Burning The Map. Laura Caldwell

Burning the Map

      LAURA CALDWELL

      was born in Chicago and raised in suburban Crystal Lake, Illinois. She attended the University of Iowa, where she graduated Phi Beta Kappa.

      Laura returned to Chicago and became the third generation of the Caldwell family to attend Loyola University School of Law. After graduation, she spent a month with two girlfriends in Italy and Greece, a trip that spurred the idea for Burning the Map.

      Laura began her legal career at a large Chicago firm where she became a trial lawyer, specializing in medical malpractice defense. Later, she worked at smaller firms and eventually became a partner.

      Despite juggling trial work and a relationship with an equity trader (who is now her husband), Laura began taking writing classes and weekly writing workshops in the mid-nineties. Her work has been published in Woman’s Own, The Young Lawyer, The Illinois Bar Journal and many other magazines. Burning the Map is her first novel.

      Laura has taken a sabbatical from her practice and is currently teaching legal writing at Loyola University School of Law.

      Burning the Map

      Laura Caldwell

       www.millsandboon.co.uk

      ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

      I lucked out by getting the most wonderful editor, Margaret Marbury, and the most amazing agent, Maureen Walters of Curtis Brown, Ltd. A thousand thanks to both of them, as well as everyone at Red Dress Ink.

      Much admiration and appreciation to my writing instructors and fellow workshop members, especially Pam Sourelis of Green Door Studio and Jerry Cleaver of The Loft.

      I am eternally grateful for everyone who took the time to read drafts of this novel and offer their suggestions including: Beth Kaveny, Suzanne Burchill, Katie Caldwell Kuhn, Christi Caldwell, Rochelle Wasserberger, Ginger Heyman, Ted McNabola, Kelly Harden, Kris Verdeck, Trisha Woodson, Kelly Caldwell, Joan Posch, Alisa Spiegel and Edward Worden.

      Thanks also to everyone who offered moral support and guidance, especially Margaret Caldwell, William Caldwell, Kim Wilkins, Kevin Glenn, Miguel Ruiz, Karen Billups, Beth Garner, Dave Ellis and Mary Hoover.

      Lastly, and most importantly, this book is for Jason Billups, who makes everything possible.

      Contents

      PART I: ROME, ITALY

      Chapter 1

      Chapter 2

      Chapter 3

      Chapter 4

      Chapter 5

      Chapter 6

      Chapter 7

      Chapter 8

      PART II: IOS, GREECE

      Chapter 9

      Chapter 10

      Chapter 11

      Chapter 12

      Chapter 13

      Chapter 14

      Chapter 15

      Chapter 16

      Chapter 17

      Chapter 18

      PART III: MYKONOS, GREECE

      Chapter 19

      Chapter 20

      Chapter 21

      Chapter 22

      Chapter 23

      Chapter 24

      Chapter 25

      Chapter 26

      Chapter 27

      Chapter 28

      Chapter 29

      Epilogue

PART I ROME, ITALY

      1

      Our taxi bumps and jostles its way along Rome’s cobbled streets, swerving around centuries-old buildings, narrowly missing women shopping at the outdoor markets. The scent that gusts through the open windows is old and heavy. Lindsey and Kat wrinkle their noses, but to me it’s a sweet, familiar fragrance—bread and dust and wine and heat. The way Rome always smells in the summer.

      I haven’t been to Europe since my junior year in college, most of which I spent in Italy sodden with Chianti and wide-eyed over a bartender named Fernando, yet I’ve always considered Rome my second home after Chicago. It’s a place that sticks with me, so that an image in a movie or a line in a song can immediately send me back here in my mind. Now I really am back, and I feel the first twinge of optimism I’ve had in months.

      The taxi driver continues his Formula One maneuvers through the slim stone streets, winding toward Piazza Navona. The Colosseum appears before us, a towering, earthy structure with gaping holes like missing teeth. I raise my hand to point it out to the girls, but the driver accelerates and flies by it with all the reverence of passing a 7-Eleven store.

      “We are definitely going to crash,” Lindsey says through clenched teeth as a pack of mopeds streaks alongside and passes the taxi.

      I laugh for what feels like the first time in a long time. “No, he won’t. This is how they drive here. He knows what he’s doing.”

      Lindsey gives me a long look, which was designed, I’m sure, to wither her underlings at the ad agency where she’s been crawling up the ranks for the last four years. “What he’s doing is trying to kill us. You know some Italian, Casey. Tell him to slow down.”

      Lindsey, or Sin, as we call her, has always been a pragmatic, cut-through-the-crap type of person, but all that cutting seems to have sharpened her edges. Lately, she often borders on a state of irritation, and I find myself holding my breath around her, afraid to piss her off. Her nickname is something of a misnomer, since she’s the most straight-laced of all of us. The name should have been bestowed on Kat instead.

      I lean forward in my seat. “My friends find you attractive,” I say to the driver in rudimentary Italian. In fact, I think I may have referred to him in terms usually saved for food, but he seems to get the point.

      The thirtyish, swarthy, perspiring man slows the cab considerably and gives Kat and Lindsey a meaningful look in the rearview mirror.

      “Grazie,” Kat calls to the driver, trying out one of the Italian words I taught her on the plane.

      I’d also told Kat and Sin that one of the most important Italian words they could learn was basta, which, loosely translated, means “get the fuck away from me.” It would come in handy for some of the Italian men, I explained. Lindsey had nodded intently, mouthing the word, but Kat told me I was nuts. She wanted to meet Italian men, not tell them to take a hike.

      You know that stereotype about how most men are like dogs, wanting to mate with hundreds of different women, while we gals pine away for the split-level suburban home, minivan and offspring? Well, Kat blows that one out of the water. She constantly has at least three guys on deck in case she gets bored with the current one, and I don’t think she’s been celibate for more than two weeks since I met her eight years ago.

      By the time the car rolls down one of the side streets that lead to Piazza Navona, I’m sweating along with the driver and sticking to the cracked leather seats like gum. Yet when the taxi stops outside the courtyard for Pensione Fortuna, the sight of its burbling fountain and abundant flowers rejuvenates me.

      “It’s gorgeous,” Kat says. She pushes open the door and practically skips down the path