such an odd coincidence and the fact that she looks like absolutely nothing like either of her parents, Violet tracks the painting’s origin down to Italy and finds a summer program in the area that her mom agrees to let her attend. One would assume that since this burning desire to find out more about the painting spurred Violet’s summer vacation in Italy and she has a deep-seeded need to know why she doesn’t look like the rest of her family, the mystery of the painting would consume most of Violet’s time—it does not.
What does consume Violet’s time is partying, a rivalry with another girl, and a boy named Luca. I love romance—but letting a boy distract you from the sole purpose of your Italian vacation? Not cool. Letting a boy who has shown little interest in you, is hot and cold, and somewhat rude distract you from your entire reason of being in Italy? ARE YOU KIDDING ME? I cannot stand characters who don’t have the self-respect to do away with someone who treats them poorly—especially when it starts in the very beginning of the relationship. No, I favor strong female characters, which Violet is decidedly not.
Even though Flirting in Italian has a promising premise, each aspect of the story is half-baked. The mystery is ditched in favor of the romance. The romance is luke-warm and Lucca appears to have no genuine interest in Violet. I suppose the summer in Italy is done relatively well—but this is hardly enough to make a story. Just as things start to get interesting, the novel comes to a predictable, albeit abrupt halt. Even though Flirting in Italian was not my favorite, I will be checking out Falling in Love in Italian because Flirting in Italian didn’t really feel like it had a finished ending. The ending, like the rest of the novel, appears to be half-done, and I will need to pick up the sequel in order to have some semblance of closure.
Book preview
Kissing in Italian - Lauren Henderson
Plenty More Fish in the Sea
I’m looking at a portrait of a young woman, hung on the wall of an art gallery. And washing over me is the oddest kind of déjà vu, a dizziness that’s making my head spin a little. I can see my own face reflected in the glass, overlaid on hers, and it’s reminding me, suddenly, of the last time I saw myself inside an ornate gold portrait frame. Of how my summer Italian adventure started.
I’m in Italy, on a hot July afternoon, grateful for the thick stone walls of the Siena art museum, cooling the air. And the reason I’m in this country is that a few months ago, back home in London, in another museum, I saw another painting—of a girl who looked so like me that it made me feel something I had wondered about for most of my life might be true after all. That portrait sent me on a search to find out how I could possibly have had a twin in eighteenth-century Italy.
Thank goodness, this picture doesn’t look anything like me. Quite the opposite, in fact. The girl, or young woman, is pale, with a long nose that seems to follow straight down from her high, extremely plucked, winged eyebrows. There’s a flush in her cheeks, and her lips are dark pink, pressed firmly together, set with determination, the same determination that comes through clearly in the firm jut of her chin. And when you look down to the baby she’s holding in her arms, you understand why she looks so resolved. Because that’s not just any baby; it’s Jesus.
I like her,
I say quietly to Kelly, who’s standing next to me.
She nods, looking dazed. Kelly isn’t used to going around proper museums. Unlike me, lucky enough to have been taken on trips and to lots of art galleries and sent to an expensive private school, Kelly isn’t from a privileged background. These extraordinary paintings and sculptures we’ve seen in Siena today have hit her like a ton of bricks; she’s staring in absolute awe at each one.
This Madonna and Child is definitely having a powerful effect on us. As I lean forward to look at the mother’s expression, my face appears in the glass again, and I feel it’s a reproach for having abandoned my quest. I came to Italy to find out why, when I don’t look anything like my parents, I have a Tuscan double from the eighteenth century—only to find myself tangled in a web of family secrets that I had never anticipated. I thought I might have been adopted, or was maybe some weird kind of genetic throwback, and I was prepared for that. I love my mum and dad with all my heart, but I still needed to know why I look so very different from them.
What I hadn’t expected—how could I have?—was to find myself falling for the son of the family that lives in the castle where the portrait was painted. And to have to face the fear that Luca, the boy I find so desperately attractive, might be—dare I even think it again—my half brother. That his playboy dad might be my biological dad too. I backed off my search when I realized that awful possibility.
But looking at the Madonna in front of me, at the strength of purpose I read in her face, I feel ashamed. I let myself be distracted from my quest by my feelings for a boy. I pushed the whole thing under the carpet, pretended it never happened, because I was scared to find out that Luca and I are blood relatives.
Well, time to get back on track, Violet! I tell myself decisively. There are plenty more fish in the sea besides Luca di Vesperi! You have to woman up, as Paige would say. Finding out the truth about who you are is much more important than spending time with a boy you fancy. Boys come and go, but knowing who you are and where you come from is priceless.
I feel myself setting my chin decisively. I have to write to my mum. I can’t put it off anymore. I thought I could find out the truth without upsetting her; I was too scared to ask her before, since she’s never said anything to me. We love each other so much that I’ve been afraid of doing anything that might make her sad. But I need to know the truth about myself. I can tell her some of the story—not that I came to Tuscany on this mission, but that by coincidence, we visited the castello and I met the principessa—who blurted out that I looked just like the people in her husband’s family. It’s raised the question even more strongly of why I don’t look anything like Mum or Dad, anything at all.…
I heave a deep sigh, fully understanding for the first time in my life the expression about a weight falling from your shoulders. The sense of relief is overwhelming. I feel as if I could float off the ground, like smoke rising gently into the air.
I’m going to write to my mum and ask her to tell me everything,
I say to Kelly, who knows the whole story and is quick enough to grasp immediately what I mean.
I think that’s a brilliant idea, Violet,
she says seriously, and takes my hand. You need to know. Do it as soon as we get back.
I nod, swallowing hard.
"Omigod, look at that hair! Paige exclaims, coming up behind us.
It’s like they had hot rollers in ancient times!"
She’s not talking about the Madonna, whose hair is pulled back under a translucent white veil, but about the angel standing behind her. The angel’s tresses are an impressive riot of golden curls. It’s typical of Paige to focus on the most frivolous aspect of the painting.
Painted by Francesco di Giorgio in 1471,
Kelly says, reading from the plaque.
They all look exactly the same,
Paige continues, looming over us. All these girls.
It’s what was fashionable then,
Kelly explains. Their ideal of beauty. They only painted women who looked like you were supposed to look.
"That’s harsh, Paige says, her wide mouth opening in surprise.
And unfair. Kendra?"
She turns, and with a wide swing of her arm, her bangles jingling, waves over the fourth member of our summer course, who strolls over to join us. Heads turn to look at Paige, mostly with disapproving expressions at the noise she’s making, but Paige is oblivious. These two American girls are unself-conscious in public, with none of the self-effacing, be-quiet-and-don’t-call-attention-to-yourself manners we British have.
Hey, Kendra!
Paige continues. Did you know that long ago you had to have a certain look for people to think you were beautiful?
Kendra raises her eyebrows. Times haven’t changed that much,
she says dryly. I don’t see many girls my color on the cover of fashion magazines.
Kendra is African American. I haven’t thought about it before, but now that she makes the point, I see what she means.
There are some girls like you on magazine covers,
says tall, blond Paige. Aren’t there?
Kendra says tersely, Hardly.
Kelly, who’s redheaded and definitely on the curvy side, says pointedly, But all the girls in magazines are thin like you, Kendra.
A sharp clap interrupts my thoughts. We all turn as one, conditioned now by the sound that Catia Cerboni, our guide, uses to summon our attention. You don’t mess with Catia, especially when it comes to the cultural side of things, the art visits and the language lessons that are the essential part of our summer courses. She takes those responsibilities seriously, though in other areas she’s considerably more lax.
Girls! We will move on now,
she announces. Thin as a rake, her linen shift dress miraculously uncreased even on this hot and sweaty day, wafting Chanel Cristalle perfume, Catia is the epitome of Italian chic. Which, under the circumstances, is pretty ironic.
We have seen the best of Sienese icon paintings, and now we go to the Duomo,
Catia announces. The cathedral. It is in the Italian Gothic style, one of the most perfect examples of medieval architecture.
Paige complains. "We’re walking so much today! Is it far? Can we get a cab?"
Honestly, Paige,
Kendra says impatiently. Everything here’s really close. Siena is tiny.
It’s so hot … and my feet hurt …,
Paige whines, but she perks up as we leave the museum and emerge again into crowded and utterly fascinating Siena. It looks as if there hasn’t been anything new built here since the Middle Ages. Its sun-warmed gray stone buildings are packed closely together, and because it’s on a steep hill, the narrow streets are almost all sloped. No sidewalks, and when one of the orange city buses swings around a corner, perilously near, we all follow the lead of the locals and squish back against the wall of the closest shop. The bus turns within a foot of us, the driver calculating the angle perfectly.
We gasp at how close the bus comes. Our reaction would be enough to identify us as tourists even disregarding the obvious physical evidence that we aren’t Italian. Well, I look Italian: olive skin tone, dark curling hair and dark eyes. Because of this, no boys give me a passing glance; their attention is for the exotic threesome I’m with.
I wonder if I fell for Luca because he was the only boy who noticed me. That’s all, no other reason. I wish I could believe that.
Shoes!
Paige is sighing, her face lit up with the same kind of ecstasy Kelly showed when she was looking at the Madonna and Child. "Look at those stunners in that shop! Can we—"
"After the Duomo, perhaps we visit some shops," Catia says, whisking us up the street, past so many enticing places to spend more money: leather goods, stationery boutiques, lace makers.
We find ourselves in a little piazza with a church looming in front of us, and on the left, a steep flight of marble stairs leading high up the hill. Catia climbs briskly, calling, with the voice of a woman who has led many groups of excited teenage girls up these very dramatic steps, that we can take photos later. And at the top of the stairs, we go through a high arch and reach our destination, right at the top of Siena: the Duomo.
It does take your breath away.
It’s like a wedding cake!
Paige breathes, and actually, I know what she means. It’s the layers. The cathedral, looming above us, is built of white and greenish-black marble, layered in stripes, and as we reach its façade, our heads tilt back almost as far as they can go to take in the icing on the cake, ornate carvings and sculptures and gargoyles, red marble added into the mix. Catia’s voice flows over us with an impressive array of information she’s clearly trotted out many times before. It’s impossible to separate her descriptions of which bits are Gothic, which classical, and which are Tuscan Romanesque, and I doubt any of us are even trying.
As we walk inside, we gasp in unison at the sheer scale of the cathedral. The breathtakingly tall marble pillars, striped in black and white—Siena’s civic colors, Catia is telling us—the dome above, the ceiling painted in rich blue with golden stars. In the center of the opulently gilded and carved dome, a golden lantern lets in the bright light, like the sun itself. Jewel colors dazzle as the sun pours through the round stained-glass windows. I swivel around, feasting my eyes, as silent as the rest.
We wander down the nave, into the chapel, into the library, following the sound of Catia’s voice. Our heads go back to look at exquisitely painted ceilings, tilt down again to stare at elaborately inlaid marble floors. Oxblood-red, sapphire, emerald, and white marble glow like mother-of-pearl in the mosaic work, which Catia informs us is called intarsia. Finally, we take in the bright frescos wrapping around the walls. We are completely quiet, overwhelmed by this much lavishness, by the incredible amount of work that has gone into creating this place of worship.
Catia is so pleased by our subdued demeanor that she lets us stop for photos on the marble steps, plus visit the shoe shop Paige spotted on the way up here. Paige is actually the only one who goes, and she can’t focus enough to buy anything. In the gelato shop next door, we don’t agonize loudly over our choices, either: we’re quiet, still under the spell of the Duomo. We look down at the amazing shell-shaped Piazza del Campo as we pass, walking back up the Banchi di Sopra, our heads full of beauty, quite ready to drive home.
But then, crossing Piazza Matteotti, the day takes a totally unexpected turn. There’s a staircase on the far left with an iron balustrade, leading up to a church. It’s Kelly who spots them, nudging me excitedly, as the boys vault over the railing, whooping, and land lightly on the warm stone of the piazza. Two lean, handsome Italian boys, slim in their pale shirts and tight jeans, their hair falling forward over their foreheads, and just behind them, an American, much more casual in a T-shirt and loose jeans, his hair cropped close to his head, his blue eyes bright in his deeply tanned skin.
Andrea!
Kelly exclaims. If we didn’t know already that she has a huge crush on him, she’d have completely given herself away with the squeal of excitement with which she calls his name. Leonardo,
she adds swiftly, and Evan! What’re you doing here?
Leonardo is Catia’s son, and Andrea is his best friend; they’re party boys, out for a good time, nothing more, in my opinion. They’re fun but shallow. I’m always a little wary of boys who know exactly how good-looking they are. Evan, one of Paige’s many brothers, just arrived two days ago. He’s been backpacking around Europe with friends on his summer holidays, and came to crash at the villa while the friends go to a folk-music festival in Umbria that he didn’t fancy.
There’s an Italian word I’ve learned, solare.
It means sunny
and it’s used to describe people. That’s Evan. He’s sunny. He has a lovely big smile that crinkles his eyes and lights up his whole blunt-featured face; like his sister, he reminds me of a golden Labrador: friendly, good-natured, easygoing. But he’s also clearly more mature than Paige, and not just because he’s three years older. Paige is wild, uninhibited, gets drunk and falls over; I can’t imagine Evan behaving like that. He seems sensible, sober, reliable. I haven’t had much chance to get to know him, but already I like him a lot.
Ragazze!
Leo calls. He’s always the leader. And he’s relishing the envious stares from the other boys in Piazza Matteotti as he lopes toward our group, takes our hands, kisses us on each cheek, throws his arm around Paige’s shoulder, and announces:
We have come to kidnap you! We take you away to have pizza and go dancing all night!
Moments ago we were hot, wilted, limp, like string beans left too long before picking. But these words have a miraculous ability to refresh us. We perk up as one, turning to Catia, our expressions pleading.
Mamma, possono venire?
Leonardo asks, tilting his head to one side, flashing his most practiced, charming smile. Dai, perchè no?
Catia looks tired too, her eyes sunken into hollows rimmed by dark liner, her red lipstick dried into faint lines around her mouth. Catia is a mystery to me. She comes across as totally Italian, and yet her daughter, Elisa, told me that Catia’s actually American, pretending to be Italian, married to an Italian man, never breathing a word about her real nationality. It’s totally weird.
Perchè no?
she echoes. Why not?
She’s probably happy to be rid of us, to be able to drive home in peace and quiet and put her feet up instead of having to supervise dinner, ready to pounce on every error we make in table manners. Non fare troppo tardi,
she adds. Don’t be too late.
We all break into smiles; we know these are just words. Catia may be in loco parentis to us, but she’s a pretty slack chaperone. We had to lug Paige home a fortnight ago, drunk as a skunk, and Catia barely batted an eyelid. All she did was trot out a speech about learning to hold your drink, and then she let us go out with the boys again practically the next evening.
Fantastico!
Leo claps his hands. Andiamo tutti!
He kisses his mother enthusiastically, turns, and dashes off toward the fortezza, gesturing that we should all follow him. I hesitate, wondering if we should follow his lead and kiss Catia goodbye, but she’s already heading toward La Lizza, where she parked the jeep, one ringed hand held up in farewell to us.
No adults! We’re on our own, out for the evening, ready to party. And now that Evan’s here, we won’t have a repeat of Paige drinking too much. Nothing like a looming big brother to keep his wild younger sister in line.
I’ve been feeling so confused, so messed up recently. Now that there’s the prospect of some release for my stress, I’m so happy I could scream. I dash along the pavement and trip on a cobblestone in my haste. Evan grabs my elbow, catching me. It feels as if he could lift me off the ground as easily as if I were a little girl. I look up and smile at him in thanks.
You’re in a hurry!
he says, and I laugh and agree.
I really love to dance,
I say, beaming at him. I can’t wait.
I really love pizza!
he says, letting me go. "I can’t wait!"
We’re on a total high, all seven of us, as we pile into two cars and sweep out of Siena in convoy, driving around the walls of the old fortress and onto a narrow highway that Leo says is the road to the sea. The evening sun is a golden haze, and since we’re heading west, it’s blazing into our eyes, wrapping us in warmth, as if we’re driving into the heart of a fire. We have all the windows down, the wind whipping our hair.
It’s like being in a film,
Kelly sighs to me, her hazel eyes glowing.
"It is," I agree. But what kind? I find myself wondering. A romantic comedy or a gritty family drama?
The car crosses a little bridge and then starts to slow down, and Kelly oohs at the sight of our destination, a sound I echo. It’s a big sprawling stone building set back from the road, behind a large gravel parking lot bordered by trees strung with brightly colored paper lanterns. As we pull in, I see that the bridge we just crossed spans a little river, which flows by the side of the dining area, below a wall lined with long terra-cotta planters of flame-red and fuchsia geraniums.
My heart lifts. I jump out as soon as the car comes to a halt, taking in the sight. The air is rich with the perfume of wisteria and jasmine, which are trained over a big trellis behind the patio. Now that the noise of the car engine has died away, I can hear the running water of the river, and music drifting out from the restaurant.
Everyone piles out, the other girls exclaiming in delight as we walk across the gravel to the entrance. We go through a high wooden arch wreathed in more wisteria, and after we’re led to a table and given menus we exclaim all over again at the sheer number of pizzas they have—fifty choices. We order, and moments later the pizzas arrive. They’re huge, the size of cartwheels, but so thin and light they’re not too filling, easy to eat, and