Pasta Imperfect - By Maddy Hunter Page 0,3

in her head, she could make the much touted "dog with a bone" look like a slacker. I wasn't a wuss. I mean, I could deal with rabid killers, runaway horses, and Irish ghosts, but dealing with my mom was a whole different dynamic. Through the years my family had learned there was only one sane thing to do when she got like this.

Give in.

If I didn't, I'd be engaged in a tug - of - war over my bag that would continue until it was time to leave, and then I'd get no pictures.

I raised my hands in surrender. "Okay. You win." I stood up, hoisted my bag off the floor and looped the strap over her head and shoulder. She looked up at me with an exuberant smile lighting her little moon face.

"I'm so happy you're letting me do this for you, Emily, but do you suppose you could do me one small favor before you leave?" She lunged for my arm. "Could you help me straighten up? My knees have frozen solid on me."

Five minutes later, with her joints thawed and circulation restored, she was ready to be on her way. "Remember," I instructed, as I shielded her arm over my shoulder bag, "this place might be the safest place in Italy, but don't tempt Fate. Hold the bag close to your body and keep your hand over the zipper. Everything I own at the moment is in that bag."

"That was such a shame about your luggage, Em. I know they'll find it quickly though. I said a prayer to St. Anthony."

Everyone's luggage had arrived at the Fiumicino Airport, except mine, which had probably ended up in Rome, all right, but the one in Kansas. The Fiumicino Airport officials assured me they would track my bag down and rush it to my hotel; but just in case it was missing for longer than twenty-four hours, I wrote down names, badge numbers, and phone numbers. I threatened to contact the American embassy. Rome was the fashion capital of the world. If I ended up having to wear Nana's little lace-trimmed sweatshirts and polyester togs again, I'd create a commotion that would leave Alitalia Airlines begging for the kinder, gentler days of Attila the Hun.

I checked my watch. "Okay, we have ten minutes before we're due to regroup at the front entrance." We actually had a half hour before we were scheduled to meet our Landmark Destinations guide at the door, but Mom operated on Iowa time, so she needed to be at least twenty minutes early to be "on time." "Any questions?"

"Just one. Do you have any idea where I should start looking for your grandmother?"

The main altar of St. Peter's Basilica is an oblong of white marble that sits beneath a soaring bronze canopy. Four black-and-gold corkscrew pillars the size of giant sequoias support the structure. I snapped several pictures of the sculptures atop the canopy, then, as I framed my next shot, heard a click, click, click, click of stiletto heels on marble. "Hold up, Emily," a voice echoed out in a throaty whisper.

I glanced over my shoulder to find a tall, glossy-haired brunette hustling toward me. She had the face of a madonna, the body of a supermodel, and a sassy style that turned the heads of most men. Her legs were long and tan, and she wore a sexy white minidress that fit like a coat of spray paint. She was all sleek angles, graceful curves, and exact proportions, except for her feet, which were big as snowshoes. Her name was Jackie Thum. Before she'd had sex reassignment surgery to become a woman, she'd been a guy named Jack Potter, and I'd been married to him.

"I'm so glad you told us about the dress code here," she said, straightening the flutter sleeves that fell from her shoulders. "If you hadn't, I actually might have worn something totally inappropriate today."

I wondered what she'd consider more inappropriate than white spray paint. I regarded her arms. Oh, right. Spray paint without sleeves. "Out of curiosity, how did you get your minidress past the clothes police at the front door?"

"I sneaked in with a flock of nuns. The dress code guys were so busy arguing with a macho gorilla in a muscle shirt and running shorts that they never even noticed me." She removed what looked like a writing pen from her knit shoulder bag, held it to her mouth, and began speaking into it. "If you're visiting